Mrs. T. Nothing but a bread-trough, a chopping-knife and a sausage filler.
Inq. Are they made of clear turnips?
Mrs. T. Now you’re terrible inquisitive. What would you give to know?
Inq. I’ll give you the name of being the most communicative and pleasant woman I’ve met with for the last half-hour.
Mrs. T. Well, now, you’re a sweet gentleman, and I must gratify you. You must know we mix with the turnip a little red cloth, just enough to give them a color, so they needn’t look as if they were made of clear fat meat; then we chop them up well together, put in a little sage, summer savory, and black pepper; and they make as pretty little delicate links as ever was set on a gentleman’s table; they fetch the highest price in the market.
Inq. Indeed! Have you a piano in the house?
Mrs. T. A piany! What’s that?
Inq. A musical instrument.
Mrs. T. Lor, no. But Sary Jane, down at the Corners, has one—you see. Sary got all highfalutin about the great Colushun down to Bosting, and down she went; an’ when she came back the old man got no rest until she had one of the big square music boxes with white teeth—’spose that’s what you call a piany.
Inq. You seem to know what it is, then.