Page:Harris Dickson--The unpopular history of the United States.djvu/19



, my son—Uncle Sam rolled up his sleeves and started—sit down and plug away on that typewriter while I talk. Make your machine rattle the same as chickens picking corn off a tin roof. I'm a right tolerable long-winded windmill, and sizzling with things that must be got out of my system.

The woods are full of folks—and the cities, too—full of good folks who don't realize that