Silence, and whittle away.
“Well, I should think two thousand dollars, a heap of money for this farm.”
“I’ve a notion it will never go for three thousand, any how.”
“There’s a fine farm, and cheaper, on the North side.”
“But where’s the sun to ripen the corn?”
“Sun shines on all alike.”
“Not exactly through a Vermont hill, I reckon. The driver offered me as much as I say, if I recollect right.”
“Money not always to be depended upon. Money not always forthcoming!”
“I reckon, I shall make an elegant ’backy stopper of this piece of sycamore.”
Silence for a few moments. Knives hard at work.