This is the day that I have marked with a piece of chalk. Hardly was daylight down before I was snug in my skulking nest, in Aunt Molly’s barn. It was on the hay-mow, where there was a knot-hole handy to look through and see all that went in or out of the house. I had a scheme in my head that Hannah little dreamt of; and I lay and I thought it over till she came out; and when I got her under my arm, and walking down the lane, thinks I, I’ll set the stone a-rolling anyhow, let it stop where it will.
So I set on to talking about this and that and tother thing, and happened (by mere chance, you know) to mention our old hatter shop, that stands at the corner, that my father used to work in when he was alive. “And,” says I, “speaking of the shop, always puts me in mind of you, Hannah.”
“Of me, John?” says she. “Why?”
“O! it’s just the thing for a store,” says I.
“Well?”
“Sweep out the dirt, and old hat pairings, and truck—”
“Well?”
“Take the sign; rub out ‘Hatter,’ and put in ‘Merchant;’ and that spells ‘John Beedle, Merchant—’ ”
“Well, John?”
“Then get rum and molasses, and salt-fish, and ribbonds and calicoes—”