“Mrs. Capadine said he wanted control of the property—what’s control, Uncle Hank? And she said it was natural. I don’t think she ought to have said that. And they all talked about minor children, the estates being wasted before they came of age. Is a ranch an estate, Uncle Hank? What’s of age—am I of age?” Hank chuckled and shook the thin little shoulder softly. “You’ve asked me so many questions I ain’t a-goin’ to answer nary one of them,” he said. “Them ladies were talking general and wide-flung, Pettie. They don’t mean to throw off on your Uncle Hank none.” But Hilda knew of something that was not general and wide-flung, that applied directly to him. “What does uncouth, mean, Uncle Hank?” she asked. “Now, you ask me what I can tell you,” he returned genially. “That there was a great word with my mother, back in the Tennessee Mountains. When we young ’uns rampaged about so far, she’d use it on us. If we raced up to the table and commenced filling our mouths too full before we got good settled in our chairs, she’d tell us not to be uncouth and make us lay down knife and fork and set for a spell.” “I wish you’d do that way, too, Uncle Hank. You just correct me if I’m ever uncouth. I’m sure _you_ never are.” Hilda thought she was very diplomatic to put it that way, but she was a little startled to feel the broad blue-flannel chest against which her head leaned lifted by a silent chuckle, and to have Uncle Hank echo: “Uncouth—I bet your Aunt Valery thinks so—and says so! Why not? Way I talk must sound heathenish to a New York lady.” “Well, I like the way you talk,” the little girl held to her point. “That’s right,” Hank agreed. “You like it—for me; don’t you foller it. You’re to grow up a nice lady, and talk dictionary, like your Aunt Valery does. When you folks first come here, I tried to brush up a little; when your pa left you to me, I shore thought I’d straighten up my language; but it couldn’t be did. I’ve gave it up. I’ve done gave it up. I’d look a bigger fool trying to talk New York fashion than what I do using the lingo that I was raised on and learned in six weeks of an Old Field Hollerin’ school back in the Tennessee mountains. A hollerin’ school?” as Hilda looked puzzled. “We-e-ell, some calls it a yelpin’ school. It’s a school where all the young ’uns sits on benches and hollers their lessons. The school teacher—be it man or woman—walks up and down between them benches to see that the scholars mind their books, and don’t leave off studying; and the feller that hollers his lesson loudest is the best scholar—see, honey? That’s what it is.” “I should think it would make an awful noise, Uncle Hank.” “It does, that. You can hear one of them yelpin’ schools for nigh a mile.” “But—I should think you couldn’t learn anything—on account of the noise,” the little girl went on.