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Updated: May 4, 2025
Just yelled 'Ohio! again. So I come back at him with 'Missourah. He grabs me by the shoulder and points to your shack. 'Who owns that little shed? says he, very excited. 'My friend, Mr. Banneker, says I, polite as always to strangers. 'But I own that shoulder you're leanin' on, and I'm about to take it away with me when I go, I says.
He was a sad little fellow, who looked like a prairie-dog, and who had very much the same sort of an outlook on life. The other woman was the brisk and efficient wife of Mr. Bill Deems, of "Missourah." Mr. Deems had never in his life done anything, not even so much as bring in a basket of buffalo chips to supply the scanty fire. That is to say, he had done nothing strictly utilitarian.
It had carried off some of the most vigorous on the prairie, and twice that summer Catherine herself had laid out the cold forms of her neighbors on ironing-boards, and, with the assistance of Bill Deems of Missourah, had read the burial service over them. She had averted several other fatal runs of fever by the contents of her little medicine-case.
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