"Mr. Pratt," she opens up, "this Mr. Green is a friend of yours, I
believe."

"For nine years," says I.

"Cut him out," says she. "He's no gentleman!"

"Why ma'am," says I, "he's a plain incumbent of the mountains, with
asperities and the usual failings of a spendthrift and a liar, but I
never on the most momentous occasion had the heart to deny that he was
a gentleman. It may be that in haberdashery and the sense of arrogance
and display Idaho offends the eye, but inside, ma'am, I've found him
impervious to the lower grades of crime and obesity. After nine years
of Idaho's society, Mrs. Sampson," I winds up, "I should hate to
impute him, and I should hate to see him imputed."

"It's right plausible of you, Mr. Pratt," says Mrs. Sampson, "to take
up the curmudgeons in your friend's behalf; but it don't alter the
fact that he has made proposals to me sufficiently obnoxious to ruffle
the ignominy of any lady."

"Why, now, now, now!" says I. "Old Idaho do that! I could believe it
of myself, sooner. I never knew but one thing to deride in him; and a
blizzard was responsible for that. Once while we was snow-bound in the
mountains he became a prey to a kind of spurious and uneven poetry,
which may have corrupted his demeanour."

"It has," says Mrs. Sampson. "Ever since I knew him he has been
reciting to me a lot of irreligious rhymes by some person he calls