I spent a summer in the Eastern States, for the purpose of studying Yankee character, and picking up such peculiarities of dialect and expression as I could, from constant communication with the “critters” themselves. In Boston, I was thus invited by a countryman to visit the town in which he lived. “Wal, stranger, can’t you come down our way, and give us a show?” “Where do you live?” inquired I. “Oh, abeout half way between this ere and sunrise.” “Oh, yes,” said I, adopting at once the style of the countryman, “I know; where the trees grow under-ground, and galls weigh two hundred pounds. Where some on ’em are so fat, they grease the cart-wheels with their shadow, and some on ’em so thin, you’re obliged to look at ’em twice afore you can see ’em at all.” “Wal, I guess you’ve been there,” says he, saying which, the countryman departed. ----- [9] By G. H. Hill. X. “FALLING OFF A LOG,” IN A GAME OF “SEVEN UP.” “Hoss and hoss!” “Yes; ‘hoss and hoss,’ and my deal!” “I’ll double the bet and have the whole bottle or none.” “Let me cut, and I’ll stand it.” “S’pose we both take a _little_ drink first,” said Chunkey. “No: darned if I do! thar ain’t enough for us both—if I win I’ll drink it, and you must wait till a boat comes, if you die! If you win, I’ll wait, if I die!” Such was the conversation between Jim and Chunkey, as they were sitting across a log on the banks of the Yazoo River, surrounded by a cloud of musquitoes, playing “seven-up” for a remaining bottle of whisky, which was not enough for the two, and “wouldn’t set one forward” _much_. They were just returning from Bear Creek, in Township 17, Range 1, where they had some hands deadening timber, preparatory to opening a plantation in the Fall. They had sent the negroes to the river to take a steam-boat, whilst they, with their furniture, and the remains of a forty-two gallon “red-head,” came down Deer Creek in a day, out into False Lake, through False Lake into Wasp Lake, and down that to where it empties into the Yazoo, and here on the banks of that river our scene opens. “Go ahead, then,” said Chunkey, “shuffle, deal, and win, if you can, but take out that Jack what’s torn!” I took the Jack out, shuffled, dealt, and at it we went. Chunkey looked mighty scared; his eye was sorter oneasy, and dartin’ about, and he seemed to be choked as he kept tryin’ to swaller somethin’—the long beard on his face looked powerful black, or else his face looked powerful white, one or the ’yether. We both played mighty slow and careful. The first hand I made “high, low,” and Chunkey “game;” the second hand I made “low, Jack,” and Chunkey “high, game.” “Four to three,” says I. “Yes, and my deal,” said Chunkey.