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J. Well, dad, I haint never been at all, and I’m goin’,—that’s all.

Mrs. P. You aint nothin’ but a boy, Jonathan.

J. Aint I, though? I’m twenty-one year old, and taller’n father, and I weighed myself down to the store, yesterday, and weighed a hundred and eighty. I should think I was old enough and big enough to be trusted away from home.

Mrs. P. The city is a wicked place, Jonathan. Who knows but you’d get to drinkin’ and swearin’?

J. There aint no danger of that, marm. I tasted some whiskey, the other day, down to Hiram Johnson’s, and it most turned my stummik. I shan’t drink anything stronger’n cider.

Dea. P. That’s right, my son. Cider’s good, for we know what it’s made of. Apples are healthy, and when a body’s tired, a mug of cider goes to the right spot.

Mrs. P. (doubtfully). Yes, father, but you know Sam Wilson got drunk on cider one town meetin’ day, and smashed forty panes of glass in the meetin’-house.

Dea. P. Wal, wal, he drank more’n was good for him. But, Jonathan, to come back to your plans, have you thought what you shall do when you get to the city?