“One dollar, gentlemen, per spoonful,” said the pedler. “I know it’s high—but _such_ flaxseed, gentlemen, you don’t see every day.” “A dollar for a spoonful of flaxseed!” exclaimed a man—one of the old settlers, with a long pendent queue to his back—“I have been a long time in these parts, but I never heard such a price for a spoonful of flaxseed.” “A fair price, I dare say,” said a man standing by, “a fair price, if it’s the genuine—the genuine—there, now, I can’t think of the kind—it’s the new sort. I’d give five dollars, if I couldn’t get a spoonful without. Only for seed, sir—for seed.” “Pray, Mr. Pedler,” said another, “is this seed imported?” “Why I rather think it was. I _im_ported it.” “From what country did it come?” asked another. “Well, that’s more than I can say, whether from Flanders, or Ireland, or New Holland.” But these names were enough; and as the last seemed to linger longest on some one’s mind, he immediately exclaimed, “New Holland! yes, I dare say—a grand country for flax,” and presently the multitude had improved upon these hints—in part facts, and in part surmises—and round it went, that there was flaxseed of a choice kind, just in from New Holland; and one man, who seemed to know something of geography, and whose logic was about equal to what he knew of the face of the earth, declared that as it had come some thousands of miles, it was, _therefore_, probably a very long or tall kind. “Gentlemen!” said the pedler, who had watched the increasing enthusiasm with the most solid satisfaction, and who thought it quite time to make a strike, “gentlemen, one dollar per spoonful for this flaxseed—your only chance, don’t expect ever to offer flaxseed here again; last chance, gentlemen—who’ll—” He was cut short by the advance of a clever, and even staid looking man, who said, “I’ll take a spoonful.” “And I”—“and I”—“and I,” said half a dozen voices all together. “One at a time, gentlemen,” said the pedler, “serve you all, and just as fast as I can—the sooner I get through the better.” And so he went on, parceling out the flaxseed, and pocketing the dollars, till at last he had the pleasure—and a profound pleasure it was—to stow away in his money-wallet the 75th dollar for the 75th spoonful of flaxseed taken from an old cask in the out-room of Mr. M., in the “Old Dominion,” in part pay for a clock, but which some of the purchasers would have it had come direct from New Holland. “Seventy-five dollars for the flaxseed,” said the pedler, “seventy-five dollars—seventy-five—that will do.” And now the pedler’s voice was again heard, and on a somewhat higher key. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I’ve a still more remarkable article to dispose of—only one, and only one can have it; and the question is, who will be the fortunate purchaser. Gentle—men, this _calf_ is for sale.” The welkin rung. “A calf for sale!” said half a dozen. “Come, walk up—who’ll buy? Who wants a calf?”