The country hour for dining was twelve o'clock, and the rag party
was invited to come at two. Accordingly, all the women of the place
with whom Mrs. Nutter had any acquaintance that did or did not
authorize an invitation, were assembled in her best parlor, to take
part in the rag bee.

A nice-looking, sensible set of folks they were, and, if I could
remember all they said, I am sure you would think it very amusing.
One of the subjects that I now think of was introduced by a pair of
very old breeches.

"Where," said Mrs. White, "did you get such a pair of horrid, old,
scrimpy, frightful things as them? Why, the knees are patched with
blue, and the seats with red, and they are so very small, and yet so
long--who did they belong to?"

Mrs. Nutter hesitated for a moment; at last, she seemed to muster
courage, and to be determined to speak the whole truth.

"Well," said she, "ef I must tell the treuth, them are breeches come
off of a scarecrow. It stands to reason that none of us could ever
have worn 'em. This here's the way I got 'em. My husband bought Mr.
Crane's piece that jined on to ourn, and I made him throw in the
scarecrow, cause I meant to have a rag party; and I reckon that
you'll get a good many strips out on 'em, though they be so patched
like."

"I wonder," said one of the party, a fine, rosy, jolly-looking girl,
"I wonder if these are not the ones which they say old Scrimp the
miser changed with a scarecrow; and, after the exchange, old Scrimp