ally tattlers.... But I was gwine to tell what Carline Gallup said.
Carline was a very stiddy gal: she was married about a year
ago,--married Joe Bennet,--Philander Bennet's son: you remember Phil
Bennet, don't you, Mr. Crane?--he 'twas killed so sudding over to
Ganderfield? Though, come to think, it must 'a' ben arter you went away
from here. He'd moved over to Ganderfield the spring afore he was
killed. Well, one day in hayin'-time he was to work in the
hay-field--take another piece o' pie, Mr. Crane: oh, dew! I insist
on't--well, he was to work in the hay-field, and he fell off the
hay-stack. I s'pose 'twouldn't 'a' killed him if it hadn't 'a' ben for
his comin' kermash onto a jug that was a-settin' on the ground aside o'
the stack. The spine of his back went right onto the jug and broke
it,--broke his back, I mean,--not the jug: that wa'n't even cracked.
Cur'us, wa'n't it? 'Twas quite a comfort to Miss Bennet in her
affliction: 'twas a jug she valleyed,--one 'twas her mother's....

Take another cup o' tea, Mr. Crane. Why, you don't mean to say you've
got done supper! ain't you gwine to take nothin' more? no more o' the
pie? nor the sass? Well, won't you have another pickle? Oh, that reminds
me: I was a-gwine to tell what Carline Gallup said about Kesier Winkle.
Why, Kier, seems to me you ain't very perlite to leave the table afore
anybody else does. Oh, yes, I remember now; it's singin'-school night: I
s'pose it's time you was off. Melissy, you want to go tew, don't you?
Well, I guess Mr. Crane'll excuse you. We'll jest set back the table
ag'in' the wall. I won't dew the dishes jest now. Me and Melissy does
the work ourselves, Mr. Crane. I hain't kept no gal sense Melissy was
big enough t' aid and assist me. I think help's more plague than
profit. No woman that has growed-up darters needn't keep help if she's
brung up her gals as she'd ought tew. Melissy, dear, put on your cloak:
it's a purty tejus evenin'. Kier, you tie up your throat: you know you
was complainin' of a soreness in't to-day; and you must be keerful to
tie it up when you cum hum: it's dangerous t' egspose yerself arter
singin'--apt to give a body the brown-critters,--and that's turrible.
You couldn't sing any more if you should git that, you know. You'd
better call for Mirandy and Seliny, hadn't you? Don't be out late.

Now, Mr. Crane, draw up to the stove: you must be chilly off there. You
gwine to the party to Major Coon's day arter to-morrow? S'po