"Johnny Beedle, you'll never handle sich a drumstick as your father did, if yer live to the age of Methusaler. He would toss up his drumstick, and while it was whirlin' in the air, take off a gill er rum, and then ketch it as it come down, without losin' a stroke in the tune. What d'ye think of that, ha? But scull your chair round, close along side er me, so yer can hear.--Now, what have you come a'ter?"--"I--a'ter? O, jest takin' a walk. Pleasant walkin' I guess. I mean jest to see how ye all do." "Ho.--That's another lie. You've come a courtin', Johnny Beedle; you're a'ter our Sal. Say now, d'ye want to marry, or only to court?" This is what I call a choker. Poor Sally made but one jump and landed in the middle of the kitchen; and then she skulked in the dark corner, till the old man, after laughing himself into a whooping cough, was put to bed. Then came apples and cider; and, the ice being broke, plenty chat with mammy Jones about the minister and the 'sarmon.' I agreed with her to a nicety, upon all the points of doctrine; but I had forgot the text and all the heads of the discourse, but six. Then she teazed and tormented me to tell who I accounted the best singer in the gallery, that day. But, mum--there was no getting that out of me. "Praise to the face is often disgrace"--says I, throwing a sly squint at Sally. At last, Mrs. Jones lighted t'other candle; and after charging Sally to look well to the fire, she led the way to bed, and the Squire gathered up his shoes and stockings and followed. Sally and I were left sitting a good yard apart, honest measure. For fear of getting tongue-tied again, I set right in, with a steady stream of talk. I told her all the particulars about the weather that was past, and also made some pretty cute guesses at what it was like to be in future. At first, I gave a hitch up with my chair at every full stop. Then growing saucy, I repeated it at every comma, and semicolon; and at last, it was hitch, hitch, hitch, and I planted myself fast by the side of her. "I swow, Sally, you looked so plaguy handsome to day, that I wanted to eat you up."--"Pshaw, get along you," says she. My hand had crept along, somehow, upon its fingers, and begun to scrape acquaintance with hers. She sent it home again, with a desperate jerk. "Try it agin"--no better luck. "Why, Miss Jones you're gettin' upstropulous, a little old madish, I guess." "Hands off is fair play, Mr. Beedle."