"It ain't!"
"Yes it is; — on the grindstone."
"No it isn't," said Winthrop coming in, "for I've got it here. There — see to it, Asahel. Mamma, papa's come. We've done ploughing."
And down went his hat, but not on the floor.
"Look at Winifred, Governor — she has been calling for you all day."
The boy turned to a flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked, little toddling thing of three or four years old, at his feet, and took her up, to the perfect satisfaction of both parties. Her head nestled in his neck and her little hand patted his cheek with great approval and contentment.
"Mamma," said Asahel, "what makes you call Winthrop Governor? — he isn't a governor."
"Ask your father. And run and tell him tea's just ready."
The father came in; and the tea was made, and the whole party sat down to table. A homely, but a very cheerful and happy board. The supper was had in the kitchen; the little remains of the fire that had boiled the kettle were not amiss after the damps of evening fell; and the room itself, with its big fireplace, high dark-painted wainscoting, and even the clean board floor, was not the least agreeable in the house. And the faces and figures that surrounded the table were manly, comely, and intelligent, in a high degree.
"Well, — I've got through with that wheat field," said Mr.
Landholm, as he disposed of a chicken bone.