Just as they were entering the yard, a woman's shrill voice cried out: "My stairs, John, who on the top uv the yeth have you picked up this time? Wall, ef he ain't er sight fur ter see I wish I may never stir agin." "Keep on er battin'," John whispered. "Fur pity sake," the woman continued, "is he er red shanghai ur old Satan's whut not? John, I oughter bump yo' head ergin the wall fur pickin' up ever rag-tag an' bob-tail that comes erlong." "Madam," said Potter, making a profound bow, "I hope I do not intrude." "Lissen at him! My stairs, he's the biggest thing I ever seed lessen it wuz on wheels." "Hush, an' keep on er battin'," whispered John. "I never seed the like in my borned days," the woman went on. "The shotes got in the garden, an' momoxed up the cabbages, an' now the fetchtaked bucket had to git off down in the well. Pap, he's gone ter the blacksmith shop, an' old Alf is er-pokin' roun' summers, an' thar aint er body on the place ter do nothin'. Shew thar! The fetchtaked hens is boun' ter scratch up the red pepper, an' the red ca'f has run agin the corner uv the fence an' mighty nigh killed hisse'f. Laws er massy, it do 'pear like eve'thing is goin' ter rack and ruin." Potter, as he stood looking at her, thought that he had never before seen so strange a creature. She was angular, and, using a country expression descriptive of extreme leanness, was rawboned. Her iron-gray hair stood out in frowsy fierceness, and her fading black eyes seemed never to have been lighted with a glow of gentleness. She had a snarling habit of wrinkling her long, sharp nose, and at times all her ill-nature would apparently find settlement on a hair-covered mole that grew on her chin. "Madam," said Potter, "I don't think that I can repair all the damage that has been done, but if you will show me the well I will make an effort to get the bucket." "Yander," she replied, pointing. He went to the well, climbed down the rough stones of the wall by placing his feet on each side, and soon came up with the bucket. "Wall, ef he ain't got it, hope I may never stir agin," the woman exclaimed. "Yander is pap." A man well advanced in years dismounted from a swayback horse at the gate, threw a plow point on the ground and came forward. So far from being ill-looking, there was something comical about him. "Uncle Jeff," said the boy, "this here man's name is Potter. I met him over at the fiel' an' axed him ter come ter dinner with me, an' he 'lowed he wuz as hungry as a b'ar." "How air you, sir? Glad to make yo' 'quaintance. We ain't got no great show uv suthin' ter eat, but I reckin we kin sorter dam up yo' appetite er leetle." "Pap," said the woman, "erbody ter hear you talk would think that we never did have nuthin' ter eat. I spize ter see er man ack like he didn't have no raisin'." "Yas," the old fellow replied, "but I'd ruther see that than ter see er woman with the tanterums."