Another long pause ensued. The sun shining through a bunch of grapes made them seem pellucid globes of gold and amber and crimson among others darkly purple in the shadow. The mocking-bird came once more a-foraging. A yellow and red butterfly flickered around in the air, as if one of the tiger-lilies there by the porch had taken wings and was wantoning about in the wind. On the towering bald of the mountain a cloud rested, obscuring the dome—a cloud of dazzling whiteness—and it seemed as if the mountain had been admitted to some close communion with the heavens. Below, the colour was intense, so deeply green were the trees, so clear and sharp a grey were the crags, so blue were the shadows in the ravines. Amos was looking upward. He looked upward much of the time.
'See old Groundhog?' inquired his mother, suddenly.
'Whar?' he demanded with a start, breaking from his reverie.
'Laws-a-massy, boy!' she exclaimed, in exