“‘Oh, ’tisn’t nothin’ much, Tumm,’ says he.
“‘But what is it?’
“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ a small piece.’
“‘Is it meadow?’ says I.
“‘No,’ says he; ‘tisn’t what you might call meadow an’ be right, though the grass grows there, in spots, knee high.’
“‘Is it a potato-patch?’
“‘No,’ says he; ‘nor yet a patch.’
“‘’Tisn’t a flower garden, is it?’ says I.
“‘N-no,’ says he; ‘you couldn’t rightly say so—though they grows there, in spots, quite free an’ nice.’
“‘Uncle Bill,’ says I, ‘you isn’t never told me nothin’ about that there bit o’ prope’ty. What’s it held at?’