The woodshed figured largely in the matter, too.
That brought back other tender recollections, for, do you know, we once had a woodshed.
Favorite place for an affectionate interview between father and son.
I never go past one without feeling hurt.
Frederick was inclined to be confidential, and readily admitted that his mother's solicitude concerning his state of health, and the possibility of his contracting a crop of worms from too steady a sugar diet had prompted her to a little exercise.
"She laid it on just like I was a little pig," he complained.
I saw the connection immediately.
"Just so," I said, "a ham, sugar-cured."