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Updated: June 5, 2025
"Uncl' Gabe," he said with sudden passion, "whut ye reckon Rome's a-doin'?" The miller looked a little petulant. "Don't ye git tired axin' me thet question, Isom? Rome's a-scratchin' right peert fer a livin', I reckon, fer hisself 'n' Marthy. Yes, 'n' mebbe fer a young 'un too by this time. Ef ye air honin' fer Rome, why don't ye rack out 'n' go to him?
The pure misery of it jes made him plumb delirious, Abe said; an' 'f Polly Ann wanted to find her match fer languige an' talkin' out peert well, she jes ought to strike Jeb Somers.
Hit ull be like ole times agin, when Rome was hyeh. Whut's the matter, boy?" he asked, suddenly. Isom looked unresponsive, listless. "Air ye gittin' sick agin?" "Well, I hain't feelin' much peert, Steve." "Take keer o' yourself, boy. Don't git sick now. We'll have to watch Eli Crump purty close.
"Ah, Toot's gal; mortgaged property, I reckon, or soon will be; she's as purty as red shoes, though, an' as peert as a cricket." Westerfelt sat down on the side of his bed and drew off his boots. "What sort of a man is he, Luke?" "Bad bad; no wuss in seven States." "Fighting man?"
Never had any eddication; lived out in Missooray all his life. But he's chock full o' poetry. On'y this mornin' sez I to him, he camps along o' me, 'Milt! sez I, 'are breakfast ready? and he up and answers back quite peert and chipper, 'The breakfast it is ready, and the birds is singing free, and it's risin' in the dawnin' light is happiness to me! When a man," said Mr.
And so the numbers grew and the waves of song swelled. The adagios and largos of ancient psalmody were engulfed and the modern "hyme toons," as the mountain people called them, were so "peert an' devilish" that the most heedless grew attentive, and lovers of raw peanuts, and even devotees of tobacco, emptied their mouths of these and filled them with praise.
This mornin' I jes' sot down under the fence an' watched, and the fust thing I seed was a line flyin' over the fence right peert, an' as soon as it struck the ground the chickens all went for it, an' this yer fool chicken up and swallered it. Now, I'm a lone woman, an' my chickens an' my truck-patch is my livin', and I ain't gwine to stan' no sich!"
"I never see that air Miller, no odds how well I be," she remarked mechanically to the tea-pot, "but what I feel weak creepin's come over me. He puts dye-stuff on his baird. An' when a man's whiskers is gray an' his head keeps black, it's a sign he uses his jaw more'n he does his brains. An' that yaller-headed doll-baby o' his'n the peert thing: I'll lay fifty cents she never washed a dish.
Most mountaineers in California call him the Pine Squirrel; and when I asked an old trapper whether he knew our little forester, he replied with brightening countenance: "Oh, yes, of course I know him; everybody knows him. When I'm huntin' in the woods, I often find out where the deer are by his barkin' at 'em. I call 'em Lightnin' Squirrels, because they're so mighty quick and peert."
"Tell Luke good-bye for me," he called back from the gate, and she nodded to him from the hall, but he could not hear what she said. As he approached the stable, he saw the hack waiting for him at the door. Budd Ridly sat on the driver's seat. "Time we wus off," he remarked to Westerfelt. "It takes peert drivin' to catch the two-forty, south-bound."
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