of our bran new vessels built down in Maine, of best hackmatack, or what’s better still, of our real American live oak, (and that’s allowed to be about the best in the world) send her off to the West Indies, and let her lie there awhile, and the worms will riddle her bottom all full of holes like a tin cullender, or a board with a grist of duck shot thro it, you wouldn’t believe what a bore they be.  Well, that’s jist the case with the western climate.  The heat takes the solder out of the knees and elbows, weakens the joints and makes the frame ricketty.  Besides, we like the smell of the Salt Water, it seems kinder nateral to us New Englanders.  We can make more a plowin of the seas, than plowin of a prayer eye.  It would take a bottom near about as long as Connecticut river, to raise wheat enough to buy the cargo of a Nantucket whaler, or a Salem tea ship.  And then to leave one’s folks, and naTIVE place where one was raised, halter broke, and trained to go in gear, and exchange all the comforts of the old States, for them are new ones, dont seem to go down well at all.  Why the very sight of the Yankee galls is good for sore eyes, the dear little critters, they do look so scrumptious, I tell you, with their cheeks bloomin like a red rose budded on a white one and their eyes like Mrs. Adams’s diamonds, (that folks say shine as well in the dark as in the light,) neck like a swan, lips chock full of kisses—­lick! it fairly makes one’s mouth water to think on ’em.  But its no use talkin, they are just made critters that’s a fact, full of health and life and beauty,—­now, to change them are splendid white water lillies of Connecticut and Rhode Island, for the yaller crocusses of Illanoy, a what we don’t like.  It goes most confoundedly agin the grain, I tell you.  Poor critters, when they get away back there, they grow as thin as a sawed lath, their little peepers are as dull as a boiled codfish, their skin looks like yaller fever, and they seem all mouth like a crocodile.  And that’s not the worst of it neither, for when a woman begins to grow saller its all over with her; she’s up a tree then you may depend, there’s no mistake.  You can no more bring back her bloom than you can the color to a leaf the frost has touched in the fall.  It’s gone goose with her, that’s a fact.  And that’s not all, for the temper is plaguy apt to change with the cheek too.  When the freshness of youth is on the move, the sweetness of temper is amazin apt to start along with it.  A bilious cheek and a sour temper are like the Siamese twins, there’s a nateral cord of union atween them.  The one is a sign board, with the name of the firm written on it in big letters.  He that don’t know this, cant read, I guess.  It’s no use to cry over spilt milk, we all know, but its easier said than done that.  Women kind, and especially single folks, will take on dreadful at the fadin of their roses, and their frettin only seems to make the thorns look sharper.  Our minister used to say to sister Sall, (and when she was young