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"Let's see this hyar's ther y'ar one thousand and nine hundred.... Thar's some things I disremembers. Maggards ... Maggards?... I don't remember no Maggards.... No, siree! I don't remember none." The cripple turned impatiently away, and Bas Rowlett speculatively inquired: "Does ye reckon mebby he war a-fleein' from some enemy over in Virginny an' thet ther feller followed atter him an' got him?"
Hump Doane wheeled on the old man, whose life had stretched almost to the century span, and shouted: "Gran'sire, did ye ever know any Maggards dwellin' over hyar? Thar hain't been none amongst us in my day ner time." "Maggards ... Maggards?... let me study," quavered the frosty-headed veteran in his palsied falsetto.
"I kin remember when ther boys went off ter ther war of Twelve ... I kin remember thet.... Thar war Doanes an' Rowletts an' Thorntons...." "I hain't askin' ye erbout no Doanes ner Thorntons. I'm askin' ye war thar any Maggards?" For a long time the human repository of ancient history pondered, fumbling through the past.
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