accomplished--but what will not a lover do?

He went to Cloud, took the fine gobbler from the saddle, and bringing
it to Mrs. Scowley, laid it at the feet of that awful matron with a
smile.

"You may have him," said Verty, "I don't want him."

"Don't want him!"

"No, ma'am--I just shot him so--on my way to my writing."

"Your writing, sir?" said Mrs. Scowley, gazing at Verty with some
astonishment--"what writing?"

"I'm in Mr. Rushton's office, and I write," Verty replied, "but I
don't like it much."

Mrs. Scowley for a moment endeavored to look Verty out of countenance,
but finding that the young man seemed to have no consciousness of the
fact, and that he returned her gaze with friendly interest, the ogress
uttered a sound between a snort and a cough, and said:--

"Then you did'nt come to sell the turkey?"

"No, indeed, ma'am."

"For what, then?"

"I came to see Redbud," replied Verty; "you know, ma'am, that we know