“I guess you told me a tarnation big lie the other day.”

Unaccustomed to such language, I rose from my seat, and pointing to the door, told her to walk out, as I did not choose to be insulted in my own house.

“Your house!  I’m sure it’s father’s,” returned the incorrigible wretch.  “You told me that you had no fine slack, and you have stacks of it.”

“What is fine slack?” said I, very pettishly.

“The stuff that’s wound upon these ’ere pieces of wood,” pouncing as she spoke upon one of my most serviceable spools.

“I cannot give you that; I want it myself.”

“I didn’t ask you to give it.  I only wants to borrow it till father goes to the creek.”

“I wish he would make haste, then, as I want a number of things which you have borrowed of me, and which I cannot longer do without.”

She gave me a knowing look, and carried off my spool in triumph.

I happened to mention the manner in which I was constantly annoyed by these people, to a worthy English farmer who resided near us; and he fell a-laughing, and told me that I did not know the Canadian Yankees as well as he did, or I should not be troubled with them long.

“The best way,” says he, “to get rid of them, is to ask them sharply what they want; and if they give you no satisfactory answer, order them to leave the house; but I believe I can put you in a better way still.  Buy some small article of them, and pay them a trifle over the price, and tell them to bring the change.  I will lay my life upon it that it will be long before they trouble you again.”

I was impatient to test the efficacy of his scheme That very afternoon Miss Satan brought me a plate of butter for sale.  The price was three and ninepence; twice the sum, by-the-bye, that it was worth.

“I have no change,” giving her a dollar; “but you can bring it me to-morrow.”

Oh, blessed experiment! for the value of one quarter dollar I got rid of this dishonest girl for ever; rather than pay me, she never entered the house again.

About a month after this, I was busy making an apple-pie in the kitchen.  A cadaverous-looking woman, very long-faced and witch-like, popped her ill-looking visage into the door, and drawled through her nose—­

“Do you want to buy a rooster?”

Now, the sucking-pigs with which we had been regaled every day for three weeks at the tavern, were called roasters; and not understanding the familiar phrases of the country, I thought she had a sucking-pig to sell.

“Is it a good one?”

“I guess ’tis.”

“What do you ask for it?”

“Two Yorkers.”

“That is very cheap, if it is any weight.  I don’t like them under ten or twelve pounds.”

“Ten or twelve pounds!  Why, woman, what do you mean?  Would you expect a rooster to be bigger nor a turkey?”

We stared at each other.  There was evidently some misconception on my part.