when I don't know nothin' about hit--when I don't want hit done,--tryin' to
make everybody think I'm lazy and no 'count. Huldy tellin' me I ought to be
ashamed of myse'f, in bed while my po' old pappy--'at hain't ploughed a row
of his own for years--is a-gittin' my co'n outen the weeds."

The father stood, a chidden culprit. The boy had worked himself up to the
desired point.

"You jest do hit to put a shame on me. Now, Pap, you take that mule--"

"W'y, Sammy,--w'y, Sammy honey, you know Pappy don't do it fer nair sech a
reason. Hit don't look no sech a thing--like you was shif'less an' lazy.
Hit jes look like Pappy got nothin' to do, an' love to come and give you a
turn with yo' co'n; an', Sammy honey,"--the good farmer for the moment
getting the better of the timid, soft-hearted parent,--"hit is might'ly in
the weeds, boy. Don't you reckon I better jes--"

The other began, "I tell you--"

"There, there! Ne'mine, Sammy. Ef you don't want Pappy to plough no mo',
Pappy jes gwine to take the plough right outen the furrow and put old Beck
up. Pappy gwine--"

The boy turned away, his point made, and strolled back to the cabin. The
old man, murmuring a mixture of apologies, assurances, and expostulations,
went pathetically about the putting up of the mule, the setting away of the
plough.

Nobody knew when Pap Overholt began to be so called, nor when his wife had
received the affectionate title of Aunt Cornelia. It was a naming that grew