Once I asked a rough-looking farmer, "How far is it to Sand Springs ?" "Five miles, stranger," was the reply.

"May be you won't find it so much." After riding three miles, and again inquiring, I was informed it was "risin' six miles to Sand Springs." Who could believe in the existence of a reliable countryman, after that?
Thirty miles from Springfield, we stopped at a farm-house for dinner.
While our meal was being prepared, we lay upon the grass in front of the house, and were at once surrounded by a half-dozen anxious natives.

We answered their questions to the best of our abilities, but nearly all of us fell asleep five minutes after lying down.

When aroused for dinner, I was told I had paused in the middle of a word of two syllables, leaving my hearers to exercise their imaginations on what I was about to say.
Dinner was the usual "hog and hominy" of the Southwest, varied with the smallest possible loaf of wheaten bread.

Outside the house, before dinner, the men were inquisitive.