“Sam,” said we, after maturely reflecting over the story, “what do you suppose was in that pot?”
“Lordy massy! boys: ye never will be done askin' questions. Why, how should I know?”
“MIS' ELDERKIN'S PITCHER.”
“Ye see, boys,” said Sam Lawson, as we were gathering young wintergreen on a sunny hillside in June,—“ye see, folks don't allers know what their marcies is when they sees 'em. Folks is kind o' blinded; and, when a providence comes along, they don't seem to know how to take it, and they growl and grumble about what turns out the best things that ever happened to 'em in their lives. It's like Mis' Elderkin's pitcher.”
“What about Mis' Elderkin's pitcher?” said both of us in one breath.
“Didn't I never tell ye, now?” said Sam: “why, I wanter know?”
No, we were sure he never had told us; and Sam, as usual, began clearing the ground by a thorough introduction, with statistical expositions.