I think my readers are so well acquainted with Black Giles the
poacher, that they will not expect to hear any great good, either of
Giles himself, his wife Rachel, or any of their family. I am sorry to
expose their tricks, but it is their fault, not mine. If I pretend to
speak about people at all, I must tell the truth. I am sure, if folks
would but turn about and mend, it would be a thousand times pleasanter
to me to write their histories; as it is no comfort to tell of any
body's faults. If the world would but grow good, I should be glad
enough to tell of it; but till it really becomes so, I must go on
describing it as it is; otherwise I should only mislead my readers,
instead of instructing them. It is the duty of a faithful historian to
relate the evil with the good.

As to Giles and his boys, I am sure old widow Brown has good reason to
remember their dexterity. Poor woman, she had a fine little bed of
onions in her neat and well-kept garden; she was very fond of her
onions, and many a rheumatism has she caught by kneeling down to weed
them in a damp day, notwithstanding the little flannel cloak and the
bit of an old mat which Madam Wilson gave her, because the old woman
would needs weed in wet weather. Her onions she always carefully
treasured up for her winter's store; for an onion makes a little broth
very relishing, and is, indeed, the only savory thing poor people are
used to get.

She had also a small orchard, containing about a dozen apple-trees,
with which, in a good year, she has been known to make a couple of
barrels of cider, which she sold to her landlord towards paying her
rent, besides having a little keg which she was able to keep back for
her own drinking.