Down along Sandplace way t’other day I met an old acquaintance. When I asks if she has a tale, she says, ‘Uncle George, terror he was,' her eyes twinkled beneath her hat.

‘George used to come down take care of my boy Jim. After a time us’d say, “Where’s Jim too?” and George’d say; “Oh, he’s hanging around somewhere.”’

‘Us’d look around and there’d be young Jim; swinging by his collar with a great big grin on his face. Uncle George had hung him on the pig hook. Terror he was.’

Later on