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Show One day in the Cumberland monn tains, as I roda up the bench cf a hill, I camo to a houso with a genuine cyclone cy-clone pit in the front yard. At first I thought it might be a springhouse or a cellar, but a little closer inspection only confirmed the original conclusion. It was a cyclone pit and nothing elso, but-what but-what was it there for? The man of the house was hoeing corn in the field adjoining, ad-joining, and I hailed him. "By the way," I said to him after asking how far it was to my destination and the nearest way there, "is that a cyclone pit there in the yard?" He gave a queer little nod of affirmation. affirma-tion. . "You don't have any cyclones np here in the mountains, do you?" I asked io evident astonishment. "WelL no, mister, not perzackly. " "Then, if you please, I'd like to know what the dickens you have the pit for." He came over to the fence and put his hand np to his month as a sort of a speaking trumpet. "I reckon you never see my wife, mister," he said and dodged back to the row he was hoeing aa if somebody had thrown a skillet lid at him. Detroit De-troit Free Press. |