Yerself, an’ seen right thru their line o’ talk. I like ter weigh fokes on a human scale, Daid or alive. It ain’t onkind ter size ’Em up fer what they was, onless they’s jes’ Plain or’n’ry trash, an’ then it ain’t wuth w’ile; I’d ruther keep my mouth shet ’n’ let ’em go. But reely human fokes thet hez good p’ints An’ bad all mixed tergether—like Seth was— I cain’t see why we try ter make ’em out Ez hevin’ be’n perfecshun; ’tain’t the trewth. I heerd Almiry ’smornin’ ’fore the fun’rel Say this ter one the naybers thar, sez she: ‘Seth never said no ha’sh or hasty word In all ’is life ter me,’ an’ bust out cry’n’. Jest then she ketched my eye—I dunno how It was, I reck’n she sensed the laff inside O’ me, ’n’ we both looked over t’ whar Seth laid— She knowed me ’n’ Seth was purty clost—’n’ I’m sure She ha’f expected he would set ri’t up An’ look at her, fer he could never stand Fer no Saphiry stuff, ’n’ Almiry knowed it. She quit her takin’ on, an’ carr’d herself So ca’m but wownded like, it made me swaller. I wouldn’t give a dam”—his minister Sez Bill kin carry off those kind o’ words The niftiest he ever heerd fer deakins— “Fer enny man ’bout who thet pious kind O’ rot might possibly be trew. They ain’t Sich people nohow, leastways not in this ’Ere Skillet deestric’.... Wal, boys, here we be.” XII The Katydid Skeeters pest’rin’, Bites a-fest’rin’, Merc’ry ninety-four; Feelin’ groggy, Piller soggy, Makes me tur’bel sore. Rollin’, groanin’, Tossin’, moanin’, Hotter ’n eggs a-fryin’; Houn’ dawg yellin’, Jack-ass hellin’, Little Willy cryin’. Nerves a-tingle; Ev’ry single Nightish critter tootin’; Hosses champin’, Cattle stampin’, Even stars a-shootin’! Air is deader Than a medder Whar they’s be’n a fire East all smoky, Moon-rise poky— Julluk out o’ mire. Night’s a horrer; Like ter borrer Bill’s ol’ “make-’em-peep;” Shoot the dam things So’s ter ca’m things— Git fi’ minnits’ sleep. Nature’s planned it Tho, ’n’ I’ll stand it— ’Cept one thing, by hellum! That’s thet rawcus Hoppin’ jaw-cuss Out on yender ellum. Pesky thing Doosn’t sing; Line o’ talk ’S jist a squawk. Rubs its wings an’ Thinks it sings an’ Knocks my wits All ter bits; Never quits Throwin’ fits All the night Till it’s light; No beseechin’ Stops its screechin’; Filin’ saws, Grindin’ jaws, Windin’ clocks, Gratin’ locks— ’S music ’side That ’ar snide! Change yer toon, yew Mis’bel loon, yew! Mos’ly threes; Shift it, _please_! “She did! She hid Her lid, She did!”