rain, minus umbrella, to bring me a large and common pitcher, badly
cracked and of no original value; heard I was collecting old china.
Then, after making a long call, drew out a tiny package from his vest
pocket and offered for sale two time-worn cheap rings taken from his
mother's dead hand. They were mere ghosts of rings that had once meant
so much of joy or sorrow, pathetic souvenirs, one would think, to a
loving son. He would also sell me his late father's old sermons for a
good sum!

This reminded me of Sydney Smith's remark to an old lady who was sorely
afflicted with insomnia: "Have you ever tried one of my sermons?"

Perhaps I have said enough to prove that life in a bucolic solitude may
be something more varied than is generally--don't let that old peddler
come into the house, say we want nothing, and then tell the ladies I'll
be down directly--and, O Ellen, call Tom! Those ducks are devouring
his new cabbage-plants and one of the calves has got over the stone wall
and--what?

"He's gone to Dog Corner for the cow-doctor."

--Yes, more varied than is generally supposed!




CHAPTER VIII.

THE PROSE OF NEW ENGLAND FARM LIFE