"Put 'em in 'fore he come," said Turtle.
"I say, mister," inquired Squire Longbow, who wished to settle the disputed point for the benefit of all, "did you put them 'are ribbons inter yer butes 'fore you come?"
The man cocked his eye, and kept pulling away.
The Squire looked indignant.
"Ask him if they are raal ribbons," said Aunt Sonora.
"I say, mister," stammered the Squire, again rising, "are them 'are raal ribbons?"
The man still pulled.
"Won't answer no questions!" exclaimed the Squire, and he sat down. The ribbon factory at last ran out.
The only other exercise of importance was cooking eggs in a hat. The performer had borrowed the Squire's hat in the most polite way possible, saying, "he would confer a great favor upon him for the loan of it for a few moments; it would so much aid him in his feats. It was just the hat he wanted—it was sometimes difficult for him to find just the hat—but the Squire's hat filled his eye to a dot."
Now the Squire's hat was the most remarkable hat in all Puddleford. It was a broad-brimmed affair, "raal beaver," he said, which he'd worn mor'n twenty years. He bought it down on the "Susquehannas," and had watched it with sacred care ever since he had owned it. He wore it on Sunday, Fourth of July, on town-meeting days, and on all special occasions. He kept it the rest of the time in a closet in the "cham-ber," covered with a piece of "ile-cloth," which was about as ancient as the hat. There was one grease spot on it, and only one, and there was not a man, woman, or child in the settlement who did not know how it "come on," for the Squire had detailed the circumstances that led to the catastrophe, a hundred times.