seated upon a small stool at the fireside, beating the doughnut
batter in a bowl on his lap, she proceeded to a small book-rack over
a window, and brought me a copy of Elder Boomer's last sermons, the
reading of which she was fully assured in her own mind would
interest me.

The major interposed (wiping his portentous belly, which had become
disfigured with batter,) by saying that seeing the book advertised
by the publishers (who were men of truth in all matters concerning
their trade) as the greatest of recently published works, he got a
copy for Mrs. Potter, who declared it a wonderful book, and had lent
it to all the neighbors, who had read it until nothing would do but
they must get up a religious revival. Indeed, if things kept on as
they were going, there would soon not be a sinner left in the region
round about Barnstable, such a change had the book worked in the
pious feelings of the good people. I seated myself beside a window
that overlooked the little garden, and turned over the leaves of the
book, affecting to be deeply interested in it, but really listening
to an interesting colloquy that was being kept up between the good
woman and the major, at whose side several little flaxen headed
urchins had crouched down, and with an air of paternal regard,
watched intently in his face as he compounded the batter with so
much force and energy, that at least one half it was lost in
spatters over their features. And while doing this, so eager was the
major to ascertain the exact state of Mrs. Trotbridge's affairs,
that the increase of her pigs and poultry formed a prominent feature
in his inquiries. She had let her little farm of thirty acres out on
shares to neighbor Zack Slocum, who was esteemed the best
crop-getter this side of the crossroads. The peach trees, of which
she had seven ranged along the little picket fence round the garden,