“Why,” ses she, “Mr. Warrick, it’s a _nite-cap_, and what on the Lord’s yearth young peple now-a-days works, and laces, and befrils nite-caps fur, _I_ can’t tell—it beets me—bedizinin’ out their heads when they’re gwain to bed, just as if anybody but their own peple seed ’em; and there’s young men with wiskurs on there upper lip; it want so in my day, but young people’s got no sense—bless the Lord! oh me—” “Lord, mammy,” ses Barbry, “do hush.” Ses old Miss Bass, “I shaan’t—for it’s the nat’ral truth.” Miss Barbry then begun a talkin’ with me ’bout the fashuns, when I were in town, but old Miss Bass broke in, and ses she: “Yes, they tells me that the gals in town has injun-rubber things blowed up and ties aroun’ there wastes, and makes ’em look bigger behin’ than afore—for all the world like an ’oman was sorter in a curous way behind.” Thinks I, what’s comin’ next—when old Miss Bass, knockin’ the ashes outer her pipe, gethered up her shuse and went off. Then Barbry blushed and begun talkin’ ’bout the singin’ meetin’, and kinder teched me up ’bout bein’ fond of sparkin’ Dicey Loomis—jist to see how I’d take it. “Well,” ses I, “she’s ’bout the likeliest gal in this settlement, and I rekon mity nigh the smartest; they tells me she kin spin more cuts in a day, and card her own rolls, and danse harder and longer, and sings more songs outer the Missunary Harmony, than any gal in the country.” You see, Mr. Porter, I tho’t I’d size her pile. Ses she, sorter poutin’ up and jist tossin’ her head, “If them’s your sentiments why don’t you cort her? For my part, I knows sev’ral young ladies that’s jist as smart, and can sing as many songs, and dance as well, and as for her bein’ the prettiest, Laws a mersy! sher—you shouldn’t judge for me sposin’ _I_ was a man!” I thot I’d come agin, but was sorter feard of runnin’ the thing in the groun’. Then I drawd up my cheer a leetle closer, and were jist about to talk to the spot, when I felt choky, and the trimbles tuck me oncommon astonishin’. Ses Barbry, lookin’ rite up in my face, and ’sorter quiv’rin’ in her talk, ses she, “Mr. Warrick, goodness gracious! _what does_ ale you?” Ses I, hardly abel to talk, “It’s that drotted three-day agur I cotch’d last fall a clearin’ in the new grouns; I raly bleve it will kill me, but it makes no odds, daddy and mammy is both ded, and I’m the only one of six as is left, and nobody would kear.” Ses she, lookin’ rite mornful, and holdin’ down her bed, “Billy, what _does_ make you talk so? you auter know that there’s _one_ that would kear and greve too.”