Watson that ever left Ireland came in for a brief but
pungent notice.

John stood thoughtfully rubbing his chin, and when she
stopped, not from lack of words, but from lack of breath,
he slowly remarked:

"Mistress McGuire, yer a lady."

"Yer a liar!" she snapped back, with a still more eloquent
burst of invectives.

John lighted his pipe with great deliberation, and when
it was drawing nicely he took it from his mouth and said,
more to himself than to her:

"Stay where ye are, Pat McGuire. It may be hot where ye
are, but it would be hotter for ye if ye were here, and
ye'd jist have the throuble o' movin'. Stay where ye are,
Pat, wherever ye are." He walked away leaving Mrs. McGuire
with the uncomfortable feeling that he had some way got
the best of her.

The Watsons had planted their potatoes beside the fence,
and did not dream of evil. But one morning in the early
autumn, the earliest little Watson who went out to get
a basin of water out of the rain barrel, to wash the
"sleeps" out of his eyes, dropped the basin in his
astonishment, for the fence was gone--it was removed to
Mrs. McGuire's woodpile, and the lady herself was