yer weasels, an' foxes, an'
skunks, what ye're so sure about, Mr. Barron."

"A porkypine ain't necess_ar_ily after aigs jest because he's back of
a barn," said the woodsman. "An' anyways, a porkypine don't eat aigs.
He hain't got the right kind o' teeth fer them kind o' vittles. He's
_got_ to have something he kin gnaw on, somethin' substantial an'
solid--the which he prefers a young branch o' good tough spruce,
though it _do_ make his meat kinder strong. No, Mrs. Gammit, it ain't
no porkypine what's stealin' yer aigs, take my word fer it. An' the
more I think o' it the surer I be that it's a weasel. When a weasel
learns to suck aigs, he gits powerful cute. Ye'll have to be right
smart, I'm telling ye, to trap him."

During this argument of Barron's his obstinate and offended listener
had become quite convinced of the justice of her own conclusions. The
sarcasm had settled it. She _knew_, now, that she had been right all
along in her suspicion of the porcupines. And with this certainty her
indignation suddenly disappeared. It is _such_ a comfort to be
certain. So now, instead of flinging his ignorance in his face, she
pretended to be convinced--remembering that she needed his advice as
to how to trap the presumptuous porcupine.

"Well, Mr. Barron," said she, with the air of one who would take
defeat gracefully, "supposin' ye're right--an' ye'd _oughter_
know--how would ye go about _ketchin'_ them weasels?"

Pleased at this sudden return to sweet reasonableness, the woodsman
once more grew interested.

"I reckon we kin fix _that_!" said he, confidently and cordially.
"I'll give ye three of my little mink traps. There's holes, I reckon,
under the back an' sides o' the shed, or barn, or wherever it is that
the hens have their nests?"

"Nat'rally!" responded Mrs. Gammit. "The thieves ain't agoin' to come
in by the front doors, right under my nose, be they?"

"Of course," assented the woodsman. "Well, you jest set them 'ere
traps in three o' them holes, well under the sills an' out o' the way.
Don't go fer to bait'em, mind, or Mr. Weasel'll git to suspicionin'
somethin', right off. Jest sprinkle bits of straw, an' hayseed, an'
sech rubbish over 'em, so it all looks no ways out o' the ordinary.
You do this right, Mrs. Gammit; an' first thing ye know ye'll have yer
thief. I'll git the traps right now, an' show ye how to set 'em."

And as Mrs. Gammit walked away with the three steel traps under her
arm, she muttered