There are two things that you
simply have to do at the County Fair, or you aren't right sure
you've been. One is to drink a glass of sweet cider just from
the press, (which, I may say in passing, is an over-rated luxury.
Cider has to be just the least bit "frisky" to be good. I don't
mean hard, but" frisky." You know). And the other is to buy a
whip, if it is only the, little toy, fifteen-cent kind. On the
next soap-box to the old fellow that comes every year to sell
pictorial Bibles and red, plush-covered albums, the old fellow in
the green slippers that talks as if he were just ready to drop off
to sleep - on the next soap-box to him is the man that sells the
whips. You can buy one for a dollar, two for a dollar, or four for
a dollar, but not one for fifty cents, or one for a quarter. Don't
ask me why, for I don't know. I am just stating the facts. It
can't be done, for I've seen it tried, and if you keep up the
attempt too long, the whip-man will lose all patience with your
unreasonableness, and tell you to go 'long about your business if
you've got any, and not bother the life and soul out of him,
because he won't sell anything but a dollar's worth of whips, and
that's all there is about it.
He sells other things, handsaws, and pencils, and mouth-harps,
and two knives for a quarter, of such pure steel that he whittles
shavings off a wire nail with 'em, and is particular to hand you
the very identical knife he did it with.
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