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Hoover and Ez Pike a-grinning acrost the street at her and here do come the Squire and Mis' Tutt walking along together for the first time I almost ever seed 'em." "Wheeuh," wheezed the Squire, "I done come up here to give up on the subject of that Tom Mayberry!
And he bought lots of whiskey, To make the loggers frisky To make the loggers frisky At his logging bee The Devil sat on a log heap, A log heap, a log heap A red hot burning log heap A-grinning at the bee; And there was lots of swearing, Of boasting and of daring, Of fighting and of tearing, At that logging bee A logging-bee followed the burning of the fallow, as a matter of course.
As for Sheldon, he pouted and sulked on a sofa, and drank mulled wine, peevishly assuring everybody who cared to listen that no attack was to be apprehended in such a storm, and that Colonel Tarleton and his men now lay snug abed in New York town, a-grinning in their dreams.
There was a man in our town, In our town, in our town There was a man in our town, He made a logging-bee; And he bought lots of whiskey, To make the loggers frisky To make the loggers frisky At his logging-bee. The Devil sat on a log heap, A log heap, a log heap A red hot burning log heap A-grinning at the bee;
"A nice, dry, cheerful sort of place to meet your cousin in, too; uncommon lively; hope it'll raise his spirits to see all his cousins a-grinning there; his spirits don't seem much in sorts now," continued the ruthless inquisitor, with a glance at the "keeper's tree" by which they stood, in the middle of dank undergrowth, whose branches were adorned with dead cats, curs, owls, kestrels, stoats, weasels, and martens.
The smothered, double drumming of a guitar from the distant revel assailed my ears, and a fresh, sweet voice, singing: "As at my door I chanced to be A-spinning, Spinning, A grenadier he winked at me A-grinning, Grinning! As at my door I chanced to be A grenadier he winked at me. And now my song's begun, you see! "My grenadier he said to me.
Saith she, not looking at him, "Thou liest." "How, mistress?" saith he, with his mouth as wide as a church door on a Sunday. "Why, for calling a lemon sweet," saith she, "when all the world doth know that it is sour." Thereat he did fall a-grinning again. "Sweet, sweet mistress Keren," quoth he, "'tis thee I praise, and not thy name. And I will wager that thou art not sour, Mistress Keren."
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