"We cut a place right 'round 'em: that's girdlin' the tree and then, ever so long after, it dies and drops down itself."
"O, my stars!" cried Peter. "I want to know!"
"No, you don't want to know, Peter, for I just told you! You may say 'I wonder,' if you like: that's what we say out West."
"Wait," said Peter. "I only said, 'I want to know what other trees you have;' that's what I meant, but you shet me right up."
"O, there's the butternut and the tree of heaven and papaw, and 'simmon, and a 'right smart sprinkle' of wood-trees."
"What's a 'simmon?"
"O, it looks like a little baked apple, all wrinkled up; but it's right sweet. Ugh!" added Horace, making a wry face; "you better look out when they're green: they pucker your mouth up a good deal worse'n choke cherries."
"What's a papaw?"
"A papaw? Well, it's a curious thing, not much account. The pigs eat it. It tastes like a custard, right soft and mellow. Come, let's go to work."
"Well, what's a tree of heaven?"