I don't know what ails the cussed things.
Some kind of little green bug chews on them soon as my back is turned.
They ought to be ripe by now--and they aren't through blossoming.

Don't go into beans, _amigo_." Luck looked at him and laughed.

The Native Son, in black and white Angora chaps and cream-colored shirt and silver-filigreed hatband as ornamental touches to his attire, did not look like a man who was greatly worried over his crop of string beans while he rode with a negligent grace away from a glowing sunset.

But in these days the West is full of incongruities.
"Oh, shut up about them beans!" implored Andy Green with a bored air.
"It's water they want; and a touch of the hoe now and then.

You leave 'em for a month at a time and then go back and wonder why you can't pick a hatful off 'em.