for 365 days, and jist 35 days more, if we had ’em.  We han’t got a minit to spare; you must shell the corn and winner the grain at night, and clean all up slick, or I guess we’ll fall astarn as sure as the Lord made Moses.  If he didn’t keep us all at it, a drivin away full chisel, the whole blessed time, its a pity.  There was no “blowin time” there, you may depend.  We plowed all the fall for dear life; in winter we thrashed, made and mended tools, went to market and mill, and got out our firewood and rails.  As soon as frost was gone, came sowin and plantin, weedin and hoein—­then harvest and spreadin compost—­then gatherin manure, fencin and ditchin—­and then turn tu and fall plowin agin.  It all went round like a wheel without stoppin, and so fast, I guess you couldn’t see the spokes, just one long everlastin stroke from July to etarnity, without time to look back on the tracks.  Instead of racin over the country like a young doctor, to show how busy a man is that has nothin to do, as Blue Nose does, and then take a “blowin time,” we kept a rale travellin gate, an eight-mile-an-hour pace, the whole year round.  They buy more nor they sell, and eat more than they raise, in this country.  What a pretty way that is, is’nt it?  If the critters knew how to cypher, they would soon find out that a sum stated that way always eends in a naught.  I never knew it to fail, and I defy any soul to cypher it so, as to make it come out any other way, either by Schoolmaster’s Assistant or Algebra.  When I was a boy, the Slickville bank broke, and an awful disorderment it made, that’s a fact; nothin else was talked of.  Well, I studied it over a long time, but I could’nt make it out:  so says I, Father, how came that are bank to break?  Warn’t it well built?  I thought that are Quincy granite was so amazin strong all natur would’nt break it.  Why you foolish critter, says he, it tante the buildin that’s broke, its the consarn that’s smashed.  Well, says I, I know folks are plaguilly consarned about it, but what do you call “folks smashin their consarns?” Father he larfed out like any thing; I thought he never would stop—­and sister Sall got right up and walked out of the room, as mad as a hatter.  Says she, Sam, I do believe you are a born fool, I vow.  When father had done larfin, says he, I’ll tell you, Sam, how it was.  They cyphered it so that they brought out nothin for a remainder.  Possible! says I; I thought there was no eend to their puss.  I thought it was like Uncle Peleg’s musquash hole, and that no soul could ever find the bottom of.  My!! says I. Yes, says he, that are bank spent and lost more money than it made, and when folks do that, they must smash at last, if their puss be as long as the national one of Uncle Sam.  This Province is like that are Bank of ourn, it’s goin the same road, and they’ll find the little eend of the horn afore they think they are halfway down to it.