An’ riled us so ’t we hed ter revolute.)
Bill mumbled on a spell, but said they wa’n’t
No sense in’t ’cos’ so much hed be’n chopped out.
“I jedge,” he sez, “it’s places they come threw,
An’ ossifers he seen, an’ whar they’re goin,’
An’ sich.” Then he begun again: “They’s days,
Paw, when I git ter thinkin’ ’bout the farm,
Ol’ Whitey, Ben, the wood-lot whar me ’n’ yew
Cu’ down the bee tree Fall ’fore last an’ got
A ri’t smart mess o’ honey; ’simmon trees,