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“Dear me!” said Mrs. Partington; and so she is
dear, — not that she meant so, — because under that black
bonnet is humility, and self-praise forms no part of her
reflection. It was a simple ejaculation, that was all;
our word for it. “Dear me! here they are going to have
war again over the sea, and only for a Turkey, and it
don't say how much it weighed either, nor whether it
was tender; and Prince Knockemstiff has gone off in a
miff, and the Rushin bears and Austriches are all to be
let loose to devour the people, and Heaven knows where
the end of it will leave off. War is a dreadful thing —
so destroying to temper and good clo'es, and men shoot
at each other jest as if they was gutter purchase, and
cheap at that.”

How sorrowfully the cover of the snuff-box shut, as
she ceased speaking! and the spectacles looked dewy,
like a tumbler in summer-heat filled with ice-water, as
she looked at the profile of the corporal, with the sprig
of sweet fern above it, and the old sword behind the
door.

What did Ike mean as he stole in, and deposited some
red article under the cricket upon which her feet rested,
and then stole out again?

A hissing sound followed — crack! snap! bang!
whiz! went a bunch of crackers — and Mrs. Partington,
in consternation and cloth slippers, danced about the
room, forgetful of distant war in her present alarm.

Ah, Ike!

p677-091

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