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Alabama "Uncle Bud" Ryland 2

place jest whar--that th' years be like hickory nuts. They
fall away fastest after the frosts come."

He stooped and plucked a cluster of cockle-burrs from
beside the path, observing, "But the frosts won't come fer
a good time yit this year. See how green an' tender they
air? I kin allus tell about what the weather's go'nter.
be by watching 'em an' th' tree bark. Hit never fails to
come out true."

We started up the path to the shanty, but before we
arrived at the steps, he walked off to a clump of brush
about thirty yards away and reached into its center.
Without a word, he withdrew an earthen gallon jug, and
then rejoined me. "I imagine," he said in his slow way,
"thet th' trip up was tiresome; you'll be needin' a toddy."

"Do you still make your own?" I asked.

" Hit's th' only way I'd drink it," he said. "I
never tuk a swig of store-bought whisky yit but what it
left me with a bustin' head. Now this hyar corn, hit's
good; made on a copper still. I never sell a pint, but
I'll make my own as long as I kin git to th' swamps."

The cabin that sat before us on crumbling pillars was
only a squat heap of rough pine lumber, thrown together
carelessly. It was a dirty gray from the buffetings of
many winds, and i t seemed, indeed, that one more good
wind would tear it asunder. On the narrow front porch, a
zinc water bucket sat on a shelf, with the washpan and a
bar of cheap soap nearby. Fish hooks and lines were

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