I raised ’em powerful frequent.

From A treasury of American anecdotes; sly, salty, shaggy stories of heroes and hellions, beguilers and buffoons, spellbinders and scapegoats, gagsters and gossips, from the grassroots and sidewalks of America by Benjamin Albert Botkin. 

Not many years ago I had occasion to make a saddle journey through the pine barrens of Georgia, where almost everybody is a “cracker” and mighty shiftless. One day, however, I rode into a little community that showed such signs of thrift as to be quite out of keeping with the general character of the barrens. I rode up to a cabin where a gaunt old woman stood in the doorway, and asked her who owned these little farms that were so well kept. "That farm on the left belongs to my son Jabez,” said she, “and the next one to my boy Zalim, and the next to my lad Jason, and the next is my boy Potiphar’s place, and—” “Hold on, sister,” said I. “How did you manage to raise such a fine lot of boys way off here in the woods?” “Waal, stranger,” she answered, “I am a widdy woman, and all I had to raise ’em on was prayer an’ hickory, but I raised ’em powerful frequent.”