If you believe what the people say thereabouts, you'd think there was no sich people on the face of the airth." "That's jist because they don't know anything about them; and it's not because they can't know them neither, for a Yankee is a varmint you can nose anywhere.

It must be that none ever travels in those parts--selling their tin-kettles, and their wooden clocks, and all their notions." "Oh, yes, they do.

They make 'em in those parts.

I know it by this same reason, that I bought a lot myself from a house in Connecticut, a town called Meriden, where they make almost nothing else but clocks--where they make 'em by steam, and horse-power, and machinery, and will turn you out a hundred or two to a minute." The pedler had somewhat "overleaped his shoulders," as they phrase it in the West, when his companion drew himself back over the blazing embers, with a look of ill-concealed aversion, exclaiming, as he did so-- "Why, you ain't a Yankee, air you ?" The pedler was a special pleader in one sense of the word, and knew the value of a technical distinction as well as his friend, Lawyer Pippin.
His reply was prompt and professional:-- "Why, no, I ain't a Yankee according to your idee.

It's true, I was born among them; but that, you know, don't make a man one on them ?" "No, to be sure not.