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Stratton-Porter, Gene, 1863-1924

"Freckles"

The coloring of the blossoms is beautiful, and I
hated to be killing it. I just cut the grass short all around it. Then
I started at the ground, trimmed up the trunk near the height of
me shoulder, and left the top spreading. That made it look so truly
ornamental that, idle like, I chips off the rough places neat, and this
morning, on me soul, it's a sight! You see, cutting off the limbs and
trimming up the trunk sets the sap running. In this hot sun it ferments
in a few hours. There isn't much room for more things to crowd on that
tree than there are, and to get drunker isn't noways possible."
"Weel, I be drawed on!" exclaimed Mrs. Duncan. "What kind of things do
ye mean, Freckles?"
"Why, just an army of black ants. Some of them are sucking away like
old topers. Some of them are setting up on their tails and hind legs,
fiddling with their fore-feet and wiping their eyes. Some are rolling
around on the ground, contented. There are quantities of big blue-bottle
flies over the bark and hanging on the grasses around, too drunk to
steer a course flying; so they just buzz away like flying, and all
the time sitting still.


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