"'Like my grandfather up at "The Hill," my father devotes all his
talents to raisin' runnin' hosses, an' the old faun would have been
a heap lonesome if thar's fewer than three hundred head a nickerin'
about the barns an' pastures. Shore! we has slaves too; we has
niggers to a stand-still.
"'As I look r'arward to them days of my infancy, I brings to mind a
staggerin' blow that neighborhood receives. A stern-wheeler sinks
about two hundred yards off our landin' with one thousand bar'ls of
whiskey on board. When the news of that whiskey comes flyin' inland,
it ain't a case of individyooals nor neighborhoods, but whole
counties comes stampedin' to the rescoo. It's no use; the boat bogs
right down in the sand; in less than an hour her smoke stack is
onder water. All we ever gets from the wrack is the bell, the same
now adornin' a Presbyter'an church an' summonin' folks to them
services. I tells you, gents, the thoughts of that Willow Run, an'
we not able to save so much as a quart of it, puts a crimp in that
commoonity they ain't yet outlived. It 'most drives 'em crazy; they
walks them banks for months a-wringin' their hands an' wishin' the
impossible.'
"'Is any one drowned?' asks Faro Nell, who comes in, a moment
before, an' as usual plants herse'f clost to Cherokee Hall.
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