"They've brought Bostin bags and a couple of wimmen, and are goin' to have a quiltin'-bee. P'raps they think that Kunnel Gid Ward don't know a fish-bone stitch from an over-and-over. P'raps they think Kunnel Ward ain't ladylike enough for 'em." Not only had the serenity departed from the face of Foreman Look, the furious anger of his notoriously short temper had taken its place.

My story opens in the classic presinks of Bostin. In the parler of a bloated aristocratic mansion on Bacon street sits a luvly young lady, whose hair is cuvered ore with the frosts of between 17 Summers. She has just sot down to the piany, and is warblin the popler ballad called "Smells of the Notion," in which she tells how, with pensiv thought, she wandered by a C beat shore.

And you landlubbers are a-goin' to leeward, some on ye." "You don't say! what be you a hintin' at?" "Well, there's a reel blow down to Bostin, Zekle; there's no more gettin' out o' harbour with our old sloop; she's ben an' gone, an' got some 'tarnal lawyer's job spliced to her bows, an' she's laid up to dry; but that's a pesky small part o' judgment.

He had bin to France and now he was home agin in Bostin, which gave birth to a Bunker Hill!! He had some trouble in gitting hisself acknowledged as Juke in France, as the Orleans Dienasty and Borebones were fernest him, but he finally conkered.

George Tucker never went to bed. "Hooraw!" roared Long Snapps, trundling in to dinner, the next day; "they're wakin' up down to Bostin! Good many on 'em's quit the town. Them 'are Britishers is a-gettin' up sech a breeze; an' they doo say the reg'lars is comin' out full sail, to cair' off all the amminition in these parts, fear o' mutiny 'mongst the milishy!"

"'Yes, Sam, says Lady Lothrop, says she; 'and Sam, says she, 'it is jest like something that happened once to my grandmother when she was livin' in the old Province House in Bostin. Says she, 'These 'ere things is the mysteries of Providence, and it's jest as well not to have 'em too much talked about. "'Jest so, says I, 'jest so.

"Where is he?" asked Sally in another whisper. "He's to the tavern there in Lexin'ton. There a'n't nobody along with him, cause his father's gone to Bostin to see 'bout not gettin' scomfishkated, or arter a protection, or sumthin." "And his mother is dead," said Sally, slowly. "Long! I must go to Lexington to-night, on the pillion, and you must go with me.

"I beggs to stait that ittle bee for yoor int'rest for to look arter that air gurl cald Eme as was left yoor doar sum dais bak, if yoo doant ittle bee wors for yer, yood giv yer eer an noas too to no wot i nos abowt that gurl, it's not bostin nor yet threttenin I am, no, I'm in Downrite arnist wen I sais as yool bee sorrie if yoo doant do it."

"It's a good idee to occasionally instruct the stummick that it mustn't depend excloosively on licker for its sustainance." "A blessin'," he cried; "a blessin' onto the hed of the man what invented beans. A blessin' onto his hed!" "Which his name is GILSON! He's a first family of Bostin," said I. . . . . This is a speciment of how things was goin' in my place of residence. . . . .