“Well, dat lars chile ub Miss Mary’s is pow’ful hyard ter put ter sleep; when I commenc’ ter nuss de chile I had jes’ larnt dat new hym, “Git on board little chillun’”, an’ I am sut’ny sorry Pawson Demby fotch dat hym ter de chuch, kase dat chile mecks me sing it ober an’ ober, till I sho’ly ’spise de chune. Mon dat, de chile wuz bo’n on de fus’ ub de moon; lars yeah wuz leap yeah, an’ da wuz only three full moons, an’ dat chile wuz bo’n on one ub dem moons. ’Cose Miss Mary kyant help dat. Dey tells me cats bo’n on de full ub de moon neber mecks mousers, an’ chickens hatched on de full ub de moon is fussin’ all de time and neber mecks good layers. “I lef’ home plenty time er nuff ter git ter de feas’. De moon wuz so bright I tuck de parf th’oo de peach archard, ’stead er gwine roun’ by de road; you see, it cuts orf erbout uh harf mile. When I wuz ’bout harf way th’oo de archard I saw in de parf uh hooppo-will singin’ fuh deah life, goin’ jes’ like uh pump handle; an’ wussa yit, when I look good da wuz two ub ’em. Dey say it’s bad luck fuh nine year ef’n you flush uh hooppo-will, so what mus’ it be ef’n you flush two? I wudn’ hab flushed dem two hooppo-wills fuh uh load ub watermillions—so I walked heah erlong de ribber sho’; den I wuz almos’ skeer’d stiff, fuh I recommember’d what I had fogot, an’ dat wuz, dat lars’ wintah Scipio Jones wuz mus’-rattin’ an’ uh Jack-uh-ma-lantern tuck an’ led him in de watah clean up ter his neck, jes’ erbout wha I wuz walkin’, kep him in de ribber fuh two hours, uh laffin’ at an’ sassin’ him.” Aunt Tillie: “Served him right, fuh dem days he wuz al’ays trav’lin’ ’roun’ wid uh juice-hyarp in his mouf.” “Aunt Tillie, dey tell me Mars George’s Bob is broke his erligion an’ tuck up his fiddle ergin. Howsome-eber, Mars Richard say de Bible tells all erbout trumpets, shams an’ flutes, but you see dem trumpets wuz made ub ram’s hohns; leas’wise de trumpets dat Gideon made de Pawsons play—so Uncle Reubin say, so ubcose, dey wan’t bad like brass hohns; nobody kin meck me bleebe dat playin’ on brass hohns wid keys an’ locks is right. I think Pawson Demby orter keep ev’y one outin de chuch dat plays de fiddle er hohns. John Poney’s son, Jim, is goin’ erstray; I hearn him walkin’ ’long de road lars nite sorter twankin er tryin’ ter twank uh cow’s hohn an’ singin’ loud ernuf futto almos’ bus’ hissef— I ain’ no tukkey buzzard I ain’ no saint, I ain’ no tukkey buzzard, So glad I ain’t.