The major, not at all pleased with the unimpressable nature of the fishmonger, said, somewhat curtly, that no one cared whether he would or not.  “However, here’s at you for a trade,” continued the major, adding that generosity was the surest road to fortune.  And having bid him hang another cod to his steelyards, he drew from his stock a small tin strainer, with which he offered to make a square exchange for the fish.  “Say the word, and it is done!” ejaculated the major, patting the other upon the shoulder.  The fishmonger shook his head, and looked askant at the major, as if to say he would rather be excused.  The major now, out of sheer generosity, as he said, and anxious, no doubt, to sustain the character of military men, threw in a pint of number four shoe pegs, which article was among his wares, and which he was ready to swear by his military honor the people of Connecticut raised Shanghai chickens on.  The fishmonger said he did not know exactly what to do with the shoe pegs; but as a New Englander was never at a loss to find a use for every thing, and not wanting to be hard with a fellow trader, he would call it a bargain.  They now mounted their respective teams, and drove on in opposite directions.

A little red house, half buried under a hill side, interspersed with scrubby trees and blackberry vines, now appeared in sight.  This the major described as the house of his dear good friend, Mrs. Trotbridge, the widow of three husbands, and yet so young in feeling that she was in daily expectation of getting a fourth.  He never failed to make her a present, and partake of her good cheer while passing that way.  The fish would be a great treat with the widow; and though the strainer and shoe-pegs, for which they were exchanged, did not “stand him in” more than a shilling, the fish would rise up in her eyes to the worth of a jolly good dinner.

Old Battle, recognizing the house as one he was accustomed to rest and feed at, quickened his pace, and disturbing the repose of pigs, chickens, and young ducks, nestling by the roadside, soon reached the garden gate.  Dismounting in great haste, the major bid me follow him, and, leaving old Battle to take care of himself for the nonce, hastened up the pathway toward the front door, for the house was separated from the road by a narrow garden, enclosed with pickets, and full of stunted shrubbery.  The inmates of the house were soon astir, and the major’s name was, one might have thought, called from every window.  Then the basement door suddenly opened, and two little, mischievous looking Trotbridges, scampered out to meet him, and so clung about his short legs, and otherwise offered him proof of the affection they bore him, as almost to impede his progress.  Mrs. Trotbridge, at the same time, appeared in the door, three or four flaxen headed little members of the Trotbridge family clinging at her skirts, and shaking their chubby fingers in ecstasy.  Mrs. Trotbridge stood at least an