An air of gloom pervaded the store. Outside the rain came pattering down. It ran in torrents off the porch roof and across the entrance made a formidable moat, which had been temporarily bridged by an empty soapbox. It gathered on the limbs of the leafless trees and poured in steady streams upon the backs of the three forlorn horses, that, shivering under water-logged blankets, stood patiently, with hanging heads, at the hitching rail. Within everything was dry, to be sure, but the firewood, which was damp and would not burn, so the big egg stove sent forth no cheerful rays of heat and light. Out from its heart came the sound of sizzle and splutter as some isolated flame attacked a piece of wet hickory. It seemed to have conveyed its ill-humor to the little group around it. The Tinsmith arose from the nail keg upon which he had been seated, walked disconsolately to the door and gazed through the begrimed glass at the dreary village street. He stood there a moment, and then lounged back to the stove. As he rubbed his hands on the pipe in vain effort to absorb a little heat, he grumbled, “This here rain’s upset all my calkerlations. I was goin’ to bile to-morrow, but you uns doesn’t catch me makin’ cider sech a day ez this. My weemen sayd they’d hev the schnitz done up to-day an’ we could start the kittles airly in the mornin’. Now all this time is loss.” “Seems like ye’re bilin’ kind o’ late,” said the Storekeeper, resting both elbows on the counter and clasping his chin in his hands. “Luther Jimson was tellin’ me the other day how all the folks up the walley hes made.” The storm had kept the Patriarch at home, so the Chronic Loafer had the old man’s chair. He leaned back on two legs of it; then twisted his long body to one side so his head rested comfortably against his favorite pile of calicoes. “Speakin’ o’ apple butter,” he said, “reminds me of a good un I hed on my Missus last week.” “It allser remin’s me,” interposed the Tinsmith, “that I met Abe Scissors up to preachin’ a Sunday, an’ he was wond’rin’ when you was goin’ to return his copper kittle.” “Abe Scissors needn’t git worrit ’bout his kittle. I’ve a good un on him ez well ez on the Missus. His copper kittle----” The Farmer, who had almost been hidden by the stove, at this juncture leaned forward in his chair and interrupted, “But Abe Scissors hain’t got no kittle. That there----” “Let him tell his good one,” cried the School Teacher. “He’s been tryin’ it every night this week. Let us get done with it.” The Farmer grunted discontentedly but threw himself back in silence. With marked attention, however, he followed the Loafer’s narration.