“I wish they all had as kind whimseys as your wife has,” said I.
“Well, I’ve heard that some women ain’t all maple-sugar; but, content with dear Martha, I don’t know much about others.”
“You find rare wisdom in the woods,” mused I.
“Now, husband, if you ain’t too tired, just lend a hand to draw the table out.”
“Nay,” said I; “let him rest, and let me help.”
“No,” said William, rising.
“Sit still,” said his wife to me.
The table set, in due time we all found ourselves with plates before us.
“You see what we have,” said Coulter—“salt pork, rye-bread, and pudding. Let me help you. I got this pork of the Squire; some of his last year’s pork, which he let me have on account. It isn’t quite as sweet as this year’s would be; but I find it hearty enough to work on, and that’s all I eat for. Only let the rheumatiz and other sicknesses keep clear of me, and I ask no flavors or favors from any. But you don’t eat of the pork!”
“I see,” said the wife, gently and gravely, “that the gentleman knows the difference between this year’s and last year’s pork. But perhaps he will like the pudding.”