those are your cows there, I believe." "Yes, sirnice ones, ain't they?" "Yes," I replied, "they are nice ones. Do you see that tree there?”—and I pointed to a thrifty peach, with about as many leaves as an exploded sky-rocket. "Yes, sir." "Well, Bates, that red-and-white cow of yours, yonder, ate the top off that tree: I saw her do it." Then I thought I had made Bates ashamed of himself, and had wounded his feelings, perhaps too much. I was afraid he would offer me money for the tree, which I made up my mind to decline, at once. "Sparrowgrass," said he, "it don't hurt a tree a single mossel to chaw it, ef it's a young tree. For my part, I'd rather have my young trees chawed than not. I think it makes 'em grow a leetle better. I can't do it with mine, but you can, because you can wait to have good trees, and the only way to have good trees is to have 'em chawed."

I think Mrs. Sparrowgrass is much improved by living in the country. The air has done her good. The roses again bloom in her cheeks, as well as freckles, big as butter-cups. When I come home in the evening from town, and see her with a dress of white dimity, set off by a dark silk apron, with

tasteful pockets, and a little fly-away cap, on the back of her head, she does look bewitching. "My dear," said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, one evening, at tea, "what am I?"

The question took me at an unguarded moment, and I almost answered, "A beauty;" but we had company, so I said, with a blush, "A female, I believe."

"Nonsense," she replied, with a toss of the "know-nothing" cap; "nonsense; I mean this:when I was in Philadelphia, I was a Philadel phian; when in New York, a New-Yorker; now we live in Yonkers, and what am I?"

6

"That," said I, "is a question more easily asked than answered. Now, Yonker,' in its primary significance, means the eldest son, the heir of the estate, and 'Yonker's' is used in the possessive sense, meaning 'the Yonker's,' or the heir's estate. If, for instance, you were the owner of the town, you might, with propriety, be called the Yonkeress."

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she would as soon be called a tigress!

"Take," said I, "the names of the places on the Hudson, and your sex makes no difference in

regard to the designation you would derive from a locality. If, for instance, you lived at Spuyten Devil, you would be called a Spuyten-Deviller!"

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said nothing would tempt her to live at Spuyten Devil.

"Then," I continued, "there is Tillietudlem— you'd be a Tillietudlemer."

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said, that, in her present frame of mind, she didn't think she would submit to it.

"At Sing Sing, you would be a Sing-Singer; at Sleepy Hollow, a Sleepy Hollower."

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said this was worse than any of the others.

"At Nyack, a Nyackian; at Dobb's Ferry, a Dobb's Ferryer."

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said that any person who would call her a "Dobb's Ferryer," was destitute of a proper sense of respect.

"You might be a Weehawkite, a Carmansvillan, a Tubby Hooker."

Mrs. Sparrowgrass, quite warm and indignant, denied it.

"A Tarrytownian-a Riverdalean.”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she thought a village on

the tip-top of a hill could not be called River-dale with any show of reason.

"A Simpson's Pointer-a Fordhammer."

"A what?"

“A Fordhammer.”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she thought, at first, I was getting profane. "But," she added, "you do not answer my question. I live at Yonkers, and what am I?"

"That," said I, "Mrs. Sparrowgrass, is a question I cannot answer, but I will make it a public matter through these pages."

"What is the proper, local, or geographical appellation by which an inhabitant of Yonkers should be known?"

CHAPTER III.

The Clouds in the Country-A Thunder-Shower-Mr. Sparrowgrass buys a Bugle-Ineffectual Music-A Serenade and an Interruption-First Fruits-A Surprise, and the Entire Loss of our Cherry Crop.

says,

66

was writAt first, I was as

MRS. SPARROWGRASS says that summer sketches should not come out in the winter. She thinks what was written in June is not fit to be read in December, and a paper made in July is out of season in January. "The one you are putting in your overcoat pocket, now," she ten last August, and I know it." much confused as if I had been caught in some flagrant act of impropriety, but I rallied a little, for a lucky thought struck me. "Mrs. Sparrowgrass," said I, "I will put the August paper in print, now; but, at the same time, request them not to read it until warm weather." This admirable and original piece of finesse pleased my wife highly. "That will do," she said, "but do not forget to tell them not to read it until then." So