Bill set a minnit quiet-like, an’ then Begun t’ onfold the letter. Sich a mess O’ scraps, an’ holes, an’ long black blots an’ things Yew never seen. I couldn’t hardly keep From snik’rin’. Bill smiled tew, an’ ’lowed it must ’A’ took more time an’ trubble tew unwrite The letter ’n’ ’t did ter write it. Then ’e read, ’Thout skippin’ nuthin’ ’cept the blots and cuts: “Deer Paw: Wal, here we be at (blank), ’n’ I got Yoor letter ’n’ Maw’s, ’n’ I sure was mity glad Ter hear thet yew all’s well an’ gittin’ ’long Fust rate. Us boys is all a-feelin’ fine, An’ say, we’re goin’ ter stick ter this ’ere job Till some of us at enny rate sees thet Ol’ Potsdam Crocodile throw up the spunge....” (Thet’s Bill hisself all over ’gin, thinks I; Them Anjelo-Saxtons jes’ don’t never quit. Bill’s grate-grate-grampaw come from Summerset Some years ’fore Jorge the IIIst. was kingin’ it An’ riled us so ’t we hed ter revolute.) Bill mumbled on a spell, but said they wa’n’t No sense in’t ’cos’ so much hed be’n chopped out. “I jedge,” he sez, “it’s places they come threw, An’ ossifers he seen, an’ whar they’re goin,’ An’ sich.” Then he begun again: “They’s days, Paw, when I git ter thinkin’ ’bout the farm, Ol’ Whitey, Ben, the wood-lot whar me ’n’ yew Cu’ down the bee tree Fall ’fore last an’ got A ri’t smart mess o’ honey; ’simmon trees, Sunsets from our back porch, the furrers I Hev cut with our ol’ walkin’ plow—Oh Paw, Yew git me, don’t ye!—then I come ri’t back An’ look acrost ter whar them Boshes be, An’ think o’ all the things they done an’ still Ar’ doin’ ter make this airth a mizzery, Mad, desp’rit things drove on by them ez knows They’re in daid ’rong but never’ll give a dam ’Bout lyin’, killin’—then I know my job, ’N’ I’m glad I’m here, ’n’ I know yew be—” Bill run T’ the crib nigh whar we was, said he’d fergot Suthin,’ ’n’ I knowed ’e never would come back. I jes’ set thar an’ couldn’t move. He tho’t I must ’a’ gone an’ couldn’t hear; I did Tho’—God, how I did leg it out o’ thar! I went an’ watered all the hogs fi’ times; ’F’ they tasted salt in what they drunk, I know Whar’t come from. ’N’ all thet day I kep’ a-sayin: “_Them Anjelo-Saxtons jes’ don’t never quit!_” XXIII The Drouth