Peaceville, July 23.

With great difficulty got Chloe off to Gregory to make a visit to her daughter and see her grandchildren.

I have to push and force Chloe to take the smallest holiday or relaxation. She cannot drive, so of course I had to send Dab to be her charioteer.

I told her to broil a nice, 'cubator chicken and put it in the safe, and I have a very nice loaf of bread which I made yesterday, and with delicious fresh butter and tomatoes I will be independent of cooks for two whole days.

In this blessed hamlet of Peaceville, Bible methods prevail to a great extent, and people do as they would be done by. One finds out what vegetable one's neighbor is short of, and if you happen to have that special thing in abundance, you fill a basket, put a dainty doily over it, and despatch your inevitable small boy to your neighbor with a pleasant message. Of course she is too delicate to return her abundant vegetable by the same messenger, but later in the day or the next morning arrives her small boy with a dainty covered tray, and you receive a supply of the vegetable you lack with an elegant note.

I planted a great many tomatoes, but for want of work during my month's absence they are very backward, while my dear friend and neighbor, in the best sense of the word, Miss Penelope, has an abundance of large, smooth red tomatoes, and daily I receive a little tray of them. I have only very prosaic vegetables as yet, beans and Irish potatoes, but they are fine and plentiful, so Dab makes expeditions with the tray, but without the note which is Peaceville etiquette—a little note asking particularly the state of your health and mentioning the height of the mercury, and saying that though doubtless it is sending coals to Newcastle you venture to offer some of your poor products.

I have a box tacked on the wall by my writing-table into which I drop all the notes received. I keep them, for they breathe such kindliness, and seem an echo of the past when people had time to think of others. By the end of the summer they would nearly fill a half bushel.

To-day I tried to conceal the fact of Chloe's absence. I was invited out to dinner, but I was so exhausted after the service that I was not equal to going. Though I had made every effort to get Chloe off before service, she was not ready when I left, so I told her to lock up the house and put the key under the pot of heliotrope on the shelf in the piazza, where I found it, and opening the door, which gave light enough for me to read by, I lay on the lounge in the dark, shut-up house till afternoon, when I felt sufficiently rested to get up and take my frugal, but delicious, repast of cold chicken, bread and butter and raw tomatoes. Thanks to one of my unknown, far-away friends, I can enjoy my glass of artesian water. He wrote from Saratoga, suggesting that I should fill a stone jug with the artesian water, attach a long rope, and sink it in the well. I have done this, and by this simple expedient I have delightful, pure drinking water at a temperature of 63 degrees, without having ice. When the mercury is soaring in the 90s 63 seems cold, and I do not ask for better. Except for keeping the milk and butter and having a treat of ice-cream occasionally I really do not miss ice, now that my little brown jug is swung in the well, and I am very grateful to my far-away friend.

At dark arrives Miss Penelope bearing a large tray, "Oh, my dear, I have just heard that Chloe and Dab were seen this morning driving out of the village and have never been seen to return! And to think of your being all alone here, and we not knowing! And we had such a delightful dinner! If only I had known! But I have brought you a bowl of cold okra soup and a little dish of ice-cream, for we had a celebration to-day, a birthday dinner."

As soon as I could I told her I had had a dinner fit for a king, and now this wonderful and delicious treat of ice-cream made it perfect.

I read S. D. Gordon's "Quiet Talks on Power" all day in the darkened room, and I feel as though I might develop into a dynamo of the first order.

Peaceville is one of the corners of the world where Sunday is carefully observed. No one thinks of reading a novel or even a magazine on the day of rest. The Spirit of Missions, the Churchman, the Diocese, and sermons are the only mental food digestible on that day. I often find myself reading "The Spectator" in the Outlook, but if a neighbor comes in I put it hastily out of sight.

Last Sunday my dear Miss Penelope, whose whole life is a sermon of unselfish devotion and service, never resting, for on Sunday after her laborious six days in the "store"—which has done such wonderful things, supporting the family, educating all the younger members and finally paying off the mortgage on the plantation—she is our sole dependence as an organist and she never fails us. She understands the "instrument," as the organ is always called by Peacevillians.

This special organ is her own, which she has lent the church. The one which belongs to the church was originally a fine organ and was given to this little chapel some thirty years ago by a rich young man in New York, who had it for his own use and who was dying and expressed the wish that it should go to some place where it would do good. Our little church was without one and the rector happening to be in New York at the time, it was given to him. From that day to this it has been in use constantly, and without repair.

