e stoned out of town, with the fixtures of the
school-house tied to her." But she has talents. What is she, an
authoress? "Yes, she is." But, like other authoresses, she isn't
appreciated, and has returned to her legitimate occupation, the
Wash-Tub; but still doth she itch for fame, and so, between times, she
writes verbose essays on Female Suffrage, composed during the process
known as "wringing." And when there's a Woman's Rights Convention in
that locality, she sits on the platform, and applauds all the Red-Hot
Resolutions with that trenchant female weapon, the umbrella, in one
hand, and an antediluvian reticule the other. In the words of the Hon.
MICHAEL: "She is not only a leading _Re_former, sir, but a great
_Plat_former." And Mrs. LADLE will tell you that, as a washer, she is
superb. She "does up things" in a manner simply celestial.

Mrs. LADLE told her first to shut the door.

"Have you seen ANN BRUMMET to-day?" she said.

HERSEY nodded.

"Where?" was the eager inquiry.

HERSEY DEATHBURY placed her blackboard against the wall, unslung her
chalk, and wrote in very large letters:--

"I C hur a-Goin on The rode 2 forneys Kragg."

"Ah!" ejaculated Mrs. LADLE joyfully, "traced at last." And she ran to
tell the Hon. MICHAEL all about it.

* * *

The Half-Way House at Forney's Crag was a hoary-headed old vagabond of a
house, that had passed the heyday of its youth long before that great
encyclopaedia, the oldest inhabitant, emitted his first infantile
squawk. Each successive season caused it to lean a little more and the
most casual observer must perceive that it couldn't by any possibility
become much leaner without pining entirely away.

Nevertheless, it had been the only hotel that Spunkville could boast,
all within a short period of this writing. Like most Western hotels, it
had been ably supported by a large floating population, known as "New
York Drummers," and many a time had its old walls re-echoed with their
guileless hilarity and moral tales; and, if the ancient and time-honored
spittoon in the bar-room could speak, it could relate wonderful stories
concerning the Sample Gentry; relating, perhaps, to a Spunkville
merchant, who, having retreated precipitately down his cellar stairs
several tunes during the day, to avoid "them confounded drummers, with
their everlasting samples," was, while plodding his lonely way homeward,
seized upon by these commercial freebooters, conveyed fo