This here petticut, 't ain't what ye'd call bran' new, but it's warm and comf'table, an' I don't believe she's got much of anythin' on 'ceptin' her dress, an' I'll git ye the whisky, but"-- here she looked deprecatingly at John--"it ain't gen'ally known 't we keep the stuff in the house.

I don't know as it's right, but though David don't hardly ever touch it he will have it in the house." "Oh," said John, laughing, "you may trust my discretion, and we'll swear Mrs.Cullom to secrecy." "Wa'al, all right," said Mrs.Bixbee, joining in the laugh as she brought the bottle; "jest a minute till I make a passel of the things to keep the snow out.

There, now, I guess you're fixed, an' you kin hurry back 'fore she ketches a chill." "Thanks very much," said John as he started away.

"I have something to say to you besides 'Merry Christmas,' but I must wait till another time." When John got back to the office David had just preceded him.
"Wa'al, wa'al," he was saying, "but you be in a putty consid'able state.
Hullo, John! what you got there?
Wa'al, you air the stuff! Slips, blanket-shawl, petticut, stockin's--wa'al, you an' Polly ben puttin' your heads together, I guess.

What's that?
Whisky! Wa'al, scat my -- --! I didn't s'pose wild hosses would have drawed it out o' Polly to let on the' was any in the house, much less to fetch it out.