When I lectured in Cooperstown, they told me about
an English joker who dined with Fennimore Cooper
before he died in 1851. Cooper was then the most
conspicuous man in the little town which nestles at the
feet of a high mountain and resposes on the shores of
Seneca Lake. One day, while Mr. Cooper was dining
the Englishman, he poured out some native wine—wine
from grapes raised in his own garden. Taking up a
glass and looking through it with pride, Cooper remarked:

“Now, Mr. Stebbins, I call this good, honest wine.”

“Yes, Mr. Cooper, I agree with you; it is honest
wine—`poor but honest.”'

Mr. Cooper went on telling his Injun stories.