I hed my suspicions,--so'd he; lay low, though, frum all women-folks.

So 's I tuk a bottle down, unbeknown, to Squire More, an' it's oil!"-- jumping like a wild Indian,--"thank the Lord fur his marcies, it's oil!" "Well, Joel," she said, calmly, "very disagreeably smelling oil it is, I must say." "Good save the woman!" he broke out, sotto voce, "she's a born natural! Did ye never hear of a shaft?
or millions o' gallons a day?
It's better nor a California ranch, I tell ye.

Mebbe," charitably, "ye didn't know Poke Run's the mester's ?" "I certainly do.

But I do not see what this green ditch-water is to me.

And I think, Joel,"---- "It's more to ye nor all yer States'-rights as I'm sick o' hearin' of.
It's carpets, an' bunnets, an' slithers of railroad-stock, an' some colour on Margot's cheeks,--ye 'ed best think o' that! That's what it is to ye! I'm goin' to take stock myself.