be dangerous if you fired ’em out of a revolver, we get hold of all them delicacies of the season.  But it’s too much like feedin’ on live folks and devourin’ widdah’s substance, to lay yourself out in the eatin’ way, when a fellah ’s as hungry as the chap that said a turkey was too much for one ‘n’ not enough for two.  I can’t help lookin’ at the old woman.  Corned-beef-days she’s tolerable calm.  Roastin’-days she worries some, ‘n’ keeps a sharp eye on the chap that carves.  But when there’s anything in the poultry line, it seems to hurt her feelin’s so to see the knife goin’ into the breast and joints comin’ to pieces, that there’s no comfort in eatin’.  When I cut up an old fowl and help the boarders, I always feel as if I ought to say, Won’t you have a slice of widdah?—­instead of chicken.

The young man John fell into a train of reflections which ended in his producing a Bologna sausage, a plate of “crackers,” as we Boston folks call certain biscuits, and the bottle of whiskey described as being A 1.

Under the influence of the crackers and sausage, he grew cordial and communicative.

It was time, I thought, to sound him as to those of our boarders who had excited my curiosity.

What do you think of our young Iris?—­I began.

Fust-rate little filly;-he said.—­Pootiest and nicest little chap I’ve seen since the schoolma’am left.  Schoolma’am was a brown-haired one,—­eyes coffee-color.  This one has got wine-colored eyes,—­’n’ that ’s the reason they turn a fellah’s head, I suppose.

This is a splendid blonde,—­I said,—­the other was a brunette.  Which style do you like best?

Which do I like best, boiled mutton or roast mutton?—­said the young man John.  Like ’em both,—­it a’n’t the color of ’em makes the goodness.  I ’ve been kind of lonely since schoolma’am went away.  Used to like to look at her.  I never said anything particular to her, that I remember, but—­

I don’t know whether it was the cracker and sausage, or that the young fellow’s feet were treading on the hot ashes of some longing that had not had time to cool, but his eye glistened as he stopped.

I suppose she wouldn’t have looked at a fellah like me,—­he said,—­but I come pretty near tryin’.  If she had said, Yes, though, I shouldn’t have known what to have done with her.  Can’t marry a woman now-a-days till you’re so deaf you have to cock your head like a parrot to hear what she says, and so longsighted you can’t see what she looks like nearer than arm’s-length.

Here is another chance for you,—­I said.—­What do you want nicer than such a young lady as Iris?