Summary

Traits of American Humour, Vol…

Here, Billy, my son, take the old soap-stick; she’s a good piece, but I’m getting too old and dim-sighted to shoot a rifle; especially with the drop sight and double wabbles.”
“Why, darn my buttons!” said Billy, with a look that baffles all description; “ain’t you driv the cross!”
“Oh, driv the cross,” rejoined I, carelessly. “What’s that? Just look where my ball is! I do believe, in my soul, its centre is a quarter of an inch from the cross. I wanted to lay the centre of the bullet upon the cross, just as if you’d put it there with your fingers.”
Source: Gutenberg

Traits of American Humour, Vol…

That gun of mine is a perfect epidemic among bar: if not watched closely, it will go off as quick on a warm scent as my dog Bowie-knife will: and then that dog—whew! why the fellow thinks that the world is full of bar, he finds them so easy. It’s lucky he don’t talk as well as think; for with his natural modesty, if he should suddenly learn how much he is acknowledged to be ahead of all other dogs in the universe, he would be astonished to death in two minutes.
Source: Gutenberg

Traits of American Humour, Vol…

He questioned every person he met, whether he had not seen a crafty-looking caitiff sharking about the town and buying fox-skins, but nobody seemed to know any such creature. He ran up and down the road, called at Major Shute’s tavern, at Deacon Grabbit’s store, at Colonel Crabapple’s grocery, at Tim Thumper’s shoemaker’s shop, at Cobb’s bank and at Slouch’s corner, but not a soul had seen the man with the fox-skin. Bob was half out of his wits at being thus baulked in his chase, never imagining he was all the while in pursuit of an innocent little bob o’link.
Source: Gutenberg

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