The Manchester journal. [volume] (Manchester, Vt.) 1861-current, 1874-06-18
A SLAok ursnsND PUNISHED.

SLACK HrsHANp PUNISHED.
( Mr., aonetou, said my grandmother
( have no wood to burn to-day. What
shall dor
Oh, seud Louisa 10 pick up some, said
the good man, making a stride toward
the door.
Z Bot size has picked up all She can hnd
Then bet her break up some old slua
But she bas broken up everything al.
ready.
Oh, well then, do the next best thing
II must be of, said the farmer, aud oil
he was, whistIing as he went, and 30
doubt wondering Ia his heart what the
next best thing would be.
Noon came and with Il came my grand
father and four hungry laborers, Nv
grandmother stood in the kitchen spin.
uiug on her great wheel aud singing a
pleasant dity; LOUSY was securing Ia
the back room, aud the eat Eat purriug
on the hearth before black and tireIess
chimney, while the table sat in the mid
die OF the room spread for dinner with
empty dishes
We'd, wife here we are, said my grand
father, oheeriugy
So ! sec, replied she, placidly; have
you had good morning out in the corn.
dcld2
Why, yes, Sc. But where is the din
nery
In the pot on the door step. Won't
you see il il is done?
Aud on the door step, TO be sure, sat
the great iron pot, nicely covered, but
not looking particularly steamy. My
grandfather raised the cover and there
lay the ingredients OF Il nice boiled din
ner-eyerything prepared in the incest
manner and the pot filled with the clear
est of water, aud all the vegetables as
raw as they had ever been. My grand
father stared aud my mother joined an
other roll to the yarn on the distan, aud
began another verse OF her song.
Why, woman, what does this mean?
began my grandfather, Indignantly. This
dinner isn't cooked at all
Dear me, is it not? Why, II has sat in
the sun these fonr hours.
Sat IN the sun?
Yes, you told me to try the next best
thing TO have fire, and | thought set
ting my dinner in the sun was about
that.
My grandfather stood doubtful for
moment, but finally his sense of humor
oyercame his sense of injury, and no
laughed aloud. Then picking up his hat
he said:
Come, boys, we may as well start for
the woods. We shall have no dinner til
we have earned il, perceive.
WORT you have some bread and cheese
before you 90? asked my grandmother,
generous in her victory, as women al
most always are. And so she won the
day.
The cellar stairs in the old farmhouse
had become broken and so unsafe that
my grandmother beseiged her husband,
early and late, to repair them, lest some
accident should happen. He always prom
ised to do so, and always forgot to fulfill
his promises. At last one day, my grand.
mother tell in going down, aud spilled
the milk she was carrying.
Are you hurt2 ask my grandfather,
smoking his pipe beside the fire.
No matter whether am or notl re.
turned the angry housewife, reappearing
with her empty pan. That is the last
time | carry milk down those stairs until
they are mended.
Please yourself and find the next best
way to get it down, said the husband, a
little vexed at her tone.
lwill, said my grandmother, and she
was as good as her word. The next
evening my grandfather went down to
the cellar to draw cider.
What in thunder! exclaimed he--uoth.
ing worse, assure you, for he was not
proiane man-what in thunder is the
matter down here? Why, woman, your
milk is all over the cellar bOttoml
Is III replied my grandmother tran.
gully, Well, think it is likely enough,
falling 50 far.
Falling so far? What do you meanY
Why, you know | said that shouldn't
carry milk over those broken stairs again
and you told me to try the next best way
of getting il down, so took up board
ia the kitchen floor, threw down The
pans aud then strained the milk down
into them.
The cellar stairs were mended the next
day.