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"We have spoken of the Tuckers, and as inmates, occasionally, of the poor-house. It is now time that something should be said more definitely about them, inasmuch as quite a link in the history of this tale of poverty and misery hangs on them.

In early life John Tucker married Polly Gooms, a wild, stout, ignorant girl, and who, whatever were the ways and fortunes of John, clave unto him and them to the end.

Accordingly, as he became a roving, careless, drinking vagabond, so did she. They occupied, as their own property, a small two-story house, grown crazy by neglect and hard usage, situated far from any main road in the town, quite at the extreme end of a grass-grown street and lane, the upper parts of which were fenced in, so that no teams went along there without taking down the bars. Notwithstanding its apparently lonesome position, it was in a romantic spot; in the summer, a most attractive and beautiful retreat. Behind the house there grew a large cluster of tall hickory and oak trees; and beyond this, there was a green and luxuriant pasture for the neighbors' cows, for on the parallel streets the farmers' dwellings were numerous. On the north grew a natural forest of large extent, and in the centre there was an extensive swamp, wild and overgrown, where luxuriant grapes, and native plums, and scrawny apples flourished, and in the openings cranberries, raspberries, blackberries, wild cherries, strawberries, whortleberries, etc. This forest was a great protection to the house in winter from the winds. It also invited the occupants to ramble there on business or pleasure at all seasons -- as for fallen (!) fire wood in the season of cold, or in the summer for nuts, and fruit, and berries, by the sale of which they might replenish their lessening stores of provision and whisky. In front of the house, between it and the lane, there was a little garden lot for potatoes, onions, beets, cucumbers, radishes, parsnips, corn, etc., but usually allotted to weeds; for whisky drinkers in general are poor gardeners -- pomology and horticulture have little interest to them. A low wall, much rolled down and crushed together by time and frequent clambering over, separated this lot from the grass-grown lane, and across this there spread away to the East an open, enchanting prospect over the valley, where the streams meandered, and little hillocks were covered with flocks, and wide meadows overgrown with rankest grass and sweet-flavored clover; where the corn grew tall and luxuriantly, and other grain waved to and fro in the gentle breezes that wandered there; and in the blue distance rose the beetling hills, and the waves of the sea washed their ragged base, and ships slumbered at their anchors.

Above all this, on the far-off hill-side or slope, was the old cottage of Tucker; and though it looked on the loveliest scenery and landscape in nature, it was a desolate, forsaken, smoky, blasted abode. No love, virtue, or peace; no order, thrift, or cleanliness was there. It was the habitation of foul and hateful spirits, the home of vagrancy and intemperance.

Beside this cottage, on the same height and street, a little removed to the South, there was a single other house in sight through the trees -- the cherry trees, the pear, the apple trees -- a small red cottage, occupied by an aged couple by the name of Warren. They were both infirm, and their children had all left them to engage in business ways more in accordance with their notions of life than the simple mode of their parents. Occasionally they made flying visits to the homestead, and so, in the time of fruits, came to see the old couple scores of their friends and acquaintances in town.

This aged pair, without the power to lend assistance, or to fly if danger threatened to come near them, not unfrequently heard the midnight orgies of the Tuckers. Oft the cry of "murder," and screams for help, came to them through the branches of the trees, and in the morning, they were glad to learn it, if nothing worse than bruises and swollen eyes resulted from the low debauch.

Polly had her seasons of partial sobriety; and then the neighboring farmers' wives, on washing, and scrubbing, and all-work days, would draw her into service. Occasionally John, also, would do a little work, but never any thing like a good day's service, at hoeing, mowing grass, or harvesting grain. John was nobody's right-hand-man for help. Indeed, they were both little better or other than home-made gipsies -- vagrants of the lowest type of humanity. For the little help they now and then rendered, they were paid in money, pork, eggs, grain, clothing, and the like. But they laid not by the money, neither ate the food, nor wore the garments. Every thing that could purchase whisky went for whisky, and they ate and wore something poorer.

And so what was duty in the case? If Mrs. Rodman, the pastor's wife, gave her twenty-five cents for half a day's work, it was sure to be spent for rum -- in the end it was as if Mrs. Rodman had sent and bought for her a jug of intoxicating liquor! Of course this was a great perversion of her wishes and intentions in hiring and paying her. Many needed her help, and were of course willing, as obliged to pay for it if rendered, so that this was a trial to the ladies. What should they do in the case? Many a one said, "I will not hire my work done by one whom I know will spend the money she receives for it to procure the means of a disgraceful and disgusting debauch; I will sooner let it remain undone -- or attempt it myself." But there were always some feeble women, and hard pressed farmers, who occasionally let go every other consideration if they could obtain their help.