t' own up
to it; but, all the same, I like to see putty faces roun' me, 'n' I
guess when the Lord sets his mind on it He can make goodness 'n' beauty
git along comf'tably in the same body. When yer come to that, hombly
folks ain't allers as good 's they might be, 'n' no comfort to anybody's
eyes, nuther."

"You think the boy's all right in the upper story, do you? He's a
strange kind of a child, to my thinkin'."

"I ain't so sure but he's smarter 'n we be, but he talks queer, 'n' no
mistake. This mornin' he was pullin' the husks off a baby ear o' corn
that Jabe brought in, 'n' s' 'e, 'S'manthy, I think the corn must be the
happiest of all the veg'tables.' 'How you talk!' s' I; 'what makes you
think that way?'"

"Why, because,' s' 'e, 'God has hidden it away so safe, with all that
shinin' silk round it first, 'n' then the soft leaves wrapped outside o'
the silk. I guess it's God's fav'rite veg'table; don't you, S'manthy?'
s' 'e. And when I was showin' him pictures last night, 'n' he see the
crosses on top some o' the city meetin'-houses, s' 'e, 'They have two
sticks on 'most all the churches, don't they, S'manthy? I s'pose that's
one stick for God, and the other for the peoples.' Well, now, don't you
remember Seth Pennell, o' Buttertown, how queer he was when he was a
boy? We thought he'd never be wuth his salt. He used to stan' in the
front winder 'n' twirl the curtin tossel for hours to a time. And don't
you know it come out last year that he'd wrote a reg'lar book, with
covers on it 'n' all, 'n' that he got five dollars a colume for writin'
poetry verses for the papers?"

"Oh, well, if you mean that," said Vilda argumentatively, "I don't call
writin' poetry any great test of smartness. There ain't been a big fool
in this village for years but could do somethin' in the writin' line. I
guess it ain't any great trick, if you have a mind to put yourself down
to it. For my part, I've always despised to see a great, hulkin' man,
that could handle a hoe or a pitchfork, sit down and twirl a pen-stalk."

"Well, I ain't so sure. I guess the Lord hes his own way o' managin'
things. We ain't all cal'lated to hoe pertaters nor yet to write poetry
verses. There's as much dif'rence in folks 's there is in anybody. Now,
I can take care of a dairy as well as the next one, 'n' nobody was ever
hearn to complain o' my butter; but there was that lady in New York
State that used to make flowers 'n' fruit 'n' graven images out o' her