“_Boy, are you doing right?_” As he was usually meditating some bit of mischief, this constant appeal to conscience kept him well under subjection. One cold day in early Spring the man and the boy were sorting potatoes down cellar. That is a hungry job, and they were poorly fortified by a light breakfast. The old man had cut a piece from the salt fish which hung from a nail and divided it with the boy, but he truthfully said it was not very “filling.” However, it made them thirsty, so in a few minutes the man went up to the kitchen for a drink of water, and also for the purpose of considering the prospects for dinner. His wife sat by the stove reading her Bible, and he came up close to her. “What ye goin’ ter have for dinner?” “Who’s goin’ ter be here?” “Nobody but the boy.” In those days the line-up at the dinner-table made considerable difference to the housekeeper. A “picked-up dinner” was ample for the family, but special guests meant more elaborate fare. The lady had listened attentively and had caught the sound of just one word—“boy.” She used that for the foundation of the sentence, and let imagination do the rest. So she gave her husband credit for saying: “The Reverend Mr. Joy.” Now this Mr. Joy was the minister. There was little about him to suggest his name, but those were the good old days when “the cloth” was entitled to a full yard of respect—and received it. In these days a woman may gain fame by writing a book, running for office or appearing in some spectacular divorce case; but these are commonplace affairs compared with the old-time excitement of entertaining the minister and having him praise the dinner. If the Rev. Mr. Joy was to be her guest, the farm must shake itself to provide a full meal. So the deaf lady hastened at once into action; she put her book aside, shook up the fire vigorously, and meanwhile acquired a program. “In that case we’ll have chicken pie!” The man and the boy went out and ran down the old Brahma rooster. They finally cornered him by the fence, where the old gentleman fell on him and pinned him to the ground. Then they cut off his head, plunged him into hot water, and the boy picked him, having stepped into a grain sack, which served as an apron. That rooster had the reputation of being old enough to vote, but those New England housekeepers well knew how to put such a tough old customer into the pot and take him out as tender as a broiler.