Church mice are proverbially active and they showed great fondness for the material of the bellows, so that the "instrument" was in a sad and wheezing condition, making respectable sounds difficult. I, being an optimist of the first water and having received constant proof of my having the right view of life, said boldly two years ago, just before the storm which laid us all low, that I would undertake to pack the organ and send it away to be repaired. A tuner who came to tune my beloved piano that spring said that he would repair the organ for $40 if we sent to it him in Carrolton.

I had had experience of the great liberality of the makers of my piano in the matter of exchange. During a period of forty years more or less I have had four pianos. Each time that by some good fortune I felt I might give myself the blessing of a new piano I wrote to the makers and told them I was sending on the old piano and wished a new one. They always allowed me a handsome price for the old piano. Reasoning from this experience that all great makers would act in the same way, I wrote to Boston to say I was sending the organ for repair or exchange, as seemed best to them, and asking their best terms, stating that by this parish there had been bought five melodeons of their make, including two baby organs.

Immediately came a letter to say the repairs would cost $80 and when they were made the organ would be worth $250. I wrote back in despair to say we could not possibly raise $80 for repairs, but would accept any melodeon they would send in exchange for our organ, which by their estimate was now worth $170. The answer came promptly—they could not offer any exchange; the organ was in their way; please answer at once.

So here am I, having sent off the property of the church on my own responsibility, and it will probably lapse by dint of possession before we can possibly raise $80 for the repairs. At night when I am very tired, the organ has a way of rising up before me in accusation and I feel it is an "instrument" worthy of the Inquisition.

It has been two years now an unwelcome guest in its childhood's Boston home. Meantime we are using Miss Penelope's organ, which is not fair, for she can never practise the hymns at home, having no instrument.

I began all this to tell of Miss Penelope's temptation. Last Sunday afternoon the unwonted sight of an automobile struck the village. Great excitement among all those who were so fortunate as to be strolling along the dusty road, among whom was Miss Penelope.

The occupants proved to be friends of hers and when they got out to make a visit in the village they asked her and two ladies with her to get in the machine and take a little turn. Now, Miss Penelope had never been in an auto and she accepted at once. They went two or three blissful miles and then came the awakening. Every face they met was set in solemn wonder that she, Miss Penelope, a pillar of the church (if the church is ever allowed confessedly to rest on feminine foundation), should ride in an auto on Sunday.

Words failed, but looks were all powerful. That night she said to me:—

"Patience, I am so ashamed of myself; I just yielded to temptation, you may say, without a struggle. It was so hot and dusty in the roads and the thought of flying through the air was so delightful that I never thought of it being Sunday and accepted the invitation at once; and it was the most heavenly sensation! Mr. A. said the road was clear and he could exceed the speed limit without danger, and it really was like a trip to Europe, so elevating and delightful; but as soon as I stepped down from the car I realized how wicked I had been."

"My dear, I do not agree with you at all," I replied; "there were no horses being driven for pleasure on their day of rest; there was nothing but the cogs and wheels of a machine and half a pint of gasolene. You were perfectly right to go. Don't mind what any one may say. It was a perfectly innocent recreation and refreshment, which you of all people are certainly entitled to."

But my efforts were in vain, though she said: "It is a great comfort to find you do not blame me, but I must blame myself."

July 24.

Good Miss E. spent last night here so that I should have some one near, and she made me a delicious cup of coffee and a nice little breakfast in spite of all I could say. Then she went home, and I fed the chickens and washed up the dishes and did all the housework, drawing buckets and buckets of water from the well, and I felt so proud and pleased with myself when I found it was only 9:30 and I had done all the work, for I had to do Dab's as well as Chloe's.

It is a great thing to know just what the work is, and if you do it once yourself you know just what the labor is. It is not a third of the amount of work I had supposed.

After finishing I sat down in the door of the sitting room to get every breath of air and embroidered and had a day of luxury—no interruptions, except when one waiter arrived with tomatoes, another with a muskmelon, and just at noon a specially dainty little tray with a glass of blackberry shrub and, O joy, a lump of ice in it.

I do not know when I have had such a quiet, peaceful day. As the horse and vehicle were gone I had no way of going to the plantation, which is my daily duty, and so felt free to enjoy myself.

