“She pleads not guilty,” said the judge; “now let the witnesses be sworn. Mr. Davis, you take the stand, and tell the court and the jury what you know about this affair.”
Mr. Davis was sworn and took the stand.
“Whereabouts shall I begin?” said he, hesitating, and rubbing his sleeve over his face to brush away the perspiration.
“Tell the whole story just as it happened,” said the judge, “from first to last: that is, what relates to this particular transaction about the firkin of butter.”
“Well, it was a week ago last Saturday mornin’,” said the witness, putting one foot up upon the bench that stood before him, “I’d been down to the mill with my wagon, and was going home, I should say about nine o’clock in the mornin’; it might be a little more, and it might be a little less, but I should say it wasn’t much odds of nine o’clock, judging from my feelin’s, for I hadn’t been to breakfast; I generally go to mill before breakfast, when I go, and I commonly get back about nine o’clock; but I judged I was about half an hour later that mornin’ than common, owing to a kind of warm dispute I got into with the miller about his streakin’ the toll-dish. I told him he ought to streak it with a straight stick, but he always would take his hand to streak with, and always kept the roundin’ side of his hand up, and that made the dish a little heapin’—”
“But I don’t see what all this has to do with the tub of butter, Mr. Davis,” said the judge; “you must confine yourself to the case before the court. What was this transaction about the tub of butter?”
“Well, I was coming along to it byme by,” said the witness.
“But you must come along to it now,” said the judge; “relate what you know about the case presented by the grand jury, and not talk about any thing else.”
“Well,” said Davis, “I should judge it wasn’t much odds of nine o’clock, when I come along up by Mr. Andrews’ house, and I see Miss Andrews out to the door feedin’ the chickens; and says I, ‘good mornin’, Miss Andrews;’ and says she, ‘good mornin’, Mr. Davis;’ and says I, ‘how’s all to home?’ and says she, ‘middlin’; how does your folks do?’ ”
“But that isn’t coming to the butter,” said the judge, with an air and tone of great impatience.