An' Jeb waits
another haffen hour an' Jeb says,
``Ortern't I be killed?''
``Whut fer?'' says Polly Ann, sorter
sharp.
An' Jeb says, ``Fer bein' so devilish.''
Well, brother, Nance snorted right
out thar, an' Polly Ann Sturgill's hand
riz up jes once; an' I've heerd Jeb
Somers say the next time he jumps out
o' the Fryin' Pan he's a-goin' to take hell-
fire 'stid o' Cutshin fer a place to light.
THE MESSAGE IN THE SAND
Stranger, you furriners don't nuver
seem to consider that a woman has
always got the devil to fight in two
people at once! Hit's two agin one, I
tell ye, an' hit hain't fa'r.
That's what I said more'n two year
ago, when Rosie Branham was a-layin'
up thar at Dave Hall's, white an' mos'
dead. An', GOD, boys, I says, that leetle
thing in thar by her shorely can't be to
blame.
Thar hain't been a word agin Rosie
sence; an', stranger, I reckon thar nuver
will be. Fer, while the gal hain't got
hide o' kith or kin, thar air two fellers
up hyeh sorter lookin' atter Rosie; an'
one of 'em is the shootin'es' man on
this crick, I reckon, 'cept one; an',
stranger, that's t'other.
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