July 28.

My poor Chloe is very ill with rheumatism—it is distressing, she suffers so. Dab is distinguishing himself and so am I.

I rise at five, so as to churn and knead and do my part of Chloe's work. Dab does the cooking very well and with enthusiasm. I am conscious that with both of us it is the enthusiasm of new brooms and am looking with terror to the inevitable slump.

I have never been an early riser, and the thought of the stern resolution I have made, to get up at five punctually, keeps me waking up all night long. I strike a match, look at the little clock on the table at the head of the bed, and think with delight how many hours there are before the fateful five strikes. I am losing pounds daily in the process, but make up in pride over my strenuosity.

On the plantation the struggle to get all the peas ploughed in for hay is most exhausting. Gibbie says he is sick, and I have engaged Loppy to do it, but he finds fault with the team and the plough.

Sunday, July 30.

A pleasant service and good sermon in our little church. When I got home to my great joy found C. and John. We got out the little old black leather-covered trunks which came from the log house, where they were stored, and looked over some of the papers in them.

Found many old letters from grandmother to papa when he was at West Point, beautiful letters, urging on him duty, discipline, and diligence. Oh, what an inestimable blessing to a boy to have such a mother and to value the letters so that here almost a century later they are found carefully kept; I suppose all she wrote, for postage was so high then that letters were not an everyday or a weekly matter.

August 24.

Reading with great pleasure the "Life and Letters of Washington Allston," and came upon so many bits of wisdom which I would like to keep, for instance:—

"Confidence is the soul of genius.... A little seasonable vanity is the best friend we can have."

"It was a saying of Alcibiades, and I believe a very just one, that 'When souls of a certain order did not perform all they wished it was because they had not courage to attempt all they could.'"

All this written by my great-uncle Washington Allston, August 24, 1801, to the artist Charles Frazer—to-day 109 years ago. We have a very beautiful miniature of him and it has the face of a wise man and almost a saint.

Peaceville, September 1.

A beautiful morning, though clouds are still flying. Everything is fresh and sparkling after the rain.

Had a terrible temptation—a letter yesterday from A. C. begging me to join her in Columbia to-morrow and make the journey with her to Highlands, where my sisters and their families are. All summer J. has been urging me to spend the hot months with her, and sent the check for my travelling expenses, which I returned, as it seemed to me my duty to stay here.

Now the thought of that wonderful exhilarating climate and beautiful scenery with all my dear ones was too much for me. I determined to go. Drove to Cherokee and gave Bonaparte directions for the conduct of everything during my absence, specially the curing of my precious pea-vine hay. Sent word to the ferryman to have the flat on this side of the river at 3:30 a.m. Had the shafts taken off and pole on the buckboard, so as to drive the pair, as I wished to take my steamer trunk with me.

It would be necessary to leave here at 2:10 a.m. to take the 6 a.m. train, though it is only eighteen miles; but the ferry represents an unknown quantity. After all was done I felt very light-hearted. To turn my back on heat and worry, on discouragement and continual effort, was delightful and I walked down to the barn-yard with light and springy tread.

On my way the gorgeous sunset struck me and I stopped, spellbound by its infinite beauty. Oh, the tenderness of the light, fleecy pink clouds; oh, the passionate red of the darker ones; oh, the golden glow of the horizon! Could anything hold more intense beauty and delight? Could one look at that and shrink from toil and moil and sweat in the path of duty? Was I a coward? Was I a shirk? Had I not chosen my own path and was I too much of a weakling to walk in it? Was I willing to leave the burden and heat of the day for two old darkies to struggle through alone?

I stood there filling my soul with beauty and strength until the last beam faded, then went to old Bonaparte and countermanded all my orders. It was all easily done except to notify the ferryman that he need not be ready for me, and I will send him a little present to make up for that. I have but one distress. I wrote to my sister by to-day's mail to say if it was possible to do it I would go, and I hate to think of her disappointment.

I drove back to the pineland in my little old rattling buckboard, it being too late to have the pole taken off of the other one, and a great peace filled me. Chloe was overjoyed at my change of plan, though she had encouraged my going in every way and had my trunk all packed. As for Goliah, he fairly glittered with joy, which condition was contributed to by the habit he has taken up recently of greasing his broad little black face very thoroughly with the vaseline I provide for keeping the harness soft. He seems to find infinite comfort from rubbing a quantity on his hands and then massaging his face very hard with both hands. It always amuses me, it is such an odd thing for a child to do.

