Nathan Foster and his lifelong friend and neighbor, Silas Bollender, sat together side by side upon the line-fence that separated their respective domains. They were both whittling away industriously, and there had been a long silence between them. Nathan broke it, saying:
“’Pears to me like I’ve had oncommon good luck this year.”
“Wall, you have had good luck, there ain’t no denyin’ that. It ’pears as though you’ve been ee-specially blest.”
“An’ I know I ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it.”
“No, o’ course not. Don’t take no credit to yourself, Nathan. We don’t none of us deserve our blessings, however we may feel about our crosses; we kin be purty shore o’ that.”
“Now, look, my pertater vines was like little trees, an’ nary a bug on ’em.”
“An’ you had as good a crop of corn as I’ve ever seen raised in this part of Montgomery county.”
“Yes, an’ I sold it, too, jest before that big drop in the price.”
“After givin’ away all yer turnips you could, you had to feed ’em to the hogs.”
“My fruit trees jest had to be propped up, an’ I’ve got enough perserves in my cellar to last two or three winters, even takin’ into consideration the drain o’ church socials an’ o’ charity.”