I'm a emanation. We bred hosses an' cattle, an' made whiskey an'
played kyards, an' the black folks does the work. We descends into
nothin' so low as labor in them halcyon days. Our social existence
is made up of weddin's, infares an' visitin' 'round; an' life in the
Bloo Grass is a pleasant round of chicken fixin's an' flour doin's
from one Christmas to another.'

"'Sech deescriptions,' remarks Enright with emotion an' drawin' the
back of his hand across his eyes, 'brings back my yearlin' days in
good old Tennessee. We-all is a heap like you Kaintucks, down our
way. We was a roode, exyooberant outfit; but manly an' sincere. It's
trooly a region where men is men, as that sport common to our neck
of timber known as "the first eye out for a quart of whiskey"
testifies to ample. Thar's my old dad! I can see him yet,' an' yere
Enright closes his eyes some ecstatic. 'He was a shore man. He stood
a hundred-foot without a knot or limb; could wrastle or run or jump,
an' was good to cut a 4-bit piece at one hundred yards, offhand,
with his old 8-squar' rifle. He never shoots squirrels, my father
don't; he barks 'em. An' for to see the skin cracked, or so much as
a drop of blood on one of 'em, when he picks it up, would have
mortified the old gent to death.'

"'Kaintucky to a hair,' assented the Colonel, who listens to Enright
plenty rapt that a-way. 'An' things is so Arcadian! If a gent has a
hour off an 'feels friendly an' like minglin' with his kind, all he
does is sa'nter over an' ring the town bell. Nacherally, the
commoonity lets go its grip an' comes troopin' up all spraddled out.
It don't know if it's a fire, it don't know if it's a fight, it
don't know if it's a birth, it don't know if it's a hoss race, it
don't know if it's a drink; an' it don't care. The commoonity keeps