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Old Roger was seated at the dinner-table by the side
of Seraphima, the youngest of the five marriageable
daughters. The conversation turned upon conundrums
and queer comparisons. The old fellow leaned back in
his chair, and, wiping the traces of soup from his mouth,
said, as he took the young lady's hand in his own, “See
this fair hand, now, white as a snow-flake, and rich with
dimpled beauties!” — Seraphima smiled. — “Who is there
among you that can tell me why this sweet hand is like
the remains of that `hock-shin' soup before us all?”

The hand was drawn back suddenly, — that fair hand,
compared with a vile pile of beef sinews! The boarders
were astonished at his audaciousness, — Seraphima
frowned.

“You can't guess, can you?” said the jolly old fellow.
“Well,” continued he, “it is because there is such
tendonness in it.”

He pronounced it “tenderness,” and Seraphima smiled
again; but the boarders, who had found the meat rather
hard, did n't see the relevancy of it, — they did n't know
what tendon meant, no more 'n a cow knows about its
grandmother.