"
"Oh, yes, they do. They make 'em in those parts. I know it by this same
reason, that I bought a lot myself from a house in Connecticut, a town
called Meriden, where they make almost nothing else but clocks--where
they make 'em by steam, and horse-power, and machinery, and will turn
you out a hundred or two to a minute."
The pedler had somewhat "overleaped his shoulders," as they phrase it in
the West, when his companion drew himself back over the blazing embers,
with a look of ill-concealed aversion, exclaiming, as he did so--
"Why, you ain't a Yankee, air you?"
The pedler was a special pleader in one sense of the word, and knew the
value of a technical distinction as well as his friend, Lawyer Pippin.
His reply was prompt and professional:--
"Why, no, I ain't a Yankee according to your idee. It's true, I was born
among them; but that, you know, don't make a man one on them?"
"No, to be sure not. Every man that's a freeman has a right to choose
what country he shall belong to.
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