“Oh, dear! is that it? Oh, no, no, Friend Barton! Ii cannot allow that item in the bill.”
“Yes, but you must. It is perfectly just, and I shall never rest until it is paid.”
“I can't, indeed. You couldn't help the hogs getting into my field; and then you know, Friend Barton (lowering his tone), my geese were very troublesome!”
The shoemaker blushed and looked confused; but Farmer Gray slapped him familiarly on the shoulder, and said, in a lively, cheerful way,
“Don't think any more about it, Friend Barton! And hereafter let us endeavour to 'do as we would be done by,' and then everything will go on as smooth as clock-work.”
“But you will allow that item in the bill?” the shoemaker urged perseveringly.
“Oh, no, I couldn't do that. I should think it wrong to make you pay for my own or some of my men's negligence in leaving the bars down.”
“But then (hesitatingly), those geese—I killed three. Let it go for them.”
“If you did kill them, we ate them. So that is even. No, no, let the past be forgotten, and if it makes better neighbours and friends of us, we never need regret what has happened.”
Farmer Gray remained firm, and the bill was settled, omitting the item of “corn.” From that time forth he never had a better neighbour than the shoemaker. The cows, hogs, and geese of both would occasionally trespass, but the trespassers were always kindly removed. The lesson was not lost on either of them—for even Farmer Gray used to feel, sometimes, a little annoyed when his neighbour's cattle broke into his field. But in teaching the shoemaker a lesson, he had taken a little of it himself.