September 4.

A glorious autumn day, really cold. I was very busy all morning bottling some blackberry wine made in 1903. Somehow there was great haste all day. At the plantation got very unhappy over the fear of cockspurs in the hay. It is impossible to make the negroes understand the importance of destroying them. Last year the horses had none of the best hay. It was all kept for the cows because there were a few cockspurs in it.

The scuppernong grapes are ripening very fast and are delicious.

September 6.

I certainly have been rewarded for not going to the mountains, for the mountain coolness has come to me—the weather has been perfect since the day after my decision. This morning Nat came from Casa Bianca looking more cheerful than usual. He told me he had nearly sold my cow Onyx.

I received this rather coldly with the commonplace as to a miss being equal to a mile in such cases. He said Mr. E. had come up with his brother to look at the cow and asked him the price and he answered $27.50, and that the brother took out the money and counted it out into his hands when Mr. E. came up and said:—

"I can make a better bargain with Mrs. Pennington than that. I'll write to her. Take back your money."

"Nat said: 'De money luk very sweet een my han's, but I gie um back to de gen'leman. Yu get letter frum em yet?'"

"No," I said, "but I can't imagine what made you say $27.50 for that cow with her splendid calf. I never said less than $30. I am glad that trade is off."

This was true and yet not true. I never would have sold Onyx for less than $30 myself, but if Nat had brought the smaller sum at this moment I would not have reproved him, as the constant call of the laborers to be paid presses on me daily.

After much wandering talk Nat took from his pocket a roll of money and counted it out to me, saying: "Ef I ain't succeed to sell de cow, I dun sell John Smit fu t'irty dolla'!" and there it was.

I was too thankful for words and yet sorry to part with John Smith, a handsome, long-legged Brahmin steer, who travels like a horse. However, as he is not yet three years old it is a fine sale and I praised Nat accordingly and gave him a dollar. Every time I think I am going to have a fine young pair of oxen I find myself obliged to part with them and be content with my faithful old ones, for there is always good sale for the steers even when nothing else sells.

At Cherokee I saw no sign of Gibbie, but was pleased to see the three milch cows tethered in the lush grass of the corn-field. I have long tried to get Gibbie to do this, in vain; it is not the habit in this country, and Gibbie is sure would have fatal results. What made him come to it I do not know, but I was delighted to see them knee deep in grass, evidently satisfied, for they were not eating, only chewing their cud meditatively.

I passed on to the house and after a while went down to the garden to see about the turnips. Just as I was about to cross the little foot bridge which leads from the barn-yard I saw basking on the plank a terrible looking moccasin. I turned away to get a stick long enough and strong enough to give me courage to attack him. When I came back armed the snake had disappeared, and I was about to cross when some instinct warned me to look well, and there just under the bridge in the flowers and grass that grew so luxuriantly as almost to touch it, I saw the beady eyes in the erect asp-like head fixed on me.

I summoned all my nerve and after a severe struggle killed the deadly thing. Even after I threw it some distance away with my strong staff it was hard to make myself cross the narrow bridge. I finally did get into the garden and found the turnips in great need of work.

On my way back I looked into the field where the cows were, and there was Moselle, my thoroughbred Guernsey, whom I had seen all right a half hour before, prostrate on the ground, her head under her! I flew through the gate and to her, to find that the horns were fastened in the ground, her forelegs bent over her head. The rope round her hind leg had evidently caught when she went to lie down or get up, I don't know which.

I called aloud for Gibbie, Bonaparte, Goliah, but no one came. Moselle's breathing was like a very loud snore. I tugged at her forefoot to lift it off from her head, putting all my strength, but in vain; when exhausted by the great effort, I called again and again, then getting no answer returned to the tugging.

At last I succeeded by a mighty effort, then another mighty effort, and I got her horns out of the earth and put her head in a natural position, when she lay as if dead. The terrible sound in her breathing had ceased, but she plainly said she was dying. I loosed the rope from her foot and from her head and encouraged her to get up, but she lay with closed eyes, and I left her, for I know how easily cows give up and die.

