uneasy. Its pretty well on in the evening, I guess, said
he, and Marm Pugwash is as onsartain in her temper as a
mornin in April; its all sunshine or all clouds with her,
and if she's in one of her tantrums, she'll stretch out
her neck and hiss, like a goose with a flock of goslins.
I wonder what on airth Pugwash was a thinkin on, when he
signed articles of partnership with that are woman; she's
not a bad lookin piece of furniture neither, and its a
proper pity sich a clever woman should carry such a stiff
upper lip--she reminds me of our old minister Joshua
Hopewell's apple trees. The old minister had an orchard
of most particular good fruit, for he was a great hand
at buddin, graftin, and what not, and the orchard (it
was on the south side of the house) stretched right up
to the road. Well, there were some trees hung over the
fence, I never seed such bearers, the apples hung in
ropes, for all the world like strings of onions, and the
fruit was beautiful. Nobody touched the minister's
apples, and when other folks lost theirn from the boys,
hisn always hung there like bait to a hook, but there
never was so much as a nibble at em. So I said to him
one day, Minister, said I, how on airth do you manage to
keep your fruit that's so exposed, when no one else cant
do it nohow. Why, says he, they are dreadful pretty
fruit, ant they? I guess, said I, there ant the like on
em in all Connecticut. Well, says he, I'll tell you the
secret, but you need'nt let on to no one about it. That
are row next the fence, I grafted it myself, I took great
pains to get the right kind, I sent clean up to Roxberry,
and away down to Squaw-neck Creek, (I was afeared he was