Abijah Jones lives not far from Salem, Mass. He is a horny-handed agriculturist, and hard cider is the only stimulating beverage with which he is at all familiar. He was recently visited by a young and somewhat dissolute city relative and, in company with the latter, stopped the other evening at a well-known hostelry on the Salem turnpike. The evening was cool, and the city relative lost no time in conducting Abijah to the bar-room.

“ What will you have?” he asked.

“ Wal,” replied Abijah slowly, “ I don’t know much about such things; I guess I’ll hev whatever you do.”

“ I’ll have a whiskey punch,” said the city relative, and two glasses of the insidious mixture were soon placed before them. Abijah swallowed his at a single draught, and a look of satisfaction stole over his weatherbeaten face.

“ What do you call them things?” he said, leaning over the bar and addressing the bar-keeper.

“Whiskey punches,” replied the bar-keeper.

“All right,” said Abijah, nodding and smacking his lips, “keep a maken’ ’em,” and the bar-keeper did as as he was bid until—well, Abijah had a new experience.

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