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My moder was eighty-two, an' my gran'moder was ninety-siven, an' my great-gran'moder was a hun'r'd an' sixteen, an' dey was all alive togidder, an' at fuss you couldn' tell which was de oldest. Dey run neck an' neck for a long time, but arter de great-gran' one pass de hunr' milestone oh! she hoed ahead like a rattlesnake. De wrinkles an' de crows' foots, an' de de colour jes' like bu'nt leather!
I t'ink sometimes dat monkey is best, but I can't easy git ober de face." "How so, Quashy?" "'Cause it am so like eatin' a bit o' my great-gran'moder." "Indeed!" "Yes. You's no notion how like dey all is to dat ole lady. You see, she was uncommon old. She come ob a long-lib race. Das whar' it is.
Quite pleased that his remarks should afford amusement, Quashy was about to launch out extensively on the "great-gran'moder" theme, when an exclamation from the guide checked him. "Look, Senhor Armstrong," he said, arresting the progress of the canoe by a slight turn of his paddle. "Yonder is a mode of fishing which no doubt is new to you."
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