I wer wonderin my levil bes', keepin a skin'd eye an' a open year
fur trubbil ur a skeer, whan I hearn a tarin big fuss on tuther
side, squawkin, cussin, hollerin, an' a gineral soun ove things
a-smashin, an' seed people a-mixin tharsefs pow'ful, sorter like
bees a-fixin tu swarm. Thinks I, Look out Sut, hit am cumin; hits
mos' time; yu haint hed a skeer fur ni ontu three days--when yere
cum roun the corner ove the market house, jis' a-tarin, a thuteen
hunder' poun' black an' white bull, wif his tail es strait up in
the air es a telegraf pole, an' a chesnut fence rail tied across
his ho'ns wif hickory withs.
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