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“Toby was rather feeble and rheumatic, and it was about all he could do to knit stockings for his grandchildren, and make soup for their dinner. Almost all day, except when he was stirring the soup, which he made in a great kettle set into a brick oven, he was sitting on a little stool in his doorway, knitting, and the loon sat on a perch at his right hand. The loon who was a very large bird, was crazy, and thought he was a bobolink. Link, link, bobolink!‘ he sang all day long, instead of crying in the way a loon usually does. His voice was not anywhere near the right pitch for a bobolink’s song, but that made no difference. Link, link, bobolink! he kept on singing from morning till night.

“Toby did not mind knitting, but he did not like to make the soup. It had never seemed to him to be a man’s work, and besides, it hurt his old, rheumatic back to bend over the soup-kettle. That was what put it into his head to get married again. He thought if he could find a pleasant, tidy woman, who would stir the soup while he sat in the door beside the loon, and knit the stockings, he could live much more comfortably than he did.

“Now Toby thought he knew of just the one he wanted. She was a widow who lived a few squares from him. She was as sweet-tempered as a dove, and nobody could find a speck of dirt in her house if he was to search all day with a lantern.

“Toby thought about it for a long time. He did not wish to take any rash step, but his back got lamer and stiffer, and when one day the soup burned on to the kettle, and he dropped some stitches in his stocking running to lift it off, he made up his mind.

“The very next morning after his six grandchildren had gone to school, he put on his coat with phosphorescent buttons, lit his lantern, and started out. Link, link, bobolink! cried the crazy loon as he went out the door.

“‘Yes; I am going to bring home a pleasant and neat mistress for you, and maybe you will recover your reason,’ said Toby.

“Link, link, bobolink! cried the crazy loon.

“Toby limped away through the darkness. The wind was blowing hard that morning, and as he turned the corner, puff! came a gust and blew out his lantern.

“He felt in every pocket, but he had not a match in one of them. He hesitated whether to go back for one or not. Finally, he thought he knew the way pretty well and would risk it. His back was worse than ever that morning, and he did not want to take any unnecessary steps. So he fumbled along until he came to the street where the widow’s home was; there were five more just like hers, and they stood in a row together.

“Much to Toby’s dismay, there was not a light in either.

“‘Well,’ he reflected, ‘she is prudent, and is saving her oil, I dare say, and I can inquire.’

“So he felt his way along to the first house in the row–he could just see them looming up in the darkness. He poked his head inside the door. ‘Mrs. Clover-leaf!’ cried he, ‘are you in there? My lantern has gone out, and I cannot tell which is your house.’

“There came a little grunt in reply.

“‘Mrs. Clover-leaf!’ cried Toby again.

“‘I am here; what do you want?’ answered a voice in the darkness.

“It was so sharp that Toby felt for a moment as if his ears were being sawed off, and he clapped his hands on them involuntarily. ‘Bless me! I had forgotten that Mrs. Clover-leaf had such a voice,’ thought he.

“‘What do you want?’ said the voice again.

“It did not sound quite so sharp this time. He had become a little used to it, and, after all, a sharp voice would not prevent her being neat and pleasant and stirring the soup carefully.