I went up to the house, where Goliah was putting Ruth in the buckboard, for it was sunset. Then Gibbie appeared and I told him Moselle was dying and reproached him for being away from his post of duty. When I drove out after all this expenditure of feeling Moselle was quietly eating as though nothing unusual had befallen her. I felt like Mother Hubbard after her trip to the undertaker's. Altogether it was a trying afternoon and I am very tired.

September 7.

Had some important writing to do this morning, but before I could begin Patty came in to say two "ladies" wanted to see me. I went out to find Totem's two daughters, who wished to get me to protect their property for them.

They said their father's "stepwife" had advertised the horse and buggy and cow and calf for sale, all of which things had belonged to their own mother and the "stepwife" had no right to sell them. I spent the whole morning talking to them and writing for them to the Probate Judge and others.

Totem was a faithful servant and their mother an excellent woman, and I shall do all in my power to have their property protected. At the same time I tried to make them understand that the "stepwife," having been legally married to their father, however short a time before his death, had a right to a proportion of his property.

As soon as they were gone I went to the plantation, where terrible havoc has been made in the corn by three hogs belonging to negroes who live miles away in the woods. It is a most difficult thing to get any redress for this. Bonaparte asked me to walk through the corn-field to estimate the damage, and really I think one-third of the corn has gone.

I cannot believe it is altogether the work of animals. I think they have been assisted by humans, for while great quantities of corn stalks are bent down and you can see where the corn has been eaten on the ground, in many, many cases the stalks are standing straight up and the ears are gone. However, I say nothing about that, as it would be useless.

One of the hogs I hired a man with a dog to catch two weeks ago. It weighs over 200 pounds and the man charged $2 for catching it. I have fed it in the pen for seventeen days. Now the owner, a very well-to-do darky who has a pension from the Government and is above work, says he cannot possibly pay $7, which is the amount I fixed upon, though the damage is much greater than that, indeed, four times that.

There are still two smaller hogs of about 100 pounds each in the field.

I have a strong wire fence around and I cannot help thinking the hogs have been let in at the gate. Of course a man would have them shot, but I cannot do that.

The milk is falling off, and to keep up my butter engagements I will have to stop sending the pint of milk daily to Eva which I have been sending for six weeks. She is Gibbie's mother, and when the doctor said she should have fresh milk I gladly gave it, but she is up and about now, and if Gibbie will not take the trouble to take the milk from the cows because he is in such haste to go out hunting, his mother will have to suffer along with me.

Bonaparte and Kilpatrick are working on the flat which needed overhauling and repair. It is a heavy expense, but as the rice is doing well there must be a dry, tight flat to bring it in.

September 10.

Very hot again. This morning I was working at a serenade of Rachmaninoff's when I fainted. Good Chloe got me on the lounge and dosed me with ammonia and I got over it, but could neither write nor read without a return of the terrible feeling. So I had the room darkened and kept quiet until 4:30 when I had to go to the plantation.

September 13.

Miss Penelope sent me word she was unequal to going to church to-day. So I had to play the organ as well as sing. Though a little rickety still, I enjoyed the organ in its rejuvenated condition. It is very sweet and full. A beautiful sermon. Thanked the good Father for his many mercies. The Sunday-school children came promptly at five and were most interesting.

September 14.

Making wine from the scuppernong grapes; ten quarts of grapes made two and a half gallons of wine. It is a very simple process, and yet the wine is very nice. It would make most delicious champagne if we had strong enough bottles to put it in at the right stage, but it bursts ordinary bottles, so we leave it uncorked until that stage passes.

I make it because I find a portion of wine is a most acceptable present to the men of the family at Christmas time—only it must not be too sweet. The scuppernong grape grows so rapidly and vigorously in this soil and climate that it would be worth while to plant it largely for transportation to places where wine is made. In this State it is under the ban, but there is no law to prevent sending out the grapes.

Every negro cottage through the long line of villages which fill the pine woods has at least one scuppernong vine, from which they sell bushels of grapes, besides eating them for a month. One vine will cover several hundred feet of space, for they are never trimmed, but grow laterally on scaffoldings made about five feet and a half from the ground.

They do not grow in bunches like other grapes, but only four or five very large grapes together, so that when you go under an arbor of ripe grapes you see no leaves above you, only a canopy of grapes, the leaves being all on top, and there is no more delicious experience than a half hour under a really old grape-vine in early September.

