War su’thin’ I could in no ways allow.
I jes’ spoke up, for my dander hed riz,
“Cat - take in the slack o’ yer jaw!”
He bowed his back - Nance sighted him gran’,
Then the blamed old gal jes’ flashed in the pan!
A-kee! he! he! An’ a-ho! ho! he!
With a outraged catamount rebukin’ of me!
As Rufe finished this with a mighty
crescendo
, he was obliged to pause for breath. He stared about, gaspily. The afternoon was waning. The mountains close at hand were a darker green. The distant ranges had assumed a rosy amethystine tint, like nothing earthly - like the mountains of a dream, perhaps. The buzzard had alighted in the top of a tree not far down the slope, a tree long ago lightning-scathed, but still rising, gaunt and scarred, above all the forest, and stretching dead stark arms to heaven. Somehow Rufe did not like the looks of it. He was aware of a revulsion of feeling, of the ebbing away of his merry spirit before he saw more.