At the next house, stopping for a drink of water, you chat a few moments. High up the opposite hill is a half-hidden cabin from which keen eyes scrutinize your every move, and a woman cries to her boy: “Run, Kit, down to Mederses, and ax who is he!”
As you approach a cross-roads store every idler pricks up to instant attention. Your presence is detected from every neighboring cabin and cornfield. Long John quits his plowing, Red John drops his axe, Sick John (“who’s allers ailin’, to hear him tell”) pops out of bed, and Lyin’ John (whose “mouth ain’t no praar-book, if it does open and shet”) grabs his hat, with “I jes’ got ter know who that feller is!” Then all Johns descend their several paths, to congregate at the store and estimate the stranger as though he were so many board-feet of lumber in the tree or so many pounds of beef on the hoof.
In every settlement there is somebody who makes a pleasure of gathering and spreading news. Such a one we had—a happy-go-lucky fellow from whom, they said, “you can hear the news jinglin’ afore he comes within gunshot.” It amused me to record the many ways he had of announcing his mission by indirection. Here is the list:
“I’m jes’ broguin’ about.”
“Yes, I’m jest cooterin’ around.”
“I’m santerin’ about.”
“Oh, I’m jes’ prodjectin’ around.”
“Jist traffickin’ about.”
“No, I ain’t workin’ none—jest spuddin’ around.”
“Me? I’m jes’ shacklin’ around.”