Joss rolled his eyes. “Girl chores. That’s no work at all. Washing a few dishes, scattering a little chicken feed, milking one cow, gathering a few eggs and whatnot.”
“Do not forget weeding the garden every week, and washing all our clothes in the tub once a month, then pressing them with the sadiron. That is very, very hard and hot work, my boy!” I protested. But it occurred to me that perhaps Joss did have a point. His work was usually much more physically laborious than mine, from plowing fields behind Humpty and Dumpty in the springtime to swinging a scythe in the autumn. He had also been driving our wagon to market in Concord since he was thirteen, younger than I was now.
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