After supper as we sat by the moonlight-flooded window, on inquiring of our host why the large wing had never been finished, he answered:
“Finished? Why, it war finished, but when the old man died, his son and heir, one of the no-countist fellows what ever lived, moved in. Wal, ye see them woods, yander?”
“Yes.”
“Not more ’en fifty yard away.”
“Just about that.”
“Wal, do you know thet thet man war too cussed lazy to go to them woods for fire wood, and so tore down thet wing, piece by piece, flooring, sidings, window sashes, doors—everything but the loft and roof, and he’d a took them ef he hadn’t been too lazy to climb up stairs.”
“Wonder he didn’t take the whole house.”
“I spect he would ef I hadn’t bought him out when I did. Why, man! this whole farm-yard was an apple orchard then. How many trees do you see now?”
“Three.”
“That’s all. Chopped down, every damned one of ’em, for the fire-place. Lazy, why, dog my skin!—”