He got two out, an' he bit one
off, an' he says: ``Harve,'' says he, ``I
reckon we better draw fer him. The
shortes' gits him.'' An' they drawed.
Well, nobody ever knowed which got
the shortes' straw, stranger, but--
Thar'll be a dancin'-party comin'
Christmas night on ``Hell fer Sartain.''
Rich Harp 'll be thar from the head-
waters. Harve Hall's a-goin' to tote
the Widder Shivers clean across the
Cumberlan'. Fust one 'll swing Nance,
an' then t'other. Then they'll take a
pull out'n the same bottle o' moonshine,
an'--fust one an' then t'other--
they'll swing her agin, jes the same.
ABE won't be thar. He's a-settin' by
a bigger fire, I reckon (ef he ain't in
it), a-bitin' his thumbs!
THROUGH THE GAP
When thistles go adrift, the sun sets
down the valley between the hills;
when snow comes, it goes down behind
the Cumberland and streams through a
great fissure that people call the Gap.
Then the last light drenches the parson's
cottage under Imboden Hill, and
leaves an after-glow of glory on a
majestic heap that lies against the east.
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