And we disputed back and forth several times but didn't convince each other. You can see jest how it wuz, it wuz the example of our own companions that wuz influencin' us in our opinions. She havin' lived with a perfect sardeen and he-wretch, thought all men wuz like him, I nerved up by the thought of my noble-minded (though small) companion held my faith firm as a iron anchor that the world wuz full of good men, scattered here and there like good wheat among the tares, and I felt and knowed that the tearers wuz fur scurser than the wheat. But Jane Olive riz up and kinder let her train flop out over the floor, she'd held it up as she come in. I bid her a cordial good-by and told her to come and see me in Jonesville, but she acted kinder cold and hauty and I hain't much hopes that she will foller my advice. Josiah came in pretty soon, and when I told him about it he acted real huffy and agreed with Jane Olive, and resented the idee of a Home for Fallen Men. Blandina, who come while we wuz talkin' about it to borry a few needlefuls of white thread, she shed tears and said she wouldn't mortify men by namin' a home like that for thousands of worlds like this. And Josiah acted puggicky all the evenin'. But I knowed I wuz in the right on't. Truly the path of duty is a thorny one anon or oftener. We went into the Fair the next mornin' by what they call the Skinker Entrance, and we hadn't hardly got in when Josiah sez to me, pintin' to a small low house, "What do you spoze they show there, Samantha? It must be pretty poor if they can't afford shingles or a tar ruff." And sure enough the ruff wuz covered with straw. It wuz a low buildin' built of sunthin' that looked like stun. But come to find out it wuz the cottage of Robert Burns, and I hastened my steps, Josiah and Blandina follerin' on. For low as that buildin' is, lookin' like a ant hill almost by the side of the high red granite administration buildin', that little cabin holds memories that soar up higher than the peakedest, highest ruffs on the Fair ground. The Home of Robert Burns, the Poet of the People. How his inimitable poetry come troopin' through my mind as I walked through the low rooms, there is only four on 'em, kitchen, settin' room, store room and stables. I didn't approve of havin' the stables so nigh the livin' rooms, and should have advised Robert's wife to stood her ground and not had it. But I wuzn't there, and she gin in probable, and mebby she wanted it so, it wuz handy, you could open the door and milk into your coffee cup if so inclined. The bed is built in the kitchen wall; I spoze they couldn't afford anything better, and 'tennyrate that humble bed pillowed the form that will walk down the ages crowned with honor and lovin' memories, while many monarchs who at that time rested on carved rose-wood have sunk into oblivion.