The older the vine the more luscious the grapes, and the perfume is most exquisite. It is a native of North Carolina, but takes kindly to this State and requires no spraying or care of any kind beyond breaking away the dead twigs and branches during the winter season—and mulching with dead leaves.

September 15.

Had a present of a bushel of grapes from Old Tom's children—such a pleasant surprise! The grapes from my arbor are so enjoyed by the whole plantation that I never get more than a peck at a time, so that it is a great thing to have such a handsome present. Presented the bringer with a dress for herself and shirt and cravat for the brother. That is what a present means with us—good will expressed, and a handsome return.

Peaceville, September 16.

This morning had a delightful present of venison. S. M. killed a deer yesterday.

Sent Chloe, Patty, and Goliah to plantation to pick the last of the grapes, and I tried to refresh myself by reading "Peter." Yesterday when I drove down Ruth behaved in the most unaccountable way. I had S. R. with me and we were driving up the avenue to the barn-yard, which is called the Red Bank—I do not know why, as it is not a bank nor is it red, just an avenue bordered by live oak trees with the fields of corn, peas, potatoes, etc., beyond. The growth is very luxuriant and thick on each side under the trees.

About halfway from the gate Ruth suddenly shied violently, shivered and shook, and though the road is quite too narrow to turn she backed violently right into the ditch, and before I understood what she was doing she had turned the buckboard around most cleverly and was rapidly on her way back to the gate with every sign of terror. As soon as I realized what had happened I drove into the field on one side of the road, turned and drove back up the avenue toward the barn-yard, the road she has travelled all summer every day but Sunday without showing the least fear of anything.

I made Goliah walk ahead until we got near the spot which had so terrified her. When I saw the fit of terror returning I gave the reins to S. who fortunately was with me and is a very good whip, and I got out and led Ruth by with the greatest difficulty. I do not know what to make of it unless there was some one hidden in the ditch who was very obnoxious to her.

The only time I ever knew her to shy so violently before was once when I was driving down to Casa Bianca alone. In a perfectly open, clear road, with a deep ditch on each side, no bushes or underbrush at all, she was trotting along briskly when suddenly she made a terrific shy to the right and bolted. In a few yards I pulled her down, and wondering greatly at her conduct I looked back to see if there were any stumps which I had not noticed, and out of the ditch on the left side of the road rose a most fearful looking head, a white man's, all overgrown with hair, hatless, dishevelled—no doubt a fugitive from justice who had wandered the roads a long time, from his aspect.

Needless to say I did not tarry to ask questions, but let Ruth travel at her very best speed, and that evening returning home I drove as fast as I could, whip in hand, but had no further trouble with Ruth.

On this occasion surely if there had been any one hidden in the ditch Don, the setter, would have found him.

Coming home she still seemed nervous. Goliah says "plat eye" and Chloe says "speret, Miss Pashuns. You know Cherokee is a ha'nt place, dat Red Bank road speshul, en wen yu cum to de Praise House lane dat dem home.

"T'ree time dem 'tack me dere. One time I bin a cum f'um Nannie weddin'. I see a man walk right befo' me, en I call to um en say 'Elihu! Dat be yu? Wait f'r me,' en de man neber answer, en w'en 'e git to de gate 'e neber open um, 'e jes' pass trou' wi'dout open, en den 'e tu'n 'eself unto a bull, en rare up befo' me. Den I kno' 'twas plat eye, en I say to meself 'Trow down yu fader h'art, en tek up yu murrer h'art,' 'en I dun so. 'Kase yu kno', Miss Pashuns, yu' murrer h'art is always stronger dan yu fader h'art.

"Oh, yu didn't kno' dat? 'Oman h'art is stronger dan man h'art w'en yu cum to speret en plat eye. Yes, Rut' see dat same man en I jes' t'enk de Lawd she ain' cripple yu."

That night she returned to the subject and told many wonderful ghost stories, all of that same road, and said Gibbie was so afraid of going along there in the dusk and reminded me that he never would wait to take my horse when I was out late, and that was the reason. As I still pooh-poohed her stories she put on quite a superior air and said:—

"Critter kin see mo' dan me, Miss Pashuns, en I kin see mo' dan yu, fer all yu kno' so mutch mo' en me. W'at I tell yu, 'tain't wha' I hear, but wha' I see meself."

"Plat eye!"