“Did you quit or were you discharged?” “I quit. Yassum, of my own free will I up and quit.” “Why did you quit?” “Me, I likes peace—tha’s why! I couldn’ stand it no mo’ to be stayin’ in a house whar they’s always so much quollin’ goin’ on.” Now the Joneses were friends of Mrs. Smith, and, to her always, they had seemed a happy couple, ideally mated. Naturally this disclosure shocked her greatly. She hardly could believe it. Still, she shared with the rest of us an almost universal trait—she had a natural curiosity. If the household of her neighbors was rent by internal dissensions here was a chance to find out the true state of affairs. “Do you mean to tell me that Mr. and Mrs. Jones have been quarreling?” “Yassum. All de two months I stayed there they was quollin’ constant.” “What did they quarrel about?” “Diffunt things, ever’ day. Ef ’twasn’t Mrs. Jones quollin’ wid me ’bout somethin’ or other I’d done, ’twas Mr. Jones.” § 145 An Exception for a Native Son The clannishness of the rural Vermonter is proverbial. In illustration of this trait a distinguished citizen of the Green Mountain state told me a story. He said that on a rather cloudy day a typical group of natives sat on the porch of the main general store in a town on the shores of Lake Champlain. Among them appeared a youth citified as to dress and having rather an air of assurance about him. In silent disapproval the company took in his belted coat, his knickerbockers and golf stockings and, most disapprovingly of all, the confident manner of the alien. “Good morning, everybody,” he said breezily. The elder of the group, a venerable gentleman, made answer for the rest: “How’ do,” he said shortly. Somewhat abashed at the coolness of his reception, the young man tried again: “Looks rather like rain,” he said. “’Twon’t rain,” said the old man in a tone of finality. “But I rather thought from the looks of these clouds——” “’Twon’t rain,” repeated the ancient in the voice of one who is not used to being argued with. A daunting silence ensued. The stranger fidgeted in his embarrassment. The old man fixed him with a cold and hostile eye. “What mout your name be?” he inquired, as though desirous properly to classify a curious zoölogical specimen. “My name is Nelson—Herbert Nelson,” stated the youth. “Nelson, hey?” said the patriarch. “There used to be some Nelsons out in the Kent neighborhood. Don’t s’pose you ever heerd of them.” “I’ve been hearing of them all my life,” said the young man. “I come from New York, but my father’s name was Henry Nelson and he was born out near Kent in this county.” “Then you must a-been a grandson of the late Ezra Nelson,” said the aged Vermonter. His manner perceptibly had warmed; indeed, _by_ now it was almost cordial. “Yes, sir,” said the youth. “Ezra Nelson was my grandfather.” “Dew tell, now!” said the patriarch. “So you’re a son of Henry Nelson and a grandson of Ezra Nelson? Well, in _that_ case it may rain.”