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Updated: June 25, 2025
Then he questioned me, while the fleas, having telegraphed to each other that a stranger had arrived, made sad havoc of me and my patience. "My name's Jacob Gilleu; what's yourn?" I gave it. "Whar's your home?" came next. "I am a citizen of the United States," I replied. "De 'Nited States whar's dat? neber hurd him afore," said Jacob Gilleu.
"Ye air sech a triflin', slack-twisted tribe hyar in town, ez ennybody would know ef a spark cotched fire ter suthin, ye'd set an' suck yer paws, an' eye it till it bodaciously burnt up the court-house sech a dad-burned lazy set o' half-livers ye be! I never axed 'bout'n the court-house. I want ter know whar's that thar stray-book," he concluded, inconsequently.
"'Case thar's a gemman hyar an' you draps yer vittles so," Mandy Ann said in a whisper, with her lips close to the old woman's ear. "Gentleman? Who's he? Whar's he from?" the old woman asked forgetting that she had spoken to him. "I told you oncet he's Miss Dory's frien' an' from de Norf. Do be quiet," Mandy Ann blew into the deaf ears. "From the Nawth.
"Whar's Meshech Little, ter night?" inquired Israel Goodrich, not so much interested as the younger men in the points of young women. "He's been drunk all day," said Obadiah, who always knew everything that was going on. "Whar'd he git the money?" asked some one. "Meshech don' need no money tew git drunk," said Abner.
As the first whiff of smoke wreathed over his head, he said, "What air the differ ter ye, Andy, whether 't war bub, hyar, or Birt, ez dressed up the blackberry bush? ye 'pear ter make a differ a-twixt 'em." Still Byers was evasive. "Whar's Birt, ennyhow?" he demanded irrelevantly.
With the thought a blush of shame rose to his thin, sallow face. His mother! Between his mother and him lay a black abyss. What right had anything, holding part in that shadow, to look like his mother? He arose and almost snatched from the child the pail she had brought in. "Hyar!" he cried, "let me take that, you're slopping it over the floor. Whar's yo' brother?"
When I was a boy in a printing-office in Missouri, a loose-jointed, long-legged, tow-headed, jeans-clad countrified cub of about sixteen lounged in one day, and without removing his hands from the depths of his trousers pockets or taking off his faded ruin of a slouch hat, whose broken rim hung limp and ragged about his eyes and ears like a bug-eaten cabbage leaf, stared indifferently around, then leaned his hip against the editor's table, crossed his mighty brogans, aimed at a distant fly from a crevice in his upper teeth, laid him low, and said with composure: "Whar's the boss?"
His arms and legs, like the legs of some huge tarantula, flew out at all angles as he ran, and in fierce gutturals he was yelling over and over again: "Whar's dat Kipping?" He peered this way and that. "Whar's dat Kipping?" Out of the corner of my eye I saw some one stir by the deck-house, and the negro, seeing him at the same moment, leaped at my own conclusion.
"If you'uns is out on a scout," said a soldier, who had been aroused from his blanket, and pressed up to obtain a glance at the major, "whar's your hosses?" "I left them about a mile down the river. I have already been through your lines once to-night, and I might have gone through this time without your knowledge, if I had seen fit to do so."
This is Amos Brown, 'a friend of Caesar's." "Indeed, I ain 't suh. I'm de Reverend Amos Johnson " began the preacher, but his looks belied him. Mammy Lyddy took in the truth, and the next second the storm broke. "'Amos Brown' you is? I might 'a' knowd it! You thief! You a friend of Caesar's! Whar's my money? My money you stole from Caesar? You come talkin' to me 'bout rec'nition?
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