Uncle Avery, who was not only postmaster but mayor of Pitchfork as well.

Then Chang fired. Full auto. Nine hundred rounds a minute. Impossibly fast. A brief blur of sound, like a manic sewing machine. Two seconds. A whole mag. Dirt stitched up in a line and a splinter of wood blew off the building.

Prayers up for all sick loved ones and there families. Who try to live and stay strong
Everyday in the mist of the unknown
We pray for express concern in every way.

There is no such thing as "the Queen's English." The property has gone into the hands of a joint stock company and we own the bulk of the shares!

Written By Mark Twain

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