“The Emerys was always a humorous family,” remarked Diadema, as she annihilated a fly with a newspaper. “Old Silas Emery was an awful humorous man. He used to live up on the island; and there come a freshet one year, and he said he got his sofy 'n' chairs off, anyhow!” That was just his jokin'. He hadn't a sign of a sofy in the house; 't was his wife Sophy he meant, she that was Sophy Swett. Then another time, when I was a little mite of a thin runnin' in 'n' out o' his yard, he caught holt o' me, and says he, 'You'd better take care, sissy; when I kill you and two more, thet'll be three children I've killed!' Land! you couldn't drag me inside that yard for years afterwards. ... There! she's got a fire in the cook-stove; there's a stream o' smoke comin' out o' the kitchen chimbley. I'm willin' to bet my new rug she's goin' to be married tonight!' “Mebbe she's makin' jell',” suggested Hannah Sophia. “Jell'!” ejaculated Mrs. Jot scornfully. “Do you s'pose Eunice Emery would build up a fire in the middle o' the afternoon 'n' go to makin' a jell', this hot day? Besides, there ain't a currant gone into her house this week, as I happen to know.” “It's a dretful thick year for fol'age,” mumbled grandpa Bascom, appearing in the door with his vacant smile. “I declare some o' the maples looks like balls in the air.” “That's the twentieth time he's hed that over since mornin',” said Diadema. “Here, father, take your hat off 'n' set in the kitchen door 'n' shell me this mess o' peas. Now think smart, 'n' put the pods in the basket 'n' the peas in the pan; don't you mix 'em.” The old man hung his hat on the back of the chair, took the pan in his trembling hands, and began aimlessly to open the pods, while he chuckled at the hens that gathered round the doorstep when they heard the peas rattling in the pan. “Reuben needs a wife bad enough, if that's all,” remarked the Widow Buzzell, as one who had given the matter some consideration. “I should think he did,” rejoined old Mrs. Bascom. “Those children 'bout git their livin' off the road in summer, from the time the dand'lion greens is ready for diggin' till the blackb'ries 'n' choke-cherries is gone. Diademy calls 'em in 'n' gives 'em a cooky every time they go past, 'n' they eat as if they was famished. Rube Hobson never was any kind of a pervider, 'n' he's consid'able snug besides.”