I had already noticed when Miss Ophelia lifted her apron that
her dress was stretched so tight against her stomach it was like
a sack on a rooster. But Miss Ophelia didn't look much like a
rooster. The freckles, thick on her face and arms, made her look
more like a poor little brown speckled wood thrush wearing a
bonnet and being dragged along by one wing.
She kept stumbling on with Mister Ward, and he kept shouting
to her about some contraption he wanted to build. I couldn't
figure out what he was talking about. But, whatever it was, Miss
Ophelia didn't like it.
"See this level ridge? My platform for the mash barrels is
gonna be right 'long here under these willows. Ah, here's where
I'm gonna set my drum. It'll be pure copper. That's what I'm
gonna buy-a pure copper drum! Won't that be a beaut?
Undergrowth's so heavy in here even you couldn't spot at first!
Now, could you?"
"Oh, Ward, you can't do this! It ain't right to make
moonshine!" Miss Ophelia was beginning to cry. "It'll ruin us!
Think what could happen! All our young'uns need clothes so bad,
Ward! If you've got money to-"
"Shut up, Ophelia! Stop that Goddamn cryin' and snifflin'.
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