Vermont. We used to sit there day after day, while I told you stories.
Moselle. Yes, fairy stories.
Vermont (sits on rock, R.). I'll tell you one now.
Moselle (sits on the ground beside him, throws arm across his knee). A fairy story?
Vermont. I reckon. Once on a time there was a gospel shebang, and in it was a gospel sharp and a pan lifter.
Moselle. You mean a church, a parson, and a deacon?
Vermont. That's just what I mean.
Moselle. Then, please remember, you are talking to a young lady, and not to the boys.
Vermont. Jes' so. Well, the parson and the deacon didn't hitch horses,—couldn't work in the same hole,—were always flinging dirt all over each other, whenever they got to arguing. So one day they had it hot about wrastling Jacob and the angel. The deacon thought Jacob didn't have a fair show. He allowed that Jacob, at collar and elbow, would have thrown the angel every round; and the parson got mad, and told the deacon if he'd step behind the she—church, he'd show him the angel's trip. The deacon wa'n't to be stumped at wrastlin', so at it they went. Three rounds, and the deacon went to grass every time. Now, when a parson can throw a deacon, it shows a backslidin' that's not healthy. So the deacon thought, and quietly packed his kit, and started for green fields and pasters new, leaving behind a wife and kids. Well, he struck jest about such a place as this, and stuck to it twelve years. He didn't forget the folks at home. Both his heart and his dust went back to 'em, and sometimes he'd have given all his old boots for one look at 'em.
Moselle. Why didn't he go back?