Says I, in a cautious tone, “He is Josiah Allen’s child, by his first wife, and the own brother of Tirzah Ann.” I then laid my hand on a piece of choklate ground calico, and says I, “This suits me pretty well, but I have my doubts,” says I, examinin’ it closer through my specs, “I mistrust it will fade some. What is _your_ opinion?” says I, speakin’ to a elegantly dressed woman by my side, who stood there with her rich silk dress a trailin’ down on the floor. “Do you suppose this calico will wash mom?” I was so busy a rubbin’ the calico to see if it was firm cloth, that I never looked up in her face at all. But when I asked her for the third time, and she didn’t speak, I looked up in her face, and I haint come so near faintin’ sence I was united to Josiah Allen. _That woman’s head was off!_ The clerk see that I was overcome by somethin’, and says he, “what is the matter?” I couldn’t speak, but I pinted with my forefinger stiddy at that murdered woman. I guess I had pinted at her pretty nigh half a minute, when I found breath and says I, slowly turnin’ that extended finger at him, in so burnin’ indignant a way, that if it had been a spear, he would have hung dead on it. “That is pretty doin’s in a Christian country!” His face turned red as blood agin--and looked all swelled up, he was so mortified. And he murmured somethin’ about her “bein’ dumb,” or a “dummy” or somethin’--but I interrupted him--and says I, “I guess you would be dumb yourself if your head was cut off.” Says I, in awful sarcastic tones, “It would be pretty apt to make any body dumb.” Then he explaned it to me. That it was a wooden figger, to hang thier dresses and mantillys on. And I cooled down and told him I would take a yard and 3 quarters of the calico, enough for a honorable apron. Says he, “We don’t sell by retail in this room.” I give that clerk then a piece of my mind. I asked him how many aprons he supposed Tirzah Ann and I stood in need of? I asked him if he supposed we was entirely destitute of aprons? And I asked him in a awful sarcastic tone if he had a idee that Josiah and Thomas Jefferson wore aprons? Says I, “any body would think you did.” Says I, turnin’ away awful dignified, “when I come agin I will come when Alexander is in the store himself.” I joined Betsey by the door, and says I, “Less go on to once.” “But,” says she, to me in a low mysterious voice; “Josiah Allen’s wife, do you suppose they would want to let me have a straw colored silk dress, and take thier pay in poetry?” Says I, “for the land’s sake Betsey, don’t try to sell any poetry here. I am wore out. If they won’t take any sacks and mittens, or good butter and eggs, I know they won’t take poetry.” She argued a spell with me, but I stood firm, for I wouldn’t let her demean herself for nothin’. And finally I got her to go on. A HARROWIN’ OPERATION.