"I haven't heard that Mrs. Beecher Stowe had any such intention. As a friend of the family, from Lyman down—"
"As a friend of the family, you ought to warn them in time to curb her propensity for attending to other people's affairs. Uncommon! Yes, an uncommon busybody."
"I think, madam, you are misinformed," said Mr. Tallmadge, with dignity.
"I know more about Harriet Beecher Stowe than most people—though she never has set foot in the South—and I know she's a busybody. I also know she has less excuse than some women. The spring I spent with my sister, Mrs. Paget, in Covington, before I met the Stowes, I used to look out and see a man trudging about the hills in front of my windows with a basket on his arm. 'Who is that?' I asked. 'That's Professor Stowe,' they said; and we all wondered what he had in the basket. I said he was botanizing; Mrs. Paget said the basket was too big for that: he must be looking for kail, or dock, or dandelion greens for dinner. By-and-by we heard he had twins in the basket, and was taking them about for an airing. The Stowes were very poor, too, and what with that and twins, Harriet B. ought to have found enough to do at home."
"Nwingy Tat! Nwingy Tat!"
"Sh!" said his aunt.
"Mus' sing it," answered Ethan, in the only distinct words his grandmother had heard from his lips.
"What is it?" she asked, more interested in Ethan's infant tastes than even in Mrs. Stowe's enormities.
"It's that foolish little rhyme, 'The New England Cat,'" replied Miss Hannah.