Chapter IX The New Singing-Master
“He sings like an owlingale!”
Jonas Harrison was leaning against the well-curb, talking to Cynthy Ann. He’d been down to the store at Brayville, he said, a listenin’ to ’em discuss Millerism, and seed a new singing-master there. “Could he sing good?” Cynthy asked, rather to prolong the talk than to get information.
“Sings like an owlingale, I reckon. He’s got more seals to his ministry a-hanging onto his watch-chain than I ever seed. Got a mustache onto the top story of his mouth, somethin’ like a tuft of grass on the roof of a ole shed kitchen. Peart? He’s the peartest-lookin’ chap I ever seed. But he a’n’t no singin’-master—not of I’m any jedge of turnips. He warn’t born to sarve his day and generation with a tunin’-fork. I think he’s a-goin’ to reckon-water a little in these parts and that he’s only a-playin’ singin’-master. He kin play more fiddles’n one, you bet a hoss! Says he come up here fer his wholesome, and I guess he did. Think ef he’d a-staid where he was, he mout a-suffered a leetle from confinement to his room, and that room p’raps not more nor five foot by nine, and ruther dim-lighted and poor-provisioned, an’ not much chance fer takin’ exercise in the fresh air!”