“You appall me, Hoops!”

“And that’s not the worst of it.  The roots are so matted and interlocked jes beneath the surface that you can’t make any impression on ’em with a pickaxe.  That garden of Coffin’s is ruined—­entirely ruined, sir.  You might blast those roots with gunpowder and it would make no difference.  And the suckers will grow faster than they’re cut down.  He’ll have to sell the property, sir.”

“And the commissioner of agriculture said that was onion seed.  Why didn’t Coffin hunt him with a shot-gun?”

“Yes, sir; and Mr. Potts’s got pokeberry and silver maple growin’ all over his place, too, and he’s as mad as—­Well, you just ought to hear him snortin’ around town.  He’ll kill somebody, I’m afeard.”

Mr. Butterwick settled the difficulty with Coffin and Potts somehow, but he made up his mind to vote for another man for Congress at the next election.

Mr. Butterwick was the first man to introduce that ingenious and useful implement the lawn-mower into our section of the country.  As his mower was the only one in the village, it was at once in great demand.  Everybody wanted to borrow it for a few days, and Butterwick lent it with such generosity that it was out most of the time, and a good many people had to wait for it.  At last there was quite a rivalry who should have it next, and the folks used to put in their claims with the owner whenever they had an opportunity.

One day Mr. Smith’s wife died, and Mr. Butterwick attended the funeral.  Smith was nearly wild with grief.  As the remains were put into their last resting-place he cried as if his heart would break, and his friends began to get uneasy about his nervous system.  Presently he took his handkerchief from his eyes for a moment to rub his nose, and as he did so he saw Butterwick looking at him.  A thought seemed to strike Smith.  He dashed away a couple of tears; and stepping over a heap of loose earth as they began to shovel it in, he grasped Butterwick by the hand.  Butterwick gave him a sympathetic squeeze, and said,

“Sorry for you, Smith; I am indeed!  A noble woman and a good wife.  But bear up under it, bear up!  Our loss, you know, is her gain.”

“Ah! she was indeed a woman in a thousand,” responded Smith; “and now to think that she has gone—­gone, left us for ever!  But these afflictions must not make us forget the duty we owe to the living.  She has passed away from toil and suffering, but we still have much to do; and, Butterwick, I want to borrow your lawn-mower.  If you can fix it for Tuesday, I think maybe the worst of my anguish will be over.”

“You may have it, of course.”

“Thank you; oh, thank you!  Our friends are a great comfort to us in the hour of bereavement;” and then Smith gave his arm to his mother-in-law, put his handkerchief to his eyes and joined the procession of mourners.