Price meantime fills her Table with plates of sour-cherry fritters, Neat’s-Tongue Pies, a gigantick Indian Pudding, pitchers a-slosh with home-made Cider,- then producing some new-hackl’d Streaks of Hemp, and laying them down in a Right Line according to the Surveyors’ advice,- fixing them here and there with Tacks, across the room, up the stairs, straight down the middle of the Bed, of course, . . . “Would you Gentlemen mind coming in the House and showing me just where your Line does Run?” Mason and Dixon, already feeling awkward about it, oblige, Dixon up on the Roof with a long Plumb-line, Mason a-squint at the Snout of the Instrument. Price is in Town, in search of Partners for a Land Venture. Which side’s to be Pennsylvania, by the way?” A mischievous glint in her eyes that Barnes, Farlow, Moses McClean and others will later all recall. Price quite amiable, “where we’d build it,- not as if my Husband’s a Surveyor or anything. Price’s House.” “Just took a wild guess,” Mrs. About a mile and a half west of the Twelve-Mile Arc, twenty-four Chains beyond Little Christiana Creek, on Wednesday, April 10th, the Field-Book reports, “At 3 Miles 49 Chains, went through Mr. “Takes them less than a week to run the Line thro’ somebody’s House.

Mason dixon pynchon