“Because I remember the time when Yelf was as smart, iron-sided, and industrious a man as ever trod the Lord’s earth. It took a withy man to lay him on his back, or lift his load, I tell you. He had a farm of two hundred acres of the best of new land; his wife milked seven cows, made butter and cheese, and spun and wove all their cloth; they had enough of everything, and everybody was as welcome to it as they were themselves. He was as well thought of as any man in town, and bid fair to be a rich man. But he carried all that stock and land to the store (except one acre and a half) in a two-quart jug, and died drunk among the hogs. Now, that poor woman, who has counted her cheese by scores, and her butter by tubs, has not a drop of milk except what the neighbors give her, nor a stick of wood but what she picks up.”