"There's just hundreds of 'em in here on yer shelves; they ain't no good to you." "Well, well," answered Old Grannis, timidly, rubbing his chin, "I--I'm sure I can't quite say; a little habit, you know; a diversion, a--a--it occupies one, you know.

I don't smoke; it takes the place of a pipe, perhaps." "Here's this old yellow pitcher," said Maria, coming out of the closet with it in her hand.

"The handle's cracked; you don't want it; better give me it." Old Grannis did want the pitcher; true, he never used it now, but he had kept it a long time, and somehow he held to it as old people hold to trivial, worthless things that they have had for many years.
"Oh, that pitcher--well, Maria, I--I don't know.

I'm afraid--you see, that pitcher----" "Ah, go 'long," interrupted Maria Macapa, "what's the good of it ?" "If you insist, Maria, but I would much rather--" he rubbed his chin, perplexed and annoyed, hating to refuse, and wishing that Maria were gone.
"Why, what's the good of it ?" persisted Maria.

He could give no sufficient answer.