“Only to think!” said she, one afternoon, “Pomona has just done another VERY smart thing. You know what a trouble it has always been for us to carry all our waste water upstairs, and throw it over the bulwarks. Well, she has remedied all that. She has cut a nice little low window in the side of the kitchen, and has made a shutter of the piece she cut out, with leather hinges to it, and now she can just open this window, throw the water out, shut it again, and there it is! I tell you she's smart.”      

       “Yes; there is no doubt of that,” I said; “but I think that there is danger of her taking more interest in such extraordinary and novel duties than in the regular work of the house.”      

       “Now, don't discourage the girl, my dear,” she said, “for she is of the greatest use to me, and I don't want you to be throwing cold water about like some people.”      

       “Not even if I throw it out of Pomona's little door, I suppose.”      

       “No. Don't throw it at all. Encourage people. What would the world be if everybody chilled our aspirations and extraordinary efforts? Like Fulton's steamboat.”      

       “All right,” I said; “I'll not discourage her.”      

       It was now getting late in the season. It was quite too cool to sit out on deck in the evening, and our garden began to look desolate.     

       Our boarder had wheeled up a lot of fresh earth, and had prepared a large bed, in which he had planted turnips. They made an excellent fall crop, he assured us.     

       From being simply cool it began to be rainy, and the weather grew decidedly unpleasant. But our boarder bade us take courage. This was probably the “equinoctial,” and when it was over there would be a delightful Indian summer, and the turnips would grow nicely.     

       This sounded very well, but the wind blew up cold at night, and there was a great deal of unpleasant rain.     

       One night it blew what Pomona called a “whirlicane,” and we went to bed very early to keep warm. We heard our boarder on deck in the garden after we were in bed, and Euphemia said she could not imagine what he was about, unless he was anchoring his turnips to keep 

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