“I don’t think,” said he, “that I can make up a lie to match with those that have jist been told, but if any of you are enough interested in the truth to want to listen to a true story, I kin tell you one that came under my observation a few days ago.”

All looked inquiringly at Strout, but none spoke.

“Wall,” said he, “I s’pose I must consider as how silence means consent, and go ahead.  Wall” he continued, “you all know, or most all on yer do, old Bill Tompkins, that lives out on the road to Montrose.  This occurrence took place early las’ summer.  Old Bill hisself is too close-mouthed to let on about it, but when I was over there the other day, arter givin’ Lizzy Tompkins her music-lesson, I got talkin’ with her mother, and one thing led to another, and finally I got the whole story outer her.  Old Bill had a cow that they called ‘Old Jinnie.’  She was always mischeevous, but last year she’d been wusser’n ever.  She’d git out of the barn nights, and knock down fences, and tramp down flower gardens, and everybody said she wuz a pesky noosance.  One night old Bill and his family wuz seated ’round the centre table in the sittin’-room.  There wuz Mary, his wife; and George, his oldest boy, a young fellow about eighteen; Tommy, who is a ten-year-older, and little Lizzy, who is about eight.  George wuz readin’ somethin’ out of a paper to ’em, when they heerd a-runnin’ and a-jumpin’, and old Bill said, ’That varmint’s got out of the barn and is rampagin’ ‘round agin,’ The winder curt’ins wuz up, and old Jinnie must ‘a’ seed the light, for she run pell-mell agin the house, and drove her horns through the winder, smashin’ four panes.  Old Bill and George managed to git her back inter the barn and tied her up.

“As they wuz walking back to the house, old Bill said, ’Consarn her picter, I’ll make beef o’ her to-morrer or my name ain’t Bill Tompkins,’ When they got back to the settin’-room, George said, ‘How be yer goin’ ter do it, dad?’ ‘Why, cut her throat,’ said Bill.  ‘You can’t do it,’ said George, ‘the law sez yer must shoot her fust in the temple,’ ’All right,’ said old Bill, ‘you shoot and I’ll carve,’ So next mornin’ they led old Jinnie out with her head p’inted towards the barn.  George had loaded up the old musket, and stood ’bout thirty feet off.  George didn’t know just edzactly where the cow’s temple wuz, but he imagined it must be somewhere atween her eyes, so he fired and hit her squar’ in the forehead.  That was enough for old Jinnie, she jist ducked her head, and with a roar like the bull of Bashan she put for George.  He dropped the musket and went up the ladder inter the haymow livelier’n he ever did before, you kin bet.  Old Jinnie struck the ladder and knocked it galley-west.  Old Jinnie then turned ’round and spied little Tommy.  He put, and she put arter him.  There wasn’t nothin’ else to do, so Tommy took a high jump and landed in the pig-sty.  Old Bill is kinder deef in one ear, and he didn’t notice much what wuz goin’