peakin' of impiousness," remarked that sour-faced little man, "have
you all heard the tales about Reuben Merryweather's gal sence she's had
her windfall? Why, to see the way she trails her skirt, you'd think
she was the real child of her father." Then rushing hurriedly to
generalization at Abel's entrance, he added in a louder tone--"Ah, it's
a sad pass for things to come to, an' the beginnin' of the end of public
morality, when a gal that's born of a mischance can come to act as if a
man was responsible for her. It ain't nothin' mo' nor less than flyin'
in the face of the law, which reads different, an' if it keeps up,
the women folks will be settin' up the same rights as men to all the
instincts of natur'."

Old Adam--the pride and wonder of the neighbourhood because he could
still walk his half mile with the help of his son and still drink his
share of cider with the help of nobody--bent over the heap of corn
before him, and selecting an ear, divested it of the husks with a
twirling, sleight-of-hand movement.

"They're losing virtue fast enough," he observed, throwing the naked
ear into the bin and reaching for another. "Why, when I was young thar
warn't nothin' in the way of meanness that a good woman wouldn't put up
with. They'd shut thar eyes to Hagars, white or black, rather than lose
the respect of men by seemin' to be aware of any immodesty."

"Ah, the times have changed now!" sighed Solomon Hatch, "but thar's one
thing sho' to my mind, an' that is, that if a woman thinks she's goin'
to attract men by pryin' an' peekin' into immorality an' settin' it
straight ag'in, she's gone clean out of her head. Thar's got to be
indecency in the world because thar al'ays has been. But a man sets a
heap mo' sto' by his wife if she ain't too inquirin' upon the subject."

"True, true, Solomon," said old Adam, "I for one was al'ays set against
teachin' women to read for fear they'd come to know things. Thar's a
deal of evil that gits into print, an' if you ain't acquainted with yo'
letters thar's less temptation to nose arter it. Reuben Merryweather
would have his daughter Janet taught, though I urged strongly against
it--holdin' that she could learn about sins an' immoralities even in
Holy Writ. Who knows if she'd ever have gone wrong if she hadn't learned
to read printed words?"

"Well, I'm glad print is too difficult for me," observed young Adam.
"The pains I take to spell out the words would stand greatly in the way
of