Our host further felicitated us that we had not stopped at a certain tavern below, where, as he said, —
“They cut a chunk er beef and drop ’t into a pot to bile, and bile her three days, and then don’t have noth’n’ else for three weeks.”
He put his head out of the door and called, —
“George, go aoot and split up that ’ere wood as fine as chaowder: these men’ll want their supper right off.”
Drawing in his head, he continued to us confidentially, —
“That ’ere George is jes’ like a bird: he goes off at one snappin’.”
Our host then rolled out toward the bar-room, to discuss with his cronies who we might be. From the window we perceived the birdlike George fly and alight near the specified wood, which he proceeded to bechowder. He brought in the result of his handiwork, as smiling as a basket of chips. Neat-handed Phillis at the door received the chowder, and by its aid excited a sound and a smell, both prophetic of supper. And we, willing to repose after a sixteen-mile afternoon-walk, lounged upon sofa or tilted in rocking-chair, taking the available mental food, namely, “Godey’s Lady’s Book” and the Almanac.
