"He ain't goin' to better himself much," said Almira.
"Eunice Emery ain't fit to housekeep for a cat.
The pie she took to the pie supper at the church was so tough
that even Deacon Dyer couldn't eat it; and the boys got holt
of her doughnuts, and declared they was goin' fishin' next day
'n' use 'em for sinkers. She lives from hand to mouth Eunice
Emery does. She's about as much of a doshy as Rube is.
She'll make tea that's strong enough to bear up an egg, most,
and eat her doughnuts with it three times a day rather than
take the trouble to walk out to the meat or the fish cart.
I know for a fact she don't make riz bread once a year."

"Mebbe her folks likes buttermilk bread best; some do,"
said the Widow Buzzell. "My husband always said, give him
buttermilk bread to work on. He used to say my riz bread
was so light he'd hev to tread on it to keep it anywheres;
but when you'd eat buttermilk bread he said you'd got somethin'
that stayed by you; you knew where it was every time.
. . . For massy sake! there's the stage stoppin' at the Hobson's door.
I wonder if Rube's first wife's mother has come from Moderation?
If 't is, they must 'a' made up their quarrel, for there was a time
she wouldn't step foot over that doorsill. She must be goin'
to stay some time, for there's a trunk on the back o' the stage.
. . . No, there ain't nobody gettin' out. Land, Hannah Sophia,
don't push me clean through the glass! It beats me why they make winders
so small that three people can't look out of 'em without crowdin'.
Ain't that a wash-boiler he's handin' down? Well, it's a mercy;
he's ben borrowin' long enough!"

"What goes on after dark I ain't responsible for,"