"No—but hurry back with my hat. I'm goin' out with Kelsy while he fishes, and read about a Jew who wanted a pound of flesh."
The expression on Ole Bar's small eye was one of concentrated disgust.
"Men's not what they used to be," he observed, chewing violently.
"I reckon not," Abe Lincoln observed.
"These times they wear whiskers on their upper lip, and breeches buttoned up the fore, but I don't see as it's give them any more wits."
Abe Lincoln did not answer this, but asked a question.
"Who sings about these diggin's? It's some woman who has a way of her own."
"All wimmin sings; wimmin birds sings, and wimmin bull frogs sings, and human wimmin sings. But whether they be scaled or feathered or diked out in calico and combs, their singin' is to git the men of their kind. Take the advice of Ole Bar, my long-legged son, Abry Linkhorn, and let all wimmin kind alone. Furthermore, don't try to start no love-makin' with Ann Rutledge and blame it onto rabbits. I've heard said Ann Rutledge can outsing a bird. If she can, it's for John McNeil. John McNeil, he's worth ten thousand dollars—so they say. Hain't this worth singin' for?"
"The one I'm talking about wasn't singin' for any man's money."
"How do you know?"