He was a walking
biographical and statistical dictionary of all the affairs of the good
folks of Mapleton. He knew every piece of furniture in their houses, and
what they gave for it; every foot of land, and what it was worth; every
ox, ass and sheep; every man, woman and child in town. And Biah could
give pretty shrewd character pictures also, and whoever wanted to inform
himself of the status of any person or thing in Mapleton would have done
well to have turned the faucet of Biah's stream of talk, and watched it
respectfully as it came, for it was commonly conceded that what Biah
Carter didn't know about Mapleton was hardly worth knowing.
"Putty piece o' property, this 'ere farm," he said, surveying the scene
around him with the air of a connoisseur. "None o' yer stun pastur land
where the sheep can't get their noses down through the rocks without a
file to sharpen 'em! Deacon Pitkin did a putty fair stroke o' business
when he swapped off his old place for this 'ere. That are old place was
all swamp land and stun pastur; wa'n't good for raisin' nothin' but
juniper bushes and bull frogs. But I tell _yeu_" preceded Biah, with a
shrewd wink, "that are mortgage pinches the deacon; works him like a dose
of aloes and picry, it does.
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