"Yes, Sar' Ann, that's whut I said. I tell you, it ain't so fur to
come, ain't so fur up heah, if you take it easy; only three mile. An'
Cunnel Blount'll give us melk as long as we want. I reckon he would
give us a cow, too, if I ast him. I s'pose I could pay him out o' the
next crop, if they wasn't so many things that has to be paid out'n
the crop. It's too blame bad 'bout Muley." He scratched his head
thoughtfully.

"Yes," responded his spouse, "Muley was a heap better cow than you'll
ever git ag'in. Why, she give two quo'ts o' melk the very mawnin' she
was kilt--two quo'ts. I reckon we didn't have to walk no three mile
that mawnin', did we? An' she that kin' and gentle-like--oh, we ain't
goin' to git no new cow like Muley, no time right soon, I want to
tell you that, Jim Bowles."

"Well, well, I know all that," said her husband, conciliatingly, a
trifle easier now that the sunbonnet was for the moment turned aside.
"That's all true, mighty true. But what kin you _do_?"

"Do? Why, do _somethin_'! Somebody sho' ought to suffer for this heah.
This new fangled railroad a-comin' through heah, a-killin' things, an'
a-killin' _folks_! Why, Bud Sowers said just the other week he heard
of three darkies gittin' kilt in one bunch down to Allenville. They
standin' on the track, jes' talkin' an' visitin' like. Didn't notice
nuthin'. Didn't notice the train a-comin'. 'Biff!' says Bud; an' thah
was them darkies."

"Yes," said Mr. Bowles, "that's the way it was with Muley. She just
walk up out'n the cane, an' stan' thah in the sun on the track, to
sort o' look aroun' whah she could see free fer a little ways. Then,