distant swamp.

Friends would come from a distance to surprise and cheer me in my lonely
retreat just at the time that the butter must positively be made, while
the flowers were choking for water, smothered with weeds, "pus'ley," of
course, pre-eminent. Then a book agent would appear, blind, but doubly
persistent, with a five-dollar illustrated volume recounting minutely
the Johnstown horror. And one of my dogs would be apt at this crisis to
pursue and slay a chicken or poison himself with fly-paper. Every
laboring man for miles around would come with an air of great importance
to confidentially warn me against every other man that could be
employed, with the stereotyped phrase in closing: "Well, whatever you
do" (as if I might be left to do anything) "don't hire John Smallpate or
Bill Storer. I've known him, man and boy, for thirty years; you'll do
well not to trust him!"

Yet these same men who had so villified each other could be seen nightly
lounging in front of the grocery, discussing politics and spitting in
sweet unison.

The general animosity of my entire family to each other caused constant
interruptions.

"Sandy," the handsome setter, loathed the pug, and tried to bite his
neck in a fatal way. He also chased the rabbits, trod on young turkeys
so that they were no more, drove the cat out of the barn and up a tree,
barked madly at the cows, enraging those placid animals, and doted on
frightening the horse.

The cat allowed mice to roam merrily through the grain bins, preferring