“Well, how is it that Injun control o’ yourn hain’t learned to read an’ write, if their chances are so good over there? He allus complains ’cause he can’t read.�
“Perhaps because he is of another language and nation,� replied Russell, evidently annoyed at the persistence of his interlocutor.
“Wall, ye see my mother was a Scotch woman, and didn’t talk as we do, an’ I can’t see how she come to use such perty English in that letter.�
“Perhaps,� interposed Russell hastily, “there was some mistake about it and the letter was intended for some one else.�
“It was directed to me,� persisted the farmer, “an’ I don’t know another feller round these parts that answers to the name of Solomon Garrett.�
“Well, we will not discuss this matter now,� said Russell, anxious to turn the subject of conversation. “Mother Dearborn is going to read us a poem, Mrs. Bartram tells me. We will listen to that now, and continue this subject at another time.�
Auntie Dearborn, thus appealed to, fumbled in her big basket, and after opening several papers selected one, which she smilingly announced was “inspired by Lord Byron himself.� Then in a musical voice she read:
“Friends of earth, to you I hasten
With a message from on high.
Sorrows seek you but to chasten;