years with a fortune; but in two years husband died.

Silas. Ah! A misfortune.

Mother. And here I've been ever since, the mother of this camp; and my boys—white, black, and yellow—take good care that I have my share of the dust.

Silas (shrugs shoulders). I understand—with a broom.

Mother. La, parson! don't bear malice: do you suppose I'd have struck you, if I'd an idea of your cloth?

Silas. Thank you. My coat is rather thin.

Mother. Expect to locate here? The boys would be mighty glad to have you; and they'd see that you had a peaceful hearing, if they had to shoot the whole congregation.

Silas. Would they? Very kind of the boys, but I hope they'd leave somebody to pass the contribution-box.

Mother. Vermont would see to the dust.

Silas. Who's Vermont?

Mother. The best of the lot, steady as a clock, but a powerful wrestler; that's his weakness.

Silas. Is it? I've a strong weakness in that line too.

Mother. You'd have no show with him. Now, parson—

Silas. Oh, drop that! This person is no parson, but, if the old saying is true, just the opposite; for I am a deacon's son.

Mother. The deuce you are!

Silas. No: the Deuce's grandson.

Mother. What's your name?

Silas. Silas Steele, jun. I'm the little one, and dad's the big Steele. I'm travelling for Busted's Balm.

Mother. Where do you expect to find it?

Silas. 'Tis found already. And, to spread abroad the glorious fact, I've taken a large contract; and it's the biggest undertaking any undertaker ever undertook. I never realized before that there was such a strong objection to clean white paint; but I've found it out now, for I've been peppered by indignant shot-guns, pounded by angry broomsticks, booted by revengeful brogans, and bulldozed by man's faithful friends, the puppies.

Mother. Then, you're only a pill-pedler, after all.

Silas. A pill-pedler! great Busted!

Mother. You said you were a missionary.

Silas. So I am. What nobler mission than mine, to proclaim to a suffering world, sunk in misery by aches and torments, the advent of the wonderful cure-all that will eradicate the ills with which the body groans, from bald head to bunions? For further particulars see small bills. (Looks off R.) Ah! there's a bowlder I missed; must secure that before Foggarty's Liniment, or some other quack nostrum, defaces the fair face of nature with a lie. (Goes up run, turns.) Good-by, widow. Give the parson's benediction to the boys. (Exit.)

Mother. Well, of all harum-scarum chaps, he's the tongueyist; I couldn't get a word in edgeways.

Vermont. Little one come, widder?

Mother. No: supper's all ready for her.

Vermont. Stage's about due. Widder, I've a little matter on my mind I'd like to pan out afore the little one gets here.

Mother. About her?

Vermont (sits on rock R.). Yes, about her. It's ten years, widder, since your old man passed in his checks,