Mother. Oh, come, be sociable! I came from Vermont myself.
Silas. Possible?
Mother. Yes: twelve years ago, with my husband, expecting to return in two years with a fortune; but in two years husband died.
Silas. Ah! A misfortune.
Mother. And here I've been ever since, the mother of this camp; and my boys—white, black, and yellow—take good care that I have my share of the dust.
Silas (shrugs shoulders). I understand—with a broom.
Mother. La, parson! don't bear malice: do you suppose I'd have struck you, if I'd an idea of your cloth?
Silas. Thank you. My coat is rather thin.
Mother. Expect to locate here? The boys would be mighty glad to have you; and they'd see that you had a peaceful hearing, if they had to shoot the whole congregation.
Silas. Would they? Very kind of the boys, but I hope they'd leave somebody to pass the contribution-box.