Our nine young pigs waded across the brook and ran away last Tuesday, and only eight came back. We don’t want to accuse any one unjustly, but we suspect that Widow Dowd has one more than she ought to have.
Mr. Weaver has painted his barn and his two silos a bright pumpkin yellow—a very ugly color, but he says it will wear.
The Brewers have company this week; Mrs. Brewer’s sister and two nieces from Ohio.
One of our Rhode Island Reds only brought off three chicks out of fifteen eggs. We can’t imagine what was the trouble. Rhode Island Reds, in my opinion, are a very inferior breed. I prefer Buff Orpingtons.
The new clerk in the post-office at Bonnyrigg Four Corners drank every drop of Jamaica ginger they had in stock—seven dollars’ worth—before he was discovered.
Old Ira Hatch has rheumatism and can’t work any more; he never saved his money when he was earning good wages, so now he has to live on the town.
There ’s to be an ice-cream social at the schoolhouse next Saturday evening. Come and bring your families.
I have a new hat that I bought for twenty-five cents at the post-office. This is my latest portrait, on my way to rake the hay.