in some of them towns you was tellin' me about, where there's so many houses that they tech each other."
"That's all true about the fishes, Martin," said I, wisely making no reference to the houses, for I did not want to push his belief too hard; "but we'll drop them now."
"Yes," said he, "I think we'd better."
Martin was a good fellow and no fool; but he had not travelled much, and had no correct ideas of cities, nor, indeed, of much of any thing outside of his native backwoods. But of those backwoods he knew more than any other man I ever met. He liked to talk, but he resented tall stories.
"Martin," said I, glad to change the subject, "do you think there'll be many 'coons about, this fall?"
"About as many as common, I reckon," he answered. "What do you want to know fur?"
"I'd like to go out 'coon-hunting," I said; "that's something I have never tried."
"Well," said he, "I don't s'pose your goin' will make much difference in the number of 'em, but, what's the good uv it? You'd better go 'possum-huntin'. You kin eat a 'possum."
"Don't you ever eat 'coons?" I asked.
"Eat 'coons!" he exclaimed, with contempt. "Why, there isn't a nigger in this county'd eat a 'coon. They aint fit to eat."
"I should think they'd be as good as 'possums," said I. "They feed on pretty much the same things, don't they?"
"Well, there aint much difference, that way; but a
