cuff), and they, less verdant than
their mistress, would return with an amazing array of stuff. We now have
everything but a second-hand pulpit, a wooden leg, and a coffin plate.
We utilized a cradle and antique churn as a composite flower stand; an
immense spinning-wheel looks pretty covered with running vines, an old
carriage lantern gleams brightly on my piazza every evening. I nearly
bought a horse for fifteen dollars, and did secure a wagon for one
dollar and a half, which, after a few needed repairs, costing only
twenty-six dollars, was my pride, delight and comfort, and the envy of
the neighborhood. Men came from near and far to examine that wagon, felt
critically of every wheel, admired the shining coat of dark-green paint,
and would always wind up with: "I vum, if that 'ere wagon ain't fine!
Why, it's wuth fifty dollars, now, ef it's wuth a cent!" After a hard
day's work, it seemed a gratification to them to come with lanterns to
renew their critical survey, making a fine Rembrandtish study as they
stood around it and wondered. A sleigh was bought for three dollars
which, when painted by our home artist, is both comfortable and
effective.

At one auction, where I was the only woman present, I bid on three
shovels (needed to dig worms for my prize hens!) and, as the excitement
increased with a rise in bids from two cents to ten, I cried, "Eleven!"
And the gallant old fellow in command roared out as a man opened his
mouth for "Twelve!": "I wouldn't bid ag'in a woman ef I'se you. Let 'er
have 'em! Madam, Mum, or Miss--I can't pernounce your name and don't
rightly know how to spell it--but the shovels are yourn!"

Attending auctions may be an acquired taste, but it grows on one like
any other habit, and whenever a new and tempting announcement calls, I
rise to the occasion and hasten to the scene of action, be the weather
what it may. And many a treasure has been picked up in this way. Quaint
old mirrors with the queerest pictures above, brass knockers,
candlesticks of queer patterns, cups and saucers and plates, mugs of all
sizes, from one generous enough to satisfy the capacities of a
lager-soaked Dutchman to a dear little child's mug, evidently once
belonging to a series. Mine was for March. A mother sitting on a bench,
with a bowl of possibly Lenten soup by her side, is reproving a fat
little fellow for his gross appetite at this solemn season. He is
weeping, and on her other side a pet dog is pleading to be