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"Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! . . . I don't know how to tell it but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on ME I'd want to 'commodate 'em-all the whole-indurin' flock When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!"
"Wal," said Sam, "it come to an end sort o', and didn't come to an end. It was jest this 'ere way. You see, along in October, jest in the cider-makin' time, Abel Flint he was took down with dysentery and died. You 'member the Flint house: it stood on a little rise o' ground jest lookin' over towards the Brown house.
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