I'd talk sign language myself if I lived here.

What's the use of wastin' strength pumpin' up words when they're blowed back down your throat fast enough to choke you?
Git dap, Henry! Don't you see the meetin' house steeple?
We're most there, thank the goodness." In Trumet Center, which is not much of a center, Miss Dawes alighted from the buggy and entered a building bearing a sign with the words "Metropolitan Variety Store, Joshua Atwood, Prop'r, Groceries, Coal, Dry Goods, Insurance, Boots and Shoes, Garden Seeds, etc." A smaller sign beneath this was lettered "Justice of the Peace," and one below that read "Post Office." She emerged a moment later, followed by an elderly person in a red cardigan jacket and overalls.
"Take the fust turnin' to the left, marm," he said pointing.

"It's pretty nigh to East Trumet townhall.

Fust house this side of the blacksmith shop.

About two mile, I'd say.