"Looks is enough, with some folks," said the farmer; "and she's a pretty enough creatur', take the outside of her. Had ought to be; for I guess that sort o' riggin' costs somethin'—don't it, Mis' Boddington?"
"Cost?" said the lady. "Evan Knowlton is a fool if he lets himself be caught by such butterfly's wings. But men are fools when women are pretty; there's no use reasoning against nature."
"Wall, Diany," exclaimed Joe Bartlett, now drawing near with his coffee cup,—"how comes you have all the work and other folks all the fun?"
"Want some coffee, Joe?"
"Fact, I do; that is, supposin' you have got any."
"Plenty, Joe. That's what I am here for. Hold your cup. Who are you picking for to-day?"
"Wall, I ain't here for fun," said Joe; "there's no mistake about that. I b'lieve in fun too; I do sartain; but I don't b'lieve in scratchin' it into you with blackberry brambles, nor no other. Thank'e, Diany; maybe this'll help me get along with the afternoon."
"I never thought you would mind blackberry thorns, Joe."
"No more I don't, come in the way o' business," said Joe, sipping his coffee. "Guess I kin stand a few knocks, let alone scratches, when I calculate to have 'em. But I don' know! my notion of pleasure's sun'thin' soft and easy like; ain't your'n? I expect to take scratches—bless you! but I don't call 'em fun. That's all I object to."
"Then how come you here, Joe?"