He placed chairs by the table and we sat down.
“Is this pie, apple, that I see before me the handle toward my hand?” he playfully remarked, as he lifted a firm built piece of pie in his hand and began to eat it in the old fashion. “Bread may be the staff of life, but pie is the light in its windows. I don't want to be hurried by its invitation, so I guess I'll get it out of the way.”
CHAPTER III.—WHICH PRESENTS THE STORY OF THE SMOTHERED SON
Our dinner over, Mr. Potter put a new log on the fire. Then we set the table aside and lighted our cigars.
“There is another sector in the line of the Williamites that is pretty thoroughly dug in,” said the Honorable Socrates, as he put his feet upon the fender and leaned back comfortably in his chair. “Let me tell you the story of
THE SMOTHERED SON.
“She was a Williamistic widow—the relict of the late Samuel Butters.
“She was also a Shrimpstone, of Kalamazoo. My friend, why do you sit there in cold indifference when I mention a fact so inspiring?”