"fer his children have growd up, so he ain't got no use fer
schools, and fellers like him don't pay fer things they ain't a usin'."

"Wal, I think we ought ter have a village improvement sarsiety fer the
benefit of us as is out'n school," remarked Joel Simpkins, thrusting his
hands deep into his pockets and tossing his head to shake back a
refractory lock of hay-colored hair.

He was the "head clerk" at Barnes' store. To be sure he was, as a general
thing, the _only_ clerk, but Joel considered himself quite a personage,
and never referred to himself as other than head clerk.

"Kinder had an idee that ye couldn't be improved, Joel," remarked a young
farmer who had thus far taken no part in the conversation.

Joel looked sharply at the man, and vaguely wondered if possibly the
remark was sarcastic, but the face into which he peered was so genuinely
good natured that Joel was reassured, and he at once decided that only a
very fine compliment was intended.

"I think we could fix up this 'ere square," said Joel, "ter begin with.
Take that old horse trough. That could be fixed up 'n' painted, 'n' that
willer tree; 'twouldn't hurt it ter give it a good preunin'. Growin' as it
does daown in the ditch, or puddle beside this store, it flourishes, an'
lops its limbs nigh onto across the square; an' the rickety fence beside
it ought ter be straightened up 'fore some of the fellers that are
perpetually leanin' 'gainst it pitch with it backward inter the ditch."

"Wal, Joel, while yer 'baout it," remarked Silas Barnes, "why don't yer
suggest a brick block er two, an' pavin' stones in the square an' a few
other things such as I told ye I seen in Boston. 'Tain't wuth while ter
stop after ye git started ter make suggestions."

"Speakin' of the teacher," remarked Mr. Potts, "I'm one that speaks in
favor of Miss Gilman every time, and Jotham seconds everything I say."

"Lemme tell ye what my Timotheus is a doin' these days. I set him ter
hoeing fer me, and I tell ye ye'd like ter watch him a spell," said old
Mr. Simpkins, his face beaming with pride in his youngest son.

"Fust he'd work the hoe with them long arms er his'n 'til the weeds an'
dirt flew like Hail Columby, and ye'd think he'd got goin' an' couldn't
halt, when all to onct he'd stop as ef somethin'd bit him, an' he'd drop
the hoe and begin ter gesticerlate and spaout like a preacher.

"Pooty soon he'd make a grab fer the hoe, and agin the dirt would fly like
all fury