his finger into every dish that offered. He did talk the matter over
with Deacon Pettybone, but got little enlightenment for his pains.

"Don't seem natteral," Scattergood said, "f'r young folks to git to
quarrelin' and bickerin' ontil life hain't endurable no longer. 'Tain't
natteral a-tall. Somethin' must be all-fired wrong somewheres."

"It's human nature to quarrel," said the deacon, gloomily. "Nothin'
onusual about it."

"Human nature," said Scattergood, "gits blamed f'r a heap of things that
ought to be laid at the door of human cussedness."

"Same thing," said the deacon. "If you're human you're cussed. Used to
be so in the Garden of Eden, and it'll keep on bein' so till Gabriel
blows his final trump."

"'Tain't no more natteral to bicker than 'tis to have dispepsy.
Quarrelin' and hectorin' hain't nothin' but a kind of dispepsy that
attacks families instid of stummicks. In both cases it means somethin'
is wrong."

"Can't cure a unhappy family with a dose of calomel," said the deacon,
acidly.

"Hain't so sure. Bet that identical remedy' u'd fix up three out of ten.
But somethin' else is wrong with them young Lewises. A dose of somethin'
'u'd cure 'em, if only a feller could figger out what 'twas."

"Might try soothin' syrup," said the deacon, with an ironic grin.