"The dry water were six foot on the level, er mebbe more, an' some o' the waves up to the tree-tops, an' nobody with me but this 'ere ol' Marier Jane [his rifle] the hull trip to the Swegache country.

Gol' ding my pictur'! It seemed as if the wind were a-tryin' fer to rub it off the slate.

It were a pesky wind that kep' a-cuffin' me an' whistlin' in the briers on my face an' crackin' my coat-tails.

I were lonesome--lonesomer'n a he-bear--an' the cold grabbin' holt o' all ends o' me so as I had to stop an' argue 'bout whar my bound'ry-lines was located like I were York State.

Cat's blood an' gun-powder! I had to kick an' scratch to keep my nose an' toes from gittin'-- brittle." At this point, Solomon Binkus paused to give his words a chance "to sink in." The silence which followed was broken only by the crack of burning faggots and the sound of the night wind in the tall pines above the gorge.