Close by where the French Broad and Holsin jines.
Old Miss Collis and mammy is jist come home. Betsy Bolin is jist had a fine son and they say she is a doin’ as well as could be expected, and the huckleberry crop is short on account of the drouth.
IX.
OUR TOWN.[[9]]
I spent a summer in the Eastern States, for the purpose of studying Yankee character, and picking up such peculiarities of dialect and expression as I could, from constant communication with the “critters” themselves. In Boston, I was thus invited by a countryman to visit the town in which he lived.
“Wal, stranger, can’t you come down our way, and give us a show?”
“Where do you live?” inquired I.
“Oh, abeout half way between this ere and sunrise.”
“Oh, yes,” said I, adopting at once the style of the countryman, “I know; where the trees grow under-ground, and galls weigh two hundred pounds. Where some on ’em are so fat, they grease the cart-wheels with their shadow, and some on ’em so thin, you’re obliged to look at ’em twice afore you can see ’em at all.”
“Wal, I guess you’ve been there,” says he, saying which, the countryman departed.