We told him all about ourselves, and he went on:

"Rainy night. Too late to help the co'n, though. Co'n's poor
this year; reckon we'll have to live on taters and hope. Tater
crop ain't no great shakes, though. Nothing much left but hope,
and dry for that. Reckon I'll go back to old Missouri in the
spring, and work in a saw-mill. No saw-mills here, 'cause there
ain't nothing to saw. Hay don't need sawing. Martha," he added,
turning to his wife, "was it you said our roof didn't need
mending?"

"I said it did need it a powerful sight," answered the woman,
as she put another stick of hay in the stove, and a stream of
rain-water sputtered in the fire.

"Mebby you're right," said the man. "There's enough dry spots
for the dogs and children, but when we have vis'tors somebody has
got to get wet. Reckon I oughter put on two shingles for vis'tors
to set under. You fellers will stay to supper, of course. We
'ain't got much but bacon and taters, but you're powerful
welcome."

"No," I said, "we really mustn't stop. What we wanted was to
see if we couldn't get a little milk from you."

"Well, I'll be snaked!" exclaimed the man. "That makes me
think I ain't milked the old cow yet."

"I milked her more'n two hours ago, while you was cleaning
your rifle," said his wife.