Milford chronicle., 1896-07-31
BROWNS NECK.


BROWNS NECK.
Mr.. EDITOR Mothers rit and
Mary AIMS ffit,and ere another sun
h IS skaleq the Eastern hills and
tinted the intervenen lanscape with
satire e0d gold, it may be sed: Sin
tvs writ Mercy, but don't SIGH
tlitcs of eloquenc make me feel patri-
otto l don't no which affects me
the most elequenc or shooting fire
crackers on the 4th of JUL mite, when
there ain no moon to bother. Either
one Of 'em makes me feel like takin'
the flag from the school house and
plantin' it on the shore of our create
and megestc Mispilion and bracin'
my back agin it and defyin' unnat-
eralized furnerer to thrO a stone at
it, or slit a hole in its sacred folds.
When l shet my eyes and look at
my country's flag, 1 feel so patriotic
that don't knO what to do with my
self, and can scacely refrane from
cryin' out with the old poet
Our country, it's glorious land,
With brOd arms strecht from shore to shore,
The turbulent AIurderkill CHATS her STRAINS
She hears the dark Mispillion rOre
But, Mr. EdiJOr,I didn't calcerlate
to rite about patratism, but give you
the news of Browns Neck. They
cam nifty near havin' truhble over to
Mr.. Banks tother day. The flies he'd
been goin' for Mr., Banks boss TO
Kill, and he tho't he void stop 'em.
So he bathed him in turpintine; GO
racOus, didn't that boss rare and
pitch, and jump, and xix and snorte,
and lay down and turn over, and git
up, and Xix up as many didos as a
three legged monkey? And didn't
Mr.. Banks run to the house and git
bucket of water. and his wite's new
scrubmn' brush and all the sope $ e /
he'd and while his son and his m n
Fradv belt the boss, didn't he rub |
and scrub that boss till the hare all
stood rong end up Mr. Banks SEES
he'll hev fly net, if he hes to sell |
every chicken his wife has.
Mr. Editor, did you ever go to
apple cutting? If you hain't, my
sakes alive, why you don't know
nothin' bout real lecturfying sport.
l declar I'd ruther 90 to a apple cut
tin than be Queen of Sheba, deed l |
he'd; Sue alive, what fun a playin'
old Pat Cary, chase the Quaker,
brother rs bobbed here we 90 round |
the huckelberry bush and all SIGH
likes, and SIGH singin' you nevar in
your born days herd; Bingo, the
dusty miller, dad old blind mule, |
won't 90 home till mornin', and |
Nancy the cows are in the corn. My
l do belive they are better than cur
cases.
But, Mr.. Editor,I never felt so had |
to a apple cuttin' as | did last Frida
mite. We had splendid sport and |
was a gettin' redy to go home. was
jest putin on my bonet when Rod
ney Banks-he is the son of old man
Banks who put the turpintine on his
boss to keep the flies from puncturin'
his hide-cum up to wher | was
standin' and ses he, "Miss Sinty may
( see and then lie begin TO cof and /
s pit tobocco juice, and | was afraid |
H. would spit on my frOck, so | jest
stepped to one side and he sed. SEES
he, Miss SintY, will you permit me
to"-and then he begin to clare his
throte as eff he he'd sOmethn' in il
that outen't to lie, and | thot shure
he he'd swallered a apple core and was
jest agoin to tell Tom Long to strike
him in the back with Mrs. Longs
later masher, when he sed, Miss
Sinty, can 4 Teller go''-and here he
was taken agin, aud | do believe he
would have been to carry hom if
sum of the gals hadn't a run and got
q wisp of peppermint gras and putt
to his nOze; after that he came to,
md looked midlin' sane, and l do
beleave if they had all gone out but
him and me, he would hev asked me
rite there if he could go HON with
ne; and never was so sorry of any
,hingin my life,a / was that l didn't
know what he was drivin' at at first,
10 l mite hev sed yes, rite at the
ust.
Mary Matilda Virgins says, he
old her that 1 was the fust gal he /
yer asked to go home with that re- 5
uzed him. Laws a messy, if he'd
own what he was agoin TO say,
hud sed yes, for Rodney is rale
ice, / think.
Mr.. DditOr, what is the best rem
dy for throte diseaseY We gals are
goin' to thro in and git bottle and
lake Rodney present of it, unbe,
OWN to enybodv. b
Good by Mr.. Editor. u
Mother, Mary Ann and myself and is
hank you fer printin' our letters, fC
nd nothin' would give us more pleas. n
re than to see you drive up sum day 81
hen we have turnops for dinner.
SINTY BRIGGS. c
Insist on having lust what you call fer
hen Won 90 to buv Hood's Sarsanarilia the