the aige of the branch, with his moccasins towards the water. It
starts in to rain, an' the storm prounces down on Grief like a mink:
on a settin' hen. One of his pards sees him across the branch an'
thinks he's asleep. So he shouts an' yells at him.

"'Whoopee, Grief!' he sings over to where Grief's layin' all quiled
up same as a water-moccasin snake, an' the rain peltin' into him
like etarnal wrath; 'wake up thar an' crawl for cover!'

"'I'm awake,' says Grief.

"'Well, why don't you get outen the rain?'

"'I'm all wet now an' the rain don't do no hurt,' says Grief.

"An' this yere lazy Grief Mudlow keeps on layin' thar. It ain't no
time when the branch begins to raise; the water crawls up about
Grief's feet. So his pard shouts at him some more:

"'Whoopee, you Grief ag'in!' he says. 'If you don't pull your
freight, the branch'll get you. It's done riz over the stock of your
rifle.'

"'Water won't hurt the wood none,' says Grief.

"'You Grief over thar!' roars the other after awhile; 'your feet an'
laigs is half into the branch, an' the water's got up to the lock of
your gun.'

"'Thar's no load in the gun,' says Grief, still a-layin', 'an'