“The cam he huncht his self up again, the same way, and Ad he lifted up his hands and made some passes in the air and said: ‘Presto, abricadabbry, whee! You jest stay that way while the stars hold their courses in the fermament and the seasons on earth is bad for the crops.’ “So the cammel is hunchy to this day, and his countnence is deep graven with lines of care and sorry.” But if Adam had saw Billy lick Sammy Doppy for his doin that to me when we played leap frog he would have said, Adam would: “What simpleness! Why didnt I think to do that to the cam?” FLIES Flies is 3 kinds, butter, and fire, and jest flies. The butter he is first a tadpole, and then he is a crisanthmum, and bime bi he is a real butter, but not a goat. Mister Pitchel, thats the preacher, he says that the butter fly a bustin out of the crisanthmum state in to a new life prooves that we have imortle souls, but my father he says what is prooved by the butty dyin pretty soon after? Once me and Uncle Ned and Missy, thats my sister, we was in the garden and there was a butter fly, and Missy she said why was they like girls, meanin that they are fond of flowers, or is pretty, or some sech rot. Uncle Ned he spoke up and said: “Cause its good fun to chase them, but it spiles them to catch them.” He says 2 men which had been in a election riot was goin to their homes in the country one night, and one said to the other: “Let me lean on you, and what ever happens dont you desert a old friend.” When they had gone a mile or 2 that way the other feler he said: “Dont you feel any better now?” The staggery man he said: “No, not much, Ime a fraid I will drop. It must been a awfle blow, not any pain for to speak of, but Ime a seein stars till this minute!” Then the other feller he seen how it was, cause it was only jest the fire flies, which was evry where, and he said to his self: “A wise man cant make no body wise, but a fool can make a fool of a other man.” When it is a hot day my father he lies down for to sleep. He snores a while, and then he wakes up and says: “Cuss them flies! Johnny, bring me the _Tribune_,” and puts it over his face like it was a tent and his nose was the center pole. One day I give him the _Times_, which Mister Brily, thats the fat butcher, had sent around a calfs toung, and when my father he waked and seen what paper it was he said: “Johnny, dident you know what paper this thing is?” I said I did, and he said: “Dont you know that flies is better than the _Times_?” Then I said: “Yes, father, but there was a wops.”