Spriggins, as he finished
the last stanza and took a vigorous pull at his pipe as means of
reconciliation with his present circumstances.
"And, by-the-bye, I must go up to Ned Joneses to-night and talk him
into that business. It aint any sense for Ned and me to be a keepin'
up spite 'cause the old folks want ter. No sir, not this child,
anyhow."
Between eulogizing and soliloquizing Moses' morning wore into
evening and having hitched up the old mare he set off for the post
office--a spot doubly endeared to him since Melindy Jane Thrasher
went to service, since which time there regularly arrived every
Monday evening a suspicious letter addressed:--
MR. MOSES SPRIGGINS,
Mill Crossin',
Kings County, N. B. In haste.
Imagine the surprise of our friend on being presented with three
whole letters--nothing more, nothing less--and one was addressed
"Moses Spriggins, Esq."
"I wouldn't take that as a joke, nohow, Mose," said a lugubrious
looking individual, whose face looked as if it had been playing "I
spy" with a tallow candle and got the worst of the battle.
"Bet your life on it it's no joke; you're jest right Zeb, it's real
down airnest; the fellow that rit that ain't one of your jokin'
consarns.
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