“Don’t you put no sech ideas in his head,” said Aunt Mira, as she embraced her nephew affectionately.
Then he was gone.
“I don’t see why you want ter be always pesterin’ the poor boy,” complained Aunt Mira, as Ira lowered his lanky legs to the ground preparatory to standing on them. He had been a sort of evil genius all summer, beguiling Westy with enticing pictures of all sorts of perilous exploits out of his own abounding experiences on land and sea. “You’d like to’ve had him runnin’ away to sea with your yarns of whalin’ and shipwrecks,” Aunt Mira continued. “And it’s jes a parcel of lies, Ira Hasbrook, and you know it as well as I do. Like enough he’ll shoot at a woodchuck or a skunk and kill one of Atwood’s cows. They’re always gettin’ into the woods.”
“No, he won’t neither,” said her husband.
“I say like enough he might,” persisted Aunt Mira. “Weren’t he crazy ’baout that book?”
“I didn’ write the book,” drawled Ira.
“No, but you told him how to skin a bear.”
“That’s better’n bein’ a book agent and skinnin’ a farmer,” drawled Ira.
“It’s ’baout the only thing you didn’t tell him you was,” Aunt Mira retorted.
Acknowledging which, Ira puffed at his pipe leisurely and contemplated Aunt Mira with a whimsical air.