"Well, I don't want any; I've had enough," the mother replied. "It's sentiment, sentiment ever since I can remember, and I'm sick of it."
"You want poetry, my dear," said the Professor. "Or at least you set store by it, for didn't you give Tennyson to the preacher?"
"I don't care if I did, I'm going to throw that old thing out. Wesley, when is your insurance due?"
"It is paid, madam, thanks be to the Lord. I sent the money off yesterday."
"Why didn't you tell me you were going to send it?"
"Oh, it was a mere trifle, and I forgot it."
"For pity sake! And where did you get the money?"
"I combed it out of the grass."
"Well, you'd better comb out some for us while you are combing. I've lived this way till I'm tired of it. Where did you get that money?"
"The grass was thick, and the grass was long, and the comb pulled heavy and slow."