"A-hem--" repeated the Yankee, the _argumentum ad hominem_ still
prominent in his eyes--"well, now, I take it, friend, there's no love to
spare for the people you speak of down in these parts. They don't seem
to smell at all pleasant in this country."
"No, I guess not, strannger, as how should they--a mean, tricky,
catchpenny, skulking set--that makes money out of everybody, and hain't
the spirit to spend it! I do hate them, now, worse than a polecat!"
"Well, now, friend, that's strange. If you were to travel for a spell,
down about Boston or Salem in Massachusetts, or at Meriden in
Connecticut, you'd hear tell of the Yankees quite different. If you
believe what the people say thereabouts, you'd think there was no sich
people on the face of the airth."
"That's jist because they don't know anything about them; and it's not
because they can't know them neither, for a Yankee is a varmint you can
nose anywhere. It must be that none ever travels in those parts--selling
their tin-kettles, and their wooden clocks, and all their notions.
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