the fire and carrying water.

It was very early on a keen, biting morning in November when Daddy came
driving into the yard with his rude, long-runnered sled, one horse half
his length behind the other in spite of the driver's clucking. He was
delighted to catch the boys behind in the preparation.

"A-a-h-h-r-r-h-h!" he rasped out, "you lazy vagabon's? Why ain't you got
that fire blazin'? What the devil do y' mean, you rascals! Here it is
broad daylight, and that fire not built. I vum, sir, you need a
thrashin', the whole kit an bilun' of ye; yessir! Come, come, come!
hustle now, stir your boots! hustle y'r boots--ha! ha! ha!"

It was of no use to plead cold weather and damp chips.

"What has that got to do with it, sir? I vum, sir, when I was your age,
I could make a fire of green red-oak; yessir! Don't talk to me of colds!
Stir your stumps and get warm, sir!"

The old man put up his horses (and fed them generously with oats), and
then went to the house to ask for "a leetle something hot--mince pie or
sassidge." His request was very modest, but, as a matter of fact, he sat
down and ate a very hearty breakfast, while the boys worked away at the
fire under the big kettle.

The hired man, under Daddy's direction, drew the bob-sleighs into
position on the sunny side of the corn-crib, and arranged the barrel at
the proper slant, while the old man ground his knives, Milton turning
the grindstone--another hateful task, which Daddy's stories could not
alleviate.

Daddy never finished a story. If he started in to tell about a horse
trade, it infallibly reminded him of a cattle trade, and talking of
cattle switched him off upon logging, and logging reminded him of some
heavy snow-storm he had known. Each parenthesis outgrew its proper
limits, till he forgot what should have been the main story. His stories
had some compensation, for when he stopped to try to recollect where he
was, the pressure on the grindstone was released.

At last the water was hot, and the time came to seize the hogs. This was
the old man's great moment. He stood in the pen and shrieked with
laughter while the hired men went rolling, one after the other, upon the
ground, or were bruised against the fence by the rush of the burly
swine.

"You're a fine lot," he laughed. "Now, then, sir, _grab 'im_! Why don't
ye nail 'im? I vum, sir, if I couldn't do better'n that, sir, I'd sell
out; I would, sir, by gol! Get out o' the way!"

With a lofty scorn