I wer wonderin my levil bes’, keepin a skin’d eye an’ a open year fur trubbil ur a skeer, whan I hearn a tarin big fuss on tuther side, squawkin, cussin, hollerin, an’ a gineral soun ove things a-smashin, an’ seed people a-mixin tharsefs pow'ful, sorter like bees a-fixin tu swarm. Thinks I, Look out Sut, hit am cumin; hits mos’ time; yu haint hed a skeer fur ni ontu three days–when yere cum roun the corner ove the market house, jis’ a-tarin, a thuteen hunder’ poun’ black an’ white bull, wif his tail es strait up in the air es a telegraf pole, an’ a chesnut fence rail tied across his ho'ns wif hickory withs.