Sometimes the boys went coon-hunting and
there were corn-shuckings, house-raisings
and quilting-parties.

``Does anybody round here play the
banjo?''

``None o' my boys,'' said the old woman,
``but Tom Green's son down the creek
--he follers pickin' the banjo a leetle.''
``Follows pickin' ''--the Blight did not
miss that phrase.

``What do you foller fer a livin'?'' the
old man asked me suddenly.

``I write for a living.'' He thought a
while.

``Well, it must be purty fine to have a
good handwrite.'' This nearly dissolved
the Blight and the little sister, but they
held on heroically.

``Is there much fighting around here?''
I asked presently.

``Not much 'cept when one young feller
up the river gets to tearin' up things. I
heerd as how he was over to the Gap last