Scrupulously neat and clean in his person, the only thing which seemed to ruffle his calm temper was the dirty work of logging; he hated to come in from the field with his person and clothes begrimed with charcoal and smoke.  Old Jenny used to laugh at him for not being able to eat his meals without first washing his hands and face.

“Och! my dear heart, yer too particular intirely; we’ve no time in the woods to be clane.”  She would say to him, in answer to his request for soap and a towel, “An’ is it soap yer a-wantin’?  I tell yer that that same is not to the fore; bating the throuble of makin’, it’s little soap that the misthress can get to wash the clothes for us and the childher, widout yer wastin’ it in makin’ yer purty skin as white as a leddy’s.  Do, darlint, go down to the lake and wash there; that basin is big enough, any how.”  And John would laugh, and go down to the lake to wash, in order to appease the wrath of the old woman.  John had a great dislike to cats, and even regarded with an evil eye our old pet cat, Peppermint, who had taken a great fancy to share his bed and board.

“If I tolerate our own cat,” he would say, “I will not put up with such a nuisance as your friend Emilia sends us in the shape of her ugly Tom.  Why, where in the world do you think I found that beast sleeping last night?”

I expressed my ignorance.

“In our potato-pot.  Now, you will agree with me that potatoes dressed with cat’s hair is not a very nice dish.  The next time I catch Master Tom in the potato-pot, I will kill him.”

“John, you are not in earnest.  Mrs. —–­ would never forgive any injury done to Tom, who is a great favourite.”

“Let her keep him at home, then.  Think of the brute coming a mile through the woods to steal from us all he can find, and then sleeping off the effects of his depredations in the potato-pot.”

I could not help laughing, but I begged John by no means to annoy Emilia by hurting her cat.

The next day, while sitting in the parlour at work, I heard a dreadful squall, and rushed to the rescue.  John was standing, with a flushed cheek, grasping a large stick in his hand, and Tom was lying dead at his feet.

“Oh, the poor cat!”

“Yes, I have killed him; but I am sorry for it now.  What will Mrs. —–­ say?”

“She must not know it.  I have told you the story of the pig that Jacob killed.  You had better bury it with the pig.”

John was really sorry for having yielded, in a fit of passion, to do so cruel a thing; yet a few days after he got into a fresh scrape with Mrs. —–­’s animals.

The hens were laying, up at the barn.  John was very fond of fresh eggs, but some strange dog came daily and sucked the eggs.  John had vowed to kill the first dog he found in the act.  Mr. —–­ had a very fine bull-dog, which he valued very highly; but with Emilia, Chowder was an especial favourite.  Bitterly had she bemoaned the fate of Tom, and many were the inquiries she made of us as to his sudden disappearance.