“Common taters!” said Mrs. Partington to herself, as
she waked out of a little nap in which she had been
thrown by a soporific preacher. “What has common
taters to do with the Gospel?” The preacher
had alluded to some commentators, the odd sound of
which tickled her ear and wakened her. “Common

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taters!” she continued; “well, all sorts of taters are bad
enough, and many of 'em are rotten clean through; and
if he is calling his hearers such names, heaven knows
where he 'll stop. Common taters, indeed! I 'll send
him a peck of uncommon ones to-morrow, and show him
that all of 'em an't alike.” She left the house with a
very indefinite idea of what he meant, but determined
to set him right on the potato question.