Though he was no beauty, he looked thoroughly respectable, in garments whose primal colors had disappeared, and blue woolen stockings gartered to a miracle of tightness.
"Temperance," he said, "my quinces have done fust rate this year.

I haint pulled 'em yet; but I've counted them over and over agin.

But my pig wont weigh nothin' like what I calkerlated on.

Sarved me right.

I needn't have bought him out of a drove; if Charity had been alive, I shouldn't ha' done it.