"'She's too noomerous in them steeps an' deecliv'ties,' says Grief.
'What I needs is a landscape where the prevailin' feacher is the
hor'zontal. I was shorely born with a yearnin' for the level
ground.' An' so Grief moves his camp down on the river bottoms,
where thar ain't no hills.
"He's that mis'rable idle an' shiftless, this yere Grief is, that
once he starts huntin' an' then decides he won't. Grief lays down by
the aige of the branch, with his moccasins towards the water. It
starts in to rain, an' the storm prounces down on Grief like a mink:
on a settin' hen. One of his pards sees him across the branch an'
thinks he's asleep. So he shouts an' yells at him.
"'Whoopee, Grief!' he sings over to where Grief's layin' all quiled
up same as a water-moccasin snake, an' the rain peltin' into him
like etarnal wrath; 'wake up thar an' crawl for cover!'
"'I'm awake,' says Grief.
"'Well, why don't you get outen the rain?'
"'I'm all wet now an' the rain don't do no hurt,' says Grief.
"An' this yere lazy Grief Mudlow keeps on layin' thar. It ain't no
time when the branch begins to raise; the water crawls up about
Grief's feet. So his pard shouts at him some more:
"'Whoopee, you Grief ag'in!' he says.
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