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I guessed everything I could think of, from cookies to beefsteak, and gave up. 'Gingerbread, said he, soberly, at length. 'Thought ye said bears couldn't talk, I objected. 'Wall, the boy 'd fell asleep an' he'd only dreamed o' the bear, said Uncle Eb. 'Ye see, bears can talk when boys are dreamin' uv 'em. Come daylight, the boy got up 'n ketched a crow. Broke his wing with the cross-gun.
She read anecdotes of men, remarkable for their success and piety, and an account of Indian fighting, interrupted, as a red man lifted his tomahawk to slay, by the rattle of an arrow on the buttery door. It was off the cross-gun of young Paul. He had seen everything in the story and had taken aim at the said Indian just in the nick of time.
Went off the trail t' chase a butterfly 'n got lost. Hed his kite 'n' cross-gun 'n' he wandered all over 'til he was tired 'n hungry. Then he lay down t' cry on a bed o' moss. Putty quick they was a big black bear come along. "What's the matter?" said the bear. "Hungry," says the boy. "Tell ye what I'll dew," says the bear.
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