The next Sunday morning, after his chores were done, he put on his best coat of faded diagonal, and was brushing his hair into a ridge across the center of his high, narrow head, when Mrs.
Ripley came in from feeding the calves.
"Where you goin' now ?" "None o' your business," he replied.

"It's darn funny if I can't stir without you wantin' to know all about it.

Where's Tewky ?" "Feedin' the chickens.

You ain't goin' to take him off this mornin' now! I don't care where you go." "Who's a-goin' to take him off?
I ain't said nothin' about takin' him off." "Wall, take y'rself off, an' if y' ain't here f'r dinner, I ain't goin' to get no supper." Ripley took a water-pail and put four bottles of "the bitter" into it, and trudged away up the road with it in a pleasant glow of hope.

All nature seemed to declare the day a time of rest, and invited men to disassociate ideas of toil from the rustling green wheat, shining grass, and tossing blooms.