“Pray Sir,” said one of my fellow passengers, “can you tell me why the
Nova Scotians are called ‘Blue-noses?’”
“It is the name of a potatoe,” said I, “which they produce in great
perfection, and boast to be the best in the world. The Americans have,
in consequence, given them the nick-name of “Blue-noses.’”
“And now,” said Mr. Slick,” as you have told the entire stranger, _who_
a Blue-nose is, I’ll jist up and tell him _what_ he is.
“One day, Stranger, I was a joggin’ along into Windsor on Old Clay, on
a sort of butter and eggs’ gait (for a fast walk on a journey tires a
horse considerable), and who should I see a settin’ straddle legs “on
the fence, but Squire Gabriel Soogit, with his coat off, a holdin’ of
a hoe in one hand, and his hat in t’other, and a blowin’ like a porpus
proper tired.
“‘Why, Squire Gabe,’ sais I, ‘what is the matter of you? you look as if
you couldn’t help yourself; who is dead and what is to pay now, eh?’
“‘Fairly beat out,’ said he, ‘I am shockin’ tired. I’ve been hard at
work all the mornin’; a body has to stir about considerable smart in
this country, to make a livin’, I tell you.’
“I looked over the fence, and I seed he had hoed jist ten hills of
potatoes, and that’s all. Fact I assure you.
“Sais he, ‘Mr. Slick, tell you what, _of all the work I ever did in my
life I like hoein’ potatoes the best, and I’d rather die than do that,
it makes my back ache so_.”
“‘Good airth” and seas,’ sais I to myself, ‘what a parfect pictur of a
lazy man that is! How far is it to Windsor?’
“‘Three miles,’ sais he. I took out my pocket-book purtendin’ to write
down the distance, but I booked his sayin’ in my way-bill.
“Yes, _that_ is a _Blue-nose_; is it any wonder, Stranger, he _is small
potatoes and few in a hill_?”