shiners, but land, they wa'n't as big as the worms I was ketchin' 'em with, so
i pitched 'em back in the water an' quit."

During the progress of these remarks Mr. Wiley opened the door under the sink,
and from beneath a huge iron pot drew a round tray loaded with a glass pitcher
and half a dozen tumblers, which he placed carefully on the kitchen table.
"This is the last day's option I've got on this lemonade-set," he said, "an'
if I'm goin' to Biddeford tomorrer I've got to make up my mind here an' now."

With this observation he took off his shoes, climbed in his stocking feet to
the vantage ground of a kitchen chair, and lifted a stone china pitcher from a
corner of the highest cup-board shelf where it had been hidden. "This
lemonade's gittin' kind o' dusty," he complained. "I cal'lated to hev a kind
of a spree on it when I got through choosin' Rose's weddin' present, but I
guess the pig 'll hev to help me out." The old man filled one of the glasses
from the pitcher, pulled up the kitchen shades to the top, put both hands in
his pockets, and walked solemnly round the table, gazing at his offering from
every possible point of view. There had been three lemonade-sets in the window
of a Biddeford crockery store when Mr. Wiley chanced to pass by, and he had
brought home the blue and green one on approval. To th': casual cyc it would
have appeared as quite uniquely hideous until the red and yellow or the purple
and orange ones had been seen; after that, no human being could have made a
decision, where each was so unparalleled in its ugliness, and Old Kennebec's
confusion of mind would have been perfectly understood by the connoisseur.

"How do you like it with the lemonade in, mother?" he inquired eagerly. "The
thing that plagues me most is that the red an' yaller one I hed home last week
lights up better'n this, an' I believe I'll settle on that; for as I was
thinkin' last night in bed, lemonade is mostly an evenin' drink an' Rose won't
be usin' the set much by daylight. Root beer looks the han'somest in this