He never suffered any one but himself to garden here, not even so much as to mow the grass.

After he was dead the poor old grandmother locked it up.

She didn't like any one else to meddle with it." "Why, he was dead before I was born," exclaimed John, "and I am two-and-thirty.

Poor soul! and she never got over that misfortune, then, in all those years.

There's a grand pear-tree! lots of rotten fruit lying under it--and what a fine apple-tree! Is this of the celebrated 'redstreak' variety, I wonder, that Phillips praises so in his poem on cider." "A poem on cider!" "Yes, I tell you, a poem on cider, and as long as 'Paradise Lost.' It has some very fine passages in it, and has actually been translated into Italian.