“You haint patriotic enough Samantha,” says Josiah, “you don’t love your country.”
“What good has it done the nation to have me all tore to pieces?” says I, “Look at my dress, look at my bonnet and cape, any one ought to be a iron clad to stand it, look at my dishes!” says I.
“I guess the old heroes of the Revolution went through more than that,” says Josiah.
“Well I haint a old hero!” says I coolly.
“Well you can honor ’em can’t you?”
“Honor ’em! Josiah Allen what good has it done to old Mr. Layfayette to have my new earthern pie plates smashed to bits, and a couple of tines broke off of one of my best forks? What good has it done to old Thomas Jefferson, to have my lawn dress tore off of me by Betsey Bobbet? what benefit has it been to John Adams, or Isaac Putnam to have old Peedick step through it? what honor has it been to George Washington to have my straw bonnet flatted down tight to my head? I am sick of this talk about honorin’, and liberty and duty, I am sick of it,” says I “folks will make a pack horse of duty, and ride it to circuses, and bull fights, if we had ’em. You may talk about honorin’ the old heroes and goin’ through all these performances to please ’em. But if they are in Heaven they can get along without heerin’ the Jonesville brass band, and if they haint, they are probably where fireworks haint much of a rarity to ’em.”
Josiah quailed before my lofty tone and I relapsed into a weary and delapidated silence.
