you manage to keep your fruit that’s so exposed, when no one else cant do it nohow.  Why, says he, they are dreadful pretty fruit, ant they?  I guess, said I, there ant the like on em in all Connecticut.  Well, says he, I’ll tell you the secret, but you need’nt let on to no one about it.  That are row next the fence, I grafted it myself, I took great pains to get the right kind, I sent clean up to Roxberry, and away down to Squaw-neck Creek, (I was afeared he was agoin to give me day and date for every graft, being a terrible long-winded man in his stories,) so says I, I know that, minister, but how do you preserve them?  Why I was a goin to tell you, said he, when you stopped me.  That are outward row I grafted myself with the choicest kind I could find, and I succeeded.  They are beautiful, but so etarnal sour, no human soul can eat them.  Well, the boys think the old minister’s graftin has all succeeded about as well as that row, and they sarch no farther.  They snicker at my graftin, and I laugh in my sleeve, I guess, at their penetration.

Now, Marm Pugwash is like the Minister’s apples, very temptin fruit to look at, but desperate sour.  If Pugwash had a watery mouth when be married, I guess its pretty puckery by this time.  However, if she goes to act ugly, I’ll give her a dose of ‘soft sawder,’ that will take the frown out of her frontispiece, and make her dial-plate as smooth as a lick of copal varnish.  Its a pity she’s such a kickin devil, too, for she has good points—­good eye—­good foot—­neat pastern—­fine chest—­a clean set of limbs, and carries a good —–.  But here we are, now you’ll see what’ soft sawder’ will do.  When we entered the house, the traveller’s room was all in darkness, and on opening the opposite door into the sitting room, we found the female part of the family extinguishing the fire for the night.  Mrs. Pugwash had a broom in her hand, and was in the act (the last act of female housewifery) of sweeping the hearth.  The strong flickering light of the fire, as it fell upon her tall fine figure and beautiful face, revealed a creature worthy of the Clockmaker’s comments.  Good evening, Marm, said Mr. Slick, how do you do, and how’s Mr. Pugwash?  He, said she, why he’s been abed this hour, you don’t expect to disturb—­him this time of night I hope.  Oh no, said Mr. Stick, certainly not, and I am sorry to have disturbed you, but we got detained longer than we expected; I am sorry that —.  So am I, said she, but if Mr. Pugwash will keep an Inn when he has no occasion to, his family cant expect no rest.  Here the Clockmaker, seeing the storm gathering, stooped down suddenly, and staring intently, held out his hand and exclaimed, well if that aint a beautiful child—­come here, my little man and shake hands along with me—­well I declare if that are little feller aint the finest child I ever seed—­what, not abed yet? ah you rogue, where did you get them are pretty rosy cheeks; stole them from mamma, eh?  Well, I wish