“Now,” says the Squire, “I conceit the chief pint in the case is this here; has Widow Stokes a right to this hay? Now this ’ill depend, ye see, ’pon t’other point, to wit, videlicet, does the hay belong to Bijah? Now the Widow says, says she, ‘every man in this country’s free, and therefore every man in this country is a king, jist as far as his farm goes. Now the king, all allow, has a right to waifs and strays; and so,’ says Widow Stokes, ‘that are hay is mine.’ ‘But,’ says Bijah—and by jinks, it’s a cute argument; ‘but,’ says he, ‘tho’ every man in this land of liberty is a free man, yet that doesn’t prove that every woman is, and per contra, we know that women don’t vote, and of course ain’t free; so,’ says he, ‘the Widow Stokes ain’t a king; so,’ says he, ‘the hay ain’t hern.’ But’s a puzzlin’ case, ain’t it?”
“Well, now,” answered the minister, “it strikes me that hay ain’t astray.”
“Well,” said the Squire, “there’s a pint I never thinked of.”
Just then in came the Deacon, and after him the sexton, and so on till pretty much all the aristocratic democracy of the village had assembled. And then in bustled Aunt Nabby, awful fine I tell you; and then Susanna and Cato began to bring in dinner. And while they were doing that, the company all took a stiff glass of grog by way of appetite, and then stroked down their faces and looked at the table, and there was a pig roast and stuffed, and a line of veal, and two old hens, and an everlastin’ sight of all kinds of sarce, and pies, and puddins, and doughnuts, and cider, and above all, at the head of the table, the dish in which lay the hero of the day—that are goose, smothered in onions, and utterly hid beneath the load of carrots and cabbages. The seat next the goose was assigned to the Minister, and all sat down.
The Squire flourished his fork, and pounced upon the pig; the Deacon he tackeled to at the veal, while the sexton went seriously to work to exhume a piece of pork from amid an avalanche of beans. The Minister, with a spoon, gently stirred away a few carrots and onions, in hopes of thus coming at the goose.
“It smells remarkably fine,” says he, to Aunt Nabby.
“It’s particularly fine and tender,” says she; “I picked it myself from a whole heap.”
And still the Minister poked, till at last his spoon grated upon a hard surface.
“A skewer, I guess!” and plunging his fork into the onion mass, he struggled to raise the iron handle with which he had joined issue.
“Bless me!” cried Aunt Nabby, “what’s that are?”