All his natural language said, as plainly as a horse _could_
say it, that he was a most unhappy beast. Even the trees on Reuben's
premises had a gnarled and knotted appearance. The bark wept little
sickly tears of gum, and the branches grew awry, as if they felt the
continual discord, and made sorry faces at each other behind their
owner's back. His fields were red with sorrel, or run over with mullein.
Every thing seemed as hard and arid as his own visage. Every day, he
cursed the town and the neighborhood, because they poisoned his dogs,
and stoned his hens, and shot his cats. Continual law-suits involved him
in so much expense, that he had neither time nor money to spend on the
improvement of his farm.
Against Joe Smith, a poor laborer in the neighborhood, he had brought
three suits in succession. Joe said he had returned a spade he borrowed,
and Reuben swore he had not. He sued Joe, and recovered damages, for
which he ordered the sheriff to seize his pig. Joe, in his wrath, called
him an old swindler, and a curse to the neighborhood. These remarks were
soon repeated to Reuben. He brought an action for slander, and recovered
twenty-five cents. Provoked at the laugh this occasioned, he watched for
Joe to pass by, and set his big dog upon him, screaming furiously, "Call
me an old swindler again, will you.
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