“Ses I, ‘it’s rainin’ like wrath, Seab, and why don’t you git up?’
“Ses he, hollerin’ back, ‘I’m wet any how, and thar’s no use.’
“After a little, the river begun to rise about five foot an hour, and I hollers to him agin.
“Ses I, ‘Seaborn, the river’s a-risin’ on to your gun; the but’s half way in the water now.’
“Ses he, hollerin’ back, ‘The water ain’t gwine to hurt the wood part.’
“I waited a few minutes, and sung out:
“ ‘Seaborn, you’re half under water yourself, and your gun-lock is in the river!’
“Ses he, ‘I never ketches cold, and thar’s no load in the gun, and besides, she needs a washin’ out.’
“And Squire,” continued Dick, “the last I seen of him that day, he tuck a flask out of his pocket, as he lay, drinkt, ketcht some water in the flask, and drinkt again, as he lay; and then throw’d his face back, this way, like, to keep the river out of his mouth and nose!”
Amused at Dick’s anecdote of his lazy neighbour, I solicited some information about the occupant of a cabin nearly in the water, on the ’Possum Trot side.