dollar and a half, which, after a few needed repairs, costing only twenty-six dollars, was my pride, delight and comfort, and the envy of the neighborhood.  Men came from near and far to examine that wagon, felt critically of every wheel, admired the shining coat of dark-green paint, and would always wind up with:  “I vum, if that ’ere wagon ain’t fine!  Why, it’s wuth fifty dollars, now, ef it’s wuth a cent!” After a hard day’s work, it seemed a gratification to them to come with lanterns to renew their critical survey, making a fine Rembrandtish study as they stood around it and wondered.  A sleigh was bought for three dollars which, when painted by our home artist, is both comfortable and effective.

At one auction, where I was the only woman present, I bid on three shovels (needed to dig worms for my prize hens!) and, as the excitement increased with a rise in bids from two cents to ten, I cried, “Eleven!” And the gallant old fellow in command roared out as a man opened his mouth for “Twelve!”:  “I wouldn’t bid ag’in a woman ef I’se you.  Let ’er have ’em!  Madam, Mum, or Miss—­I can’t pernounce your name and don’t rightly know how to spell it—­but the shovels are yourn!”

Attending auctions may be an acquired taste, but it grows on one like any other habit, and whenever a new and tempting announcement calls, I rise to the occasion and hasten to the scene of action, be the weather what it may.  And many a treasure has been picked up in this way.  Quaint old mirrors with the queerest pictures above, brass knockers, candlesticks of queer patterns, cups and saucers and plates, mugs of all sizes, from one generous enough to satisfy the capacities of a lager-soaked Dutchman to a dear little child’s mug, evidently once belonging to a series.  Mine was for March.  A mother sitting on a bench, with a bowl of possibly Lenten soup by her side, is reproving a fat little fellow for his gross appetite at this solemn season.  He is weeping, and on her other side a pet dog is pleading to be fed.  The rhyme explains the reason: 

  The jovial days of feasting past,
  ’Tis pious prudence come at last;
  And eager gluttony is taught
  To be content with what it ought.

A warming pan and a foot stove, just as it was brought home from a merry sleigh-ride, or a solemn hour at the “meetin’-house,” recalling that line of Thomas Gray’s: 

  E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

Sometimes I would offer a little more to gain some coveted treasure already bid off.  How a city friend enjoyed the confidences of a man who had agreed to sell for a profit!  How he chuckled as he told of “one of them women who he guessed was a leetle crazy.”  “Why, jest think on’t!  I only paid ten cents for that hull lot on the table yonder, and she” (pointing to me) “she gin me a quarter for that old pair o’ tongs!”

One day I heard some comments on myself after I had bid on a rag carpet and offered more than the other women knew it was worth.