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J. To make my fortin.

Dea. P. ’Taint so easy as you think for, Jonathan. You’d a plaguy sight better stay round here and help me.

J. I can’t do nothin’ here, dad. I have to work till I get all tuckered out, just to make a livin’ and can’t never wear anything better than overalls. Now, if I was in the city, I could wear store clothes all the time, like that are fellow that boarded up to the tavern last summer.

Mrs. P. I’m afraid, Jonathan, you’re gettin’ proud. You aint no call to be ashamed of wearin’ overalls. They’re what me and your father always wear.

Dea. P. (slily). Yes, mother, you do wear the breeches sometimes.

Mrs. P. (in a deprecating tone). Now, father, you’d orter be ashamed. You know I didn’t mean that. (To Jonathan.) I mean, Jonathan, your father and me aint ashamed of wearin’ workin’ clothes. I’m afraid you’re gettin’ proud, and pride’s a deadly sin.

J. Can’t help it, marm. When that feller passed me in the field last summer, he turned up his nose at me, and I aint goin’ to stand it. I’m as good as he is, any day.