at's all I ask. When a rooster wants to be killed, I want
somebody else to eat him, not me!"

Mrs. Robinson had company only once or twice a year, and was generally
much prostrated for several days afterward, the struggle between pride
and parsimony being quite too great a strain upon her. It was
necessary, in order to maintain her standing in the community, to
furnish a good "set out," yet the extravagance of the proceeding goaded
her from the first moment she began to stir the marble cake to the
moment when the feast appeared upon the table.

The rooster had been boiling steadily over a slow fire since morning,
but such was his power of resistance that his shape was as firm and
handsome in the pot as on the first moment when he was lowered into it.

"He ain't goin' to give up!" said Alice, peering nervously under the
cover, "and he looks like a scarecrow."

"We'll see whether he gives up or not when I take a sharp knife to
him," her mother answered; "and as to his looks, a platter full o'
gravy makes a sight o' difference with old roosters, and I'll put
dumplings round the aidge; they're turrible fillin', though they don't
belong with boiled chicken."

The rooster did indeed make an impressive showing, lying in his border
of dumplings, and the dish was much complimented when it was borne in
by Alice. This was fortunate, as the chorus of admiration ceased
abruptly when the ladies began to eat the fowl.

"I was glad you could git over to Huldy's graduation, Delia," said Mrs.
Meserve, who sat at the foot of the table and helped the chicken while
Mrs. Robinson poured coffee at the other end. She was a fit mother for
Huldah, being much the most stylish person in Riverboro; ill health and
dress were, indeed, her two chief enjoyments in life. It was rumored
that her elaborately curled "front piece" had cost five dollars, and
that it was sent into Portland twice a year to be dressed and frizzed;
but it is extremely difficult to discover the precise facts in such
cases, and a conscientious historian always prefers to warn a too
credulous reader against imbibing as gospel truth something that might
be the basest perversion of it. As to Mrs. Meserve's appearance, have
you ever, in earlier years, sought the comforting society of the cook
and hung over the kitchen table while she rolled out sugar gingerbread?
Perhaps then, in some unaccustomed moment of amiability, she made you a
dough lady, cutting the outline deftly with h