"Well, Miss Frost, how do you like it?" says a little mite of a woman, with pink ribbons spreading out on her bosom. "What do you think of the nomination?"
"Think?" says I. "Why, this is what I think—the sun will rise and set on the top of the Green Mountains like a crown of glory, after this."
"Will Vermont go for him?" says another, cutting in.
"Will the mountains stand on their old rocky base?" says I. "What a question!"
"Then you think it will?"
"Think! I know it will. When did that glorious old State neglect one of her own sons?"
"But it's so strange!" snivelled the little woman.
"Strange!" says I; "what is strange?"
"Why, that Mr. Greeley should be nominated."
"Well," says I, with cutting irony, "do you think it strange that the people of this country should choose an honest man once in a while? ain't we always ready to reward merit? Haven't we done it in the military way with General Grant? Haven't we a right to go into a new field? First the sword, now the pen."