The Younger Brother has taken a fall. In the middle of his grinning, awww-shucks dance routine, he stumbled over his clod-hopper boots, fell on his big ole jug o'moonshine, and knocked over the fiddlers and the washboard scraper. The band came crashing to a halt. All the squaredancers stopped their dosey-does, all the clapping, red-faced laughers stopped laughing, stopped clapping, stopped grinning, and they looked at the Younger Brother lying upon the floor. He reeked of moonshine, this Younger Brother, but worse, something rolled out of his pocket, something shiny and plastic, and all stared at the device in shock, all the just-merry party people, they stared at what rolled out of the pocket of the Younger Brother's bib overalls. Because the thing had switched itself on in the fall, and it was buzzing, and buzzing loudly.
"It juss cain't be true!" one of the party people shouted, lowering their raised hands.
"Awwww, gorsh, aw shucks now," the Younger Brother huffed, pushing himself to his feet, rushing from the party. All stared. Gaping.
