“I did, my husband; and but for the opportunity of getting rid of articles absolutely valueless to us, I should never have presumed to have made such a purchase.” “Well, let that pass,” said the husband, his own good sense confessing that she got a large price for what he had wished off his premises—only he didn’t wish to be thought patronizing a pedler. “You got a large price,” he added. “Well,” replied Mrs. M., “the clock-man,” she avoided the mention of the word pedler, “allowed me to name my own price, and I aimed in the whole to please you.” “To please me!” said Mr. M., petulantly. “Not to excite your displeasure rather, I should have said.” “Well, and what next?” “You place me in trying circumstances.” “You placed yourself there,” interrupted her husband. “Yes, according to your view of the case,” said Mrs M., “and you make me regret that I could suffer myself to be tempted to take a clock; but I see no way but to proceed and tell you the whole.” “Certainly,” said Mr. M. “Well, then, husband, you recollect that cask of old flaxseed out in—” “Flaxseed!” he exclaimed, his voice absolutely sounding over the whole house, at the same time the blood rushing to his face, “flaxseed!—did you sell that flaxseed? Is it, then, possible?” “Pray,” said Mrs. M., “what is the meaning of your unwonted excitement? What have I done to raise this awful storm?” “Done?” said he, “done? That flaxseed!—was it, then, that?” he paused. “And pray what did you get for it?” “There was nearly a bushel of it,” replied Mrs. M., “and I was allowed three dollars for it.” “Three dollars a bushel!” he exclaimed. “Yes, it must be that—it must be.” The whole truth was now before him. He understood the length and breadth of the matter. His wife was the dupe of a keen and practiced pedler; but she was less a dupe than himself. Slowly putting his hand into his pocket, he took thence a paper, which he handed to his wife, and bid her open it. She did so; and in it was a spoonful of what was once _flaxseed_. Judge her surprise! “Husband!” said she, “what does this mean?” “Mean?” said he, “why it means that I am more of a fool than yourself. You sold a bushel of flaxseed for three dollars, and I paid one dollar for a spoonful of it. That is what it means.” “How so?” asked Mrs. M. The story was soon told. He was one of the seventy-five who had that day purchased the flaxseed. He had left the ground before the selling was through, and hence was ignorant as to the fate of the calf. But now the whole was unraveled. And while husband and wife both experienced some mortification of feeling, the joke was too good to allow any protracted disturbance of their composure. Mrs. M. procured another cup, as her husband declared that the matter of the clock shouldn’t deprive him of his usual allowance of tea, especially after a day of such fatigue.