Mrs. T. Why, gramther Grayling—I thought everybody knew gramther Grayling—he’s a hundred and two years old next August, if he lives so long—and I dare say he will, for he’s got the dry wilt, and they say such folks never dies.
Inq. Now give the number of deaf and dumb persons.
Mrs. T. Why, there is no deaf persons, excepting husband, and he ain’t so deaf as he pretends to be. When anybody axes him to take a drink of rum, if it’s only in a whisper, he can hear quick enough. But if I tell him to fetch an armful of wood or feed the pigs or tend the griddle, he’s as deaf as a horse-block.
Inq. How many dumb persons?
Mrs. T. Dumb! Why, there’s no dumb body in the house, except the wooden-headed man, and he never speaks unless he’s spoken to. To be sure, my husband wishes I was dumb, but he can’t make it out.
Inq. Are there any manufactures carried on here?
Mrs. T. None to speak on, except turnip sausages and tow cloth.
Inq. Turnip-sausages!
Mrs. T. Yes, turnip-sausages. Is there anything so wonderful in that?
Inq. I never heard of them before. What kind of machinery is used in making them?