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In his 1867 book Beyond the Mississippi, Albert D. Richardson writes about traveling the Ozarks in the late 1850s. He writes that in Springfield:

I was told of eight North Carolinians bound for Arkansas, who stopped for a few hours on the public square, and were asked innumerable questions.

One communicative fellow replied that they were going to found a town; the pursuit of each person was already marked out, and there were no drones among them.

What was this man to do?

He was to open a store.

And that?

Start a blacksmith’s shop.

And the other, standing behind him?

Engage in sheep raising.

So they were nearly all classified, when a decrepid, white-haired octogenarian, venerable enough for old Time himself, was observed sitting in one of the wagons.

‘Why, who is that?’ asked the eager questioner.

‘That’s my grandfather.’

‘What is he going to do? He can’t be of any use to your settlement.’

‘Oh yes,’ replied the North Carolinian promptly, ‘we are taking the old man along to start a graveyard with!’

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