CHAPTER IX.
THE NEW SINGING-MASTER "He sings like an owlingale!" Jonas Harrison was leaning against the well-curb, talking to Cynthy Ann.
He'd been down to the store at Brayville, he said, a listenin' to 'em discuss Millerism, and seed a new singing-master there.

"Could he sing good ?" Cynthy asked, rather to prolong the talk than to get information.
"Sings like an owlingale, I reckon.

He's got more seals to his ministry a-hanging onto his watch-chain than I ever seed.

Got a mustache onto the top story of his mouth, somethin' like a tuft of grass on the roof of a ole shed kitchen.

Peart?
He's the peartest-lookin' chap I ever seed.