“Oh, dear; Susan Quip, for gracious’ sake find out what that peddler’s child wants; hurry, all of you. Baking to be done to-day; yesterday’s ironing to finish; them new handkerchers to hem; John’s trowsers to mend; buttery shelves to scour; brown bread sponge to set; yeast to make; pickles to scald; head-cheese to fix: hurry, all of you. Susan Quip, there’s the cat in the buttery, smack, and--scissors--right into that buttermilk, arter a mouse. Scat--scat; Susan Quip, that’s your doings--leaving the buttery door open. John Quip, do you drownd that cat to-day. Don’t talk to me of kittens; kittens is as plenty as peddlers’ children. Hand me that coffee, Susan Quip. Lord-a-mercy, there’s the fishman: run, John--two mackerel, not more than sixpence a-piece; pinch ’em in the stomach, to see if they are fresh. If they are flabby, don’t take ’em; if they ain’t, do. Yes, every thing to do, to-day, and a little more beside. Soft soap to----Heavens and earth, John Quip, that mackerel man hasn’t given you the right change by two cents. Here, stop him! John Quip--Susan--get out of the way, all of you; I’ll go myself,” and the calico long-short started in full pursuit of the mackerel defaulter. Poor little Fanny! no Green Mountain boy, set down in the rush of the city, ever felt half so crazy. Mrs. Quip, with her snap-dragon, touch-me-not-manners, high-pitched voice, and heavy tramp, was such a contrast to her dear grandmother, with her soft tones, noiseless step, and gentle ways. Fanny was afraid to move for fear she should cross Mrs. Quip’s track. She did not know whether she were hungry or thirsty. She marveled at the railroad velocity with which the food disappeared, and pitied Mrs. Quip _so_ much for having such a quantity of things to do all in a minute! The next day after Fanny’s arrival at Butternut farm, was Sunday. Mrs. Quip was up betimes, as usual, but her activity took a devotional turn. She was out to the barn fifty times a minute, to see “if the horse and waggin was getting harnessed for meetin’,”--not but _Mr._ Quip was still above ground, but as far as he had any voice in family matters, he might as well have been under. Mrs. Quip was up in Susan’s room (or, as she pronounced it, _Sew_san), to see if she was learning her catechise; she was padlock-ing John Quip’s Sunday temptation, in the shape of the “Thrilling Adventures of Jack Bowsprit;” she was giving the sitting-room as Sabbatical and funereal an aspect as possible, by setting the chairs straight up against the walls, shutting all the blinds, and putting into the cupboard every thing that squinted secular-wise.