So I thought of puttin' up a poster like that, for nobody whose place was a-goin' to be sold for taxes would be likely to want trees.

So I run in the house, and wrote it quick and put it up.

And sure enough, the man he come along soon, and when he looked at that paper, and tried the gate, an' looked over the fence an' saw the house all shut up an' not a livin' soul about,--for I had both the dogs in the house with me,--he shook his head an' walked off, as much as to say, 'If that man had fixed his place up proper with my trees, he wouldn't 'a' come to this!' An' then, as I found the poster worked so good, I thought it might keep other people from comin' a-botherin' around, and so I left it up; but I was a-goin' to be sure and take it down before you came." As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposed that Pomona should postpone the rest of her narrative until evening.

She said that there was nothing else to tell that was very particular; and I did not feel as if I could stand anything more just now, even if it was very particular.
When we were alone, I said to Euphemia: "If we ever have to go away from this place again--" "But we wont go away," she interrupted, looking up to me with as bright a face as she ever had, "at least not for a long, long, long time to come.

And I'm so glad you're to be a vestryman.".