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"You sho' air got a pleasant place here. I allus been holdin' th'ain't no place so peaceful an' homelike as a shady side po'ch, with plenty er scrubbery an' chickens a scratchin' under 'em.

He seen small boys, shavers under eight, scratchin' holes in their heads with slate-pencils, tryin' to make out why two and two was four; he seen girls, be-yutiful young girls of his own age, drove almost to distraction by black-boards full of diagrams from the grammar-book.

"Ain't that a great picture?" "Gorgeous," Wallie agreed without looking. "If I could paint." "Does it take long to make gravy?" Wallie demanded, impatiently. "Not so very. I'll git things goin' and let you watch 'em while I go and take a look at them buzzard-heads. If a horse ain't used to bein' on picket he's liable to go scratchin' his ear and git caught and choke hisself."

"You stop!" cried Kate, breaking from his hold. "You will drive me crazy! You're talking as if you married me expecting land and money from it. I haven't been home in a year, and my father would deliberately kill me if I went within his reach." "Well, score one for little old scratchin', pickin', Mammy!" he cried. "She SAID you had a secret!"

One afternoon, when a few days out on this march, a regiment of Wisconsin veterans bivouacked next to the 200th Ind. The strange antics as they threw off their accouterments attracted Si's attention. "Look a' thar," he said to Shorty. "What 'n name of all the prophets 's them fellers up to?" "Seems like they was scratchin' theirselves!" "I s'pose that's on account of the dust 'n' sweat," said Si.

Wheeler explained to her that American soldiers didn't wear blue now, Mahailey repeated to herself that these brown clothes didn't show the dust, and that Claude would never look like the bedraggled men who used to stop to drink at her mother's spring. "Them leather leggins is to keep the briars from scratchin' you, ain't they?

"'Ere we got three lines of trenches, all of 'em wired up so that a rat couldn't get through without scratchin' hisself to death. Fritzie's got better wire than wot we 'ave, an' more of it. An' 'e's got more machine guns, more artill'ry, more shells. They ain't any little old man-killer ever invented wot they 'aven't got more of than we 'ave.

The road seemed empty save for a lean brown shape that raced toward the Concho with sweeping stride. "It's the dog. Wonder what's up now?" Chance, his muzzle specked with froth and his tongue lolling, swung into the yard and trotted to Wingle. "Boss git piled ag'in?" queried the cook, patting Chance's head. "What you scratchin' about?" The dog lay panting and occasionally pawing at his collar.

"Who owns a bob-tailed pinto, saddle-galled, cast in th' near eye, Star Diamond brand, white stockin' on th' off front prop, with a habit of scratchin' itself every other minute?" went on Mr. Connors. "Slim Travennes," replied the proprietor, flopping a flapjack. Mr. Cassidy reflectively scratched the back of his hand and looked innocent, but his mind was working overtime. "Who's Slim Travennes?"

Possible! says he, how's that? Why, says I, I guess you'll return rather lighter than you came and that's more nor I can say, any how, and then I gave him a wink and a jupe of the head, as much as to say, "do you take?" and rode on and left him starin and scratchin his head like a feller who's lost his road.