Thanksgiving clapboards, shingles, two coats of brown paint, and
even the blinds had all been added. This exhibition of reckless
energy on Stephen's part did not wholly commend itself to the
neighborhood.

"Steve's too turrible spry," said Rose's grandfather; "he'll trip
himself up some o' these times."

"You never will," remarked his better half, sagely.

"The resks in life come along fast enough, without runnin' to
meet 'em," continued the old man. "There's good dough in Rose,
but it ain't more'n half riz. Let somebody come along an' drop
in a little more yeast, or set the dish a little mite nearer the
stove, an' you'll see what'll happen."

"Steve's kept house for himself some time, an' I guess he knows
more about bread-makin' than you do."

"There don't nobody know more'n I do about nothin', when my
pipe's drawin' real good an' nobody's thornin' me to go to work,"
replied Mr. Wiley; "but nobody's willin' to take the advice of a
man that's seen the world an' lived in large places, an' the
risin' generation is in a turrible hurry. I don' know how 't is:
young folks air allers settin' the clock forrard an' the old ones
puttin' it back."

"Did you ketch anything for dinner when you was out this
mornin'?" asked his wife. "No, I fished an' fished, till I was
about ready to drop, an' I did git a few shiners, but land, they