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And Reuben says, "Well, I would be, only I'm so dreadful scaret o' dyin'. It must be terr'ble cur'us," he says, "to be dead." And the Angel says, "Why, you be dead." And he was. The story of the boy that was scaret o' dyin' was the last story that little Lib ever told us. We saw her sometimes after that, but she was not strong enough to talk much.
Folks say en de quarters dat ar spook ain' arter us." "Who the devil is hit arter then?" was the angry response. "How we know, mars'r? We neber try ter kill enybody." "But I tell you I didn't kill him," expostulated their nervous victim. "Didn't name no names, Marse Perkins. I on'y knows w'at I yeared folks tell 'bout spooks. Dey's mighty cur'us, spooks is.
Minford. "Thank you," said the boy; "but I guess you better not call, Miss Minford. Aunt's a good woman, but kind o' cur'us, you know. Them rheumatics has made a great change in her."
He hed a woman with him from the settlemints she's a-waitin' at Hazlan fer him now-'n' she had a cur'us little box, 'n' he put her 'n' the box on a big rock, 'n' started in a callin' 'em his bretherin' 'n' sisteren, 'n' folks seed mighty soon thet he meant it, too. He's always mighty easylike, tell he gits to the blood-penalty." At the word, Crump's listeners paid sudden heed.
"Just to make chowder for him?" The old man nodded. "Sounds cur'us, don't it? But that was what he wanted. He was a big hotel keeper and he sort o' got the idea that if he could have chowder like that it would be a big thing for the hotel. He offered me a good deal o' money if I'd go with him said he'd give me five hunderd a year and keep." The old man chuckled.
Cur'us what a pow'ful lot human bein's kin stand when they make up their minds to it." "Are the horses well shod?" asked Whitley. "Best shod in the world, 'cause I done it myself. That's my trade, blacksmith, an' I'm a good one if I do say it. I heard before we started that you had been a soldier in the west. I s'pose that you had to look mighty close to your hosses then.
Well, another time he was settin' on a stone in the lower pastur', cryin' again, and he heerd another cur'us little voice. 'T wa'n't like the posy's voice, but 'twas a little, wooly, soft, fuzzy voice, and he see 't was a caterpillar a-talkin' to him. And the caterpillar says, in his fuzzy little voice, he says, "What you cryin' for, Reuben?"
Hit's cur'us, but it act'-ally looks like lots o' decent young folks hev got usen to the idee-thar's so much of it goin' on, 'n' thar's so much talk 'bout killin' 'n' layin' out in the lorrel.
Then the newcomer answered: 'Well, neighbour dear, in Jingleville We live by faith but we eat our fill; An' what w'u'd we do if it wa'n't fer prayer? Fer we can't raise a thing but whiskers an' hair. 'Cur'us how you can talk po'try, said Uncle Eb. 'The only thing I've got agin you is them whiskers an' thet hair. 'Tain't Christian.
'Twas this way. One on 'em was a man that had a real hefty bundle on his back, that he'd put on there hisself, not all to onct, but a mite to time, for years 'n' years. 'Twas a real cur'us bundle, made up out o' little things in the road that'd got in his way, or hurt him, or put him back.
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