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Updated: May 20, 2025
"Haint got a dog-goned ear left!" was the surly answer. "Some o' you-unses men wuz out here yisterdy 'n' tuk every bit I hed." This may or may not have been true. Inquiries of this nature always developed the fact that it was a man's neighbors who had plenty of corn; he never had any himself. "There's ole man Scroggs," he continued; "he lives a matter of two miles from hyar.
Then he wrote a short letter: "Deer Annie: I once more take my pen in hand to tell you there's grate news. I'm an ossifer. We had an awful fite yisterdy. I don't know how menny rebbles I kild, but I guess thare was enuff to start a good sized graveyard. I tuk a prizner, too, and the Kurnal says to me bully fer you, Mister Klegg, or sumthin to that effeck.
I'm eighty-five year old come next Dullingham fair, and I regleck as well as if it wur yisterdy when resur-rectionin' o' carpuses wur carried on in the old churchyard jes' like one o'clock, and the carpuses sent up to Lunnon reg'lar, and it's my 'pinion as that wur part o' Tom's game, dang 'im; and if I'd a 'ad my way arter the crouner's quest, he'd never a' bin buried in the very churchyard as he went and blast-phemed.
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