“Of course not.  Neither had our geese any business in Neighbour Barton’s yard.  But, perhaps, I can help you to another instance, that will be more conclusive, in regard to your doing and saying unreasonable things, when you are angry.  You remember the patent churn?”

“Yes; but never mind about that.”

“So you have not forgotten how unreasonable you was about the churn.  It wasn’t good for anything—­you knew it wasn’t; and you’d never put a jar of cream into it as long as you lived—­that you wouldn’t.  And yet, on trial, you found that churn the best you had ever used, and you wouldn’t part with it on any consideration.  So you see, Sally, thai even you can say and do unreasonable things, when you are angry, just as well as Mr. Barton can.  Let us then consider him a little, and give him time to get over his angry fit.  It will be much better to do so.”

Mrs. Gray saw that her husband was right, but still she felt indignant at the outrage committed on her geese.  She did not, however, say anything about suing the shoemaker—­for old Brindle’s head, from which the horn had been knocked off, was not yet entirely well, and one prosecution very naturally suggested the idea of another.  So she took her three fat geese, and after stripping off their feathers, had them prepared for the table.

On the next morning, as Farmer Gray was going along the road, he met the shoemaker, and as they had to pass very near to each other, the farmer smiled, and bowed, and spoke kindly.  Mr. Barton looked and felt very uneasy, but Farmer Gray did not seem to remember the unpleasant incident of the day before.

It was about eleven o’clock of the same day that one of Farmer Gray’s little boys came running to him, and crying,

“Oh, father! father!  Mr. Barton’s hogs are in our cornfield.”

“Then I must go and drive them out,” said Mr. Gray, in a quiet tone.

“Drive them out!” ejaculated Mrs. Gray; “drive ’em out, indeed!  I’d shoot them, that’s what I’d do!  I’d serve them as he served my geese yesterday.”

“But that wouldn’t bring the geese to life again, Sally.”

“I don’t care if it wouldn’t.  It would be paying him in his own coin, and that’s all he deserves.”

“You know what the Bible says, Sally, about grievous words, and they apply with stronger force to grievous actions.  No, no, I will return Neighbour Barton good for evil.  That is the best way.  He has done wrong, and I am sure is sorry for it.  And as I wish him still to remain sorry for so unkind and unneighbourly an action, I intend making use of the best means for keeping him sorry.”

“Then you will be revenged on him, anyhow.”

“No, Sally—­not revenged.  I hope I have no such feeling.  For I am not angry with Neighbour Barton, who has done himself a much greater wrong than he has done me.  But I wish him to see clearly how wrong he acted, that he may do so no more.  And then we shall not have any cause to complain of him, nor he any to be grieved, as I am sure he is, at his own hasty conduct.  But while I am talking here, his hogs are destroying my corn.”