"Whar yo' come from?"
"Maine," said I.
"Maine?" he repeated. "What's Maine?"
"Why, Maine—Maine is a State," said I. "And it's a nice one too," I added.
"Oh, yaas," he said. "Hit's ober yander, ain't it?" he continued, with a wave of his hand sweeping enough to take in the whole universe.
"Yes," said I, "away over yonder. It's down East."
"Got any children?" he queried.
"Yes," said I, "I've got two sons in Detroit, and—"
"Dee-troit, eh?" he interrupted. "Yaas, suh, Ah've heerd o' Dee-troit. Dee-troit's a nice State too—a mighty nice State—a nice State to have two sons at, Ah reckon. So yo' was born in Dee-troit, was yuh?"
"No," I replied, "I wasn't born at Detroit; I was born at Yonkers—"