"'Nother raid comin' right in front er my door," Teague explained, "an' I reckon in reason I oughter be home when they go past. They use to be a kinder coolness betweenst me an' them revenue fellers, but we went to work an' patched it up." Tip Watson appeared to be so overjoyed that he went through all the forms of a cotillon dance, imitating a fiddle, calling the figures, and giving his hand to imaginary partners. The boys fairly screamed with laughter at this exhibition, and Uncle Jake was so overcome that he felt called upon to take another dram--a contingency that was renewed when Tip swung from the measure of a cotillon to that of a breakdown, singing-- "I hain't bin a-wantin' no mo' wines--mo' wines-- Sence daddy got drunk on low wines--low wines." "Come, Tip," said Teague, "yess shet up shop. Ef Sis ain't a caution," he said, after a while, as he moved around putting things to rights. "Ef Sis ain't a caution, you kin shoot me. They hain't no mo' tellin' wher' Sis picked up 'bout thish 'ere raid than nothin' in the worl'. Dang me ef I don't b'lieve the gal's glad when a raid's a-comin'. Wi' Sis, hit's move_ment_, move_ment_, day in an' day out. They hain't nobody knows that gal less'n it's me. She knows how to keep things a-gwine. Sometimes she runs an' meets me, an' says, se' she: 'Pap, mammy's in the dumps; yess you an' me make out we er quollin'. Hit'll sorter stir 'er up;' an' then Sis, she'll light in, an' by the time we git in the house, she's a-scoldin' an' a-sassin' an' I'm a-cussin', en' airter a while hit gits so hot an' natchul-like that I thes has ter drag Sis out behin' the chimbly and buss 'er for to make certain an' shore that she ain't accidentally flew off the han'le. Bliss your soul an' body! she's a caution!" "An' what's 'er maw a-doin' all that time?" inquired Uncle Jake, as he took another dram with an indifferent air. Teague laughed aloud as he packed the fresh earth over his fire. "Oh, Puss! Puss, she thes sets thar a-chawin' away at 'er snuff, an' a-knittin' away at 'er socks tell she thinks I'm a-pushin' Sis too clost, an' then she blazes out an' blows me up. Airter that," Teague continued, "things gits more homelike. Ef 'twan't fer me an' Sis, I reckon Puss 'nd teetotally fret 'erself away." "St. Paul," said Uncle Jake, looking confidentially at another dram which he had poured into the tin cup,--"St. Paul says ther' er divers an' many wimmin, an' I reckon he know'd. Ther' er some you kin fret an some you can't. Ther's my ole 'oman: the livin' human bein' that stirs _her_ up'll have ter frail 'er out, er she'll frail _him_." "Well," said Teague, by way of condolence, "the man what's stabbed by a pitchfork hain't much better off 'n the man that walks bar'footed in a treadsaft patch."