oles
from the big bush. Old George Steadman is a sly old rooster, and the
other day he comes up to me in Millford, snuffin like a settin'
goose, and I saw there was something on his mind. 'What's wrong,
George?' I said. 'It's about them oats you promised me for seed,' he
said. I had promised him some of my White Banner oats this spring.
'Ye'll let me have them, will ye?' says he. 'I was wonderin' if it
made any difference about the boys quarrelin',' says he. I says: 'No,
George, it don't make no difference; if you have the money you can
have the oats, but don't expect me to take no security on mortgaged
property,' says I."

Mr. Perkins slapped his patient listener on the back and laughed
uproariously.

"You see, that was the worst thing I could say to him, for he's so
eternally proud of his land. He has nineteen hundred acres all paid
for, and him and the missus is always talkin' about it."

"Did he have much when he started?" John Watson asked.

"Well, I should say not. His wife had some money; but, you bet, she
has it yet. She was a Hunter; they're as tight as the bark to the
tree, every one of them--they'd skin a flea for the hide and tallow.
Well, I'll just tell you, she lent him forty dollars to buy a cow
with the first year they were in this country, with the understandin'
he'd pay her back in the fall. Well, the crop didn't turn out well
and he couldn't pay her, so she sold the cow, and the kids had to do
without milk. Well, I must be goin' now to see how things are goin'.
I don't work much--I just kinda loaf around and take care of the
stock. How would you like a yoke of oxen to plough with? I got two
big husky brutes out there in the pasture that know how to plow--I
got them on a horse deal--and they've never done a stroke of work for
me. Come on over with me and I'll fix you up with harness and all. I
got the whole thing."

John Watson looked at him in grateful surprise and thanked him for
such welcome help.

"Oh, don't say a word about it, John," Mr. Perkins said genially,
"I'll be glad to see the beggars having to work. Look out for the
black one--he's a sly old dog, and looks to me like an ox that would
keep friends with a man for ten years to get a good chance to land a
kick on him at last."

When John Watson went over for the oxen, Mrs. Perkins came out
bareheaded to make kind inquiries for his wife and family. From
within came the mellow hum of the cream-separator, as Martha, the
steady member