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Maybe when I'm dead and gone somebody'll tack a French name on to it, but as long as it grows in my gyarden it'll be jest grandmother's rose, and this is how it come by the name: "My grandfather and grandmother was amongst the first settlers of Kentucky. They come from the Old Dominion over the Wilderness Road way back yonder, goodness knows when.
"She and the young gemman you fotched heah were seen in the gyarden along about sundown. I seen them myself." "They had had supper?" "Yes, Sah." "Who sleeps here?" "Just little Steve and three of the women, they sleeps at the back of the house, Sah. "No sounds were heard during the night?" "No, Sah." "I'll see the overseer what's his name? Hicks?
"I was wondering where you was," Lanpher remarked with deep meaning. "I ain't rooting up nobody's gyarden," Alicran returned, cheerfully. "And don't wonder too hard. Might strain yore intellect or something. I'll always be where I aim to be always. You done scratched yore face, Lanpher." Lanpher turned from Alicran Skeel and spat upon the ground.
They couldn’t live in a house same as humans, not if yu filled their gyarden with nuggets an’ their well with apple-jack." Miss Carmichael looked attentive but said nothing. In truth, she was more afraid of Hank, his obvious gallantry, and his grewsome tales of boots with legs in them than she was of the unknown terrors of Lost Trail.
An' he declares fur true ef I don't holp him at this junctry, when he needs me, he won't hire his mule to my mother nex' spring; an' ye know it won't do fur we-uns ter resk the corn-crap an' gyarden truck with sech a pack o' chill'n ter vittle ez we-uns hev got at our house." Nate deduced an unexpected conclusion. "Ye oughter gin me more'n haffen the make," he said.
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