Jane was about to laugh or to cry—I am not sure which.
"Not a word more than what I read," she answered.
"Jane," I said solemnly and firmly, "go into the house. What is going to happen is not a fit sight for your eyes. Praise be, that book is mine, and not the library's, and I can deal with it justly. Give it here. And if you have any affection for Martha Matilda Bunkum, kiss her good-by. I do not know how deep these seeds go, but I know how deep she goes." And I began to dig a suitable hole.
I rejoined my wife at dinner after a bath and certain life-saving remedies.
"Milton uttered curses on him who destroyed a good book, but what do you think will come up in ground fertilized by Mrs. Bunkum?" I asked.
Jane giggled.
"I do not know," she said, "but if you erect a tombstone to her, I can suggest an epitaph."
"What is it?" I questioned.
"The Gardeners Guyed," said Jane.