Surely nothing very profound in this remark, but received as though it were Solomon’s.

Be prepared for a change in Jethro, after the galloping years.  He is now fifty-seven, but he might be any age.  He is still smooth-shaven, his skin is clear, and his eye is bright, for he lives largely on bread and milk, and eschews stimulants.  But the lines in his face have deepened and his big features seem to have grown bigger.

“Who be you thinkin’ of for next governor, Jethro?” queries Rias Richardson, timidly.

“They say Alvy Hopkins of Gosport is willin’ to pay for it,” said Chester Perkins, sarcastically.  Chester; we fear, is a born agitator, fated to remain always in opposition.  He is still a Democrat, and Jethro, as is well known, has extended the mortgage so as to include Chester’s farm.

“Wouldn’t give a Red Brook Seedling for Alvy,” ejaculated the nasal Mr. Price.

“D-don’t like Red Brook Seedlings, Sam?  D-don’t like ’em?” said Jethro.  He had parted his blue coat tails and seated himself on the stoop, his long legs hanging over it.

“Never seed a man who had a good word to say for ’em,” said Mr. Price, with less conviction.

“Done well on mine,” said Jethro, “d-done well.  I was satisfied with my Red Brook Seedlings.”

Mr. Price’s sallow face looked as if he would have contradicted another man.

“How was that, Jethro?” piped up Jake Wheeler, voicing the general desire.

Jethro looked off into the blue space beyond the mountain line.

“G-got mine when they first come round—­seed cost me considerable.  Raised more than a hundred bushels L-Listy put some of ’em on the table—­t-then gave some to my old hoss Tom.  Tom said:  ’Hain’t I always been a good beast, Jethro?  Hain’t I carried you faithful, summer and winter, for a good many years?  And now you give me Red Brook Seedlings?’”

Here everybody laughed, and stopped abruptly, for Jethro still looked contemplative.

“Give some of ’em to the hogs.  W-wouldn’t touch ’em.  H-had over a hundred bushels on hand—­n-new variety.  W-what’s that feller’s name down to Ayer, Massachusetts, deals in all kinds of seeds?  Ellett—­that’s it.  Wrote to Ellet, said I had a hundred bushels of Red Brooks to sell, as fine a lookin’ potato as I had in my cellar.  Made up my mind to take what he offered, if it was only five cents.  He wrote back a dollar a bushel.  I-I was always satisfied with my Red Brook Seedlings, Sam.  But I never raised any more—­n-never raised any more.”

Uproarious laughter greeted the end of this story, and continued in fits as some humorous point recurred to one or the other of the listeners.  William Wetherell perceived that the conversation, for the moment at least, was safely away from politics, and in that dubious state where it was difficult to reopen.  This was perhaps what Jethro wanted.  Even Jake Wheeler was tongue-tied, and Jethro appeared to be lost in reflection.