The sheriff took the seat at the head of the table and everyone joined hands as Ellen recited the blessing.  As the steaming dishes of food were passed around, the Sheriff looked long and hard at the Professor.  Finally he asked in a loud and booming voice, “Where’d you say you were from, Professor?”

The question sounded almost like an accusation, so all eyes turned to look at the Professor, who calmly answered, “I didn’t say, Sheriff, but today I came from St. Johnsbury area.”

The Sheriff stroked his chin with one hand, never taking his eyes off the Professor.  The silence grew long and hard as he thought over the Professor’s reply.  At last he said, “That’s interesting.  Today I got a telegraph from the Sheriff of Caledonia County saying there’s been a rash of robberies up there.”

The Professor, who was helping himself to mashed potatoes, said simply, “Do tell, Sheriff, do tell . . .”

“Yeah, I do tell,” said the Sheriff, clearly annoyed by the Professor’s nonchalant attitude.  “What’d you say your line of work is?”

“He sells books, Bill,” Ben said.

“You should see his wagon — it’s all painted up fancy and gilded,” Becca added.

“And he’s got a scary man rides around in back,” Sam said, as if speaking for Will.

Sitting next to him, Sarah nodded her head in agreement, her eyes wide with curiosity and excitement.

The Sheriff’s eyes narrowed as his suspicion rose to greater heights, “What kind of man you say?”

Ellen, who had been watching the exchange between the two men with interest, decided to intervene.  “Actually, Bill, the Professor was going to tell us the story of his companion.”

The Professor hesitated for a moment, then looked at Laura Mary Alice who nodded her head encouragingly.  Settling back into his chair, he began: “As most of you already know, his name is Calaban.  When you meet him, you’ll probably notice that he appears to be . . . well, . . . different.  ‘Different’ is not a very descriptive term, but I honestly can’t think of any that would work in this case.  You see, Cal belongs to that group the law calls ‘feeble-minded or insane.’”

The Sheriff seized on this last phrase.  “‘Feeble-minded.’  Is that what you said, Professor?”  He winked broadly and continued, “You mean like women-folk?”  The Sheriff guffawed loudly at his own joke, though no one else joined in.

“Bill Riley!”  Laura Mary Alice said, obviously angry and upset.  “You may be my brother, but that doesn’t give you the right to insult me and all women.”

“Brother?  Bill, you’re Laura Mary Alice’s brother?  But I thought . . .” the Professor stopped mid-sentence, pleasantly surprised by this piece of news.  Then he added, more to himself, “Oh, that changes things.”

But the Sheriff didn’t hear the Professor, for he was riled by his sister’s angry response to what he had thought was a good joke.  “Aw, Laura Mary Alice,” he complained, “you can’t take a joke ever since you come back from Seneca Falls.”

“You mean Seneca Falls, New York?” the Professor asked Laura Mary Alice.

“Yes, in July of 1848 I attended the Women’s Rights Convention there,” answered Laura Mary Alice.

“But why would you do that?” asked the Professor, sincerely interested.

“Because, to quote the Declaration of Sentiments and Resolutions that we adopted there, ‘The history of mankind is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations on the part of man toward woman, having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over her.’”

Laura Mary Alice looked over at Ellen, who smiled encouragingly and nodded her head in agreement.

Even Granny Jesse could be heard to mutter “Amen,” under her breath.

The Sheriff took this as a challenge and, turning to the only other man present, said, “C’mon, Professor, you’re an educated man.  Give a good answer to that!”

“Well, to quote Shakespeare from Julius Caesar:  “Ah me!  How weak a thing the heart of woman is!’”

No sooner had he finished than Laura Mary Alice countered with, “‘There is no trust, no faith, no honesty in men; all perjur’d, all forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.’  Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 2.”

A loud burst of applause broke from the women and girls.

It seemed to incense Bill.  He blurted out, “You gonna take that, Professor?”

Getting into the spirit of what he assumed was merely an intellectual game, the Professor turned to Laura Mary Alice.  “To quote from your own sex, Katherine in The Taming of the Shrew said:  ‘I am ashamed that women are so simple to offer war where they should kneel for peace, or seek for rule, supremacy and sway, when they are bound to serve, love, and obey.’”

At this Sheriff Bill and the boys stood up and cheered, banging their boots on the floor and making a great racket until Ellen shouted, “Enough!”

Instantly the room became still and silent.

“Professor,” Ellen said into the heavy silence, “you do me and the women of this household a great disservice by portraying us as weak and servile.  We are neither.  We manage this farm, we work the fields, we grow and harvest the food, and we cook, we clean, we sew, we care for and teach our children, all without the help of men.  I will not allow you or Bill to demean us or to influence my sons by your bad example.  And so I must ask you both to leave my home at once.”

“But . . . but . . ., Ellen . . .” Bill stammered.

“Wait, Bill,” the Professor said, rising from his seat.  “She’s right. ‘I see a woman may be made a fool, / If she had not a spirit to resist.’  Taming of the Shrew, Act 3, Scene 2.  My apologies and good night.”