But he aint farmin it.
Lor, no, Mis Priest,
Hes jest took it to set and look at the view.
Mebbe he wouldnt be so stuck on the view
Ef hed seed it every mornin and night for forty year
Sames as I have.
I dessay its pretty enough,
But its so pressed into me
I cn seet with my eyes shut.
No. I aint cold, Mis Priest,
Dont shut th door.
Ill be all right in a minit.
But I aint a mite sorry to leave that view.
Well, mebbe tis queer to feel so,
An mebbe taint.
My! But that teas revivin.
Old things aint always pleasant things, Mis Priest.
No, no, I dont callate on comin back,
Thats why Id ruther be to Chicago,
Bostons too near.
It aint cold, Mis Priest,
Its jest my thoughts.
I aint sick, only --
Mis Priest, ef youve nothin ter take yer time,
An have a mind to listen,
Thers somethind like ter speak about
I aint never mentioned it,
But Id like to tell yer fore I go.
Would you mind lowerin them shades,
Fall twilights awful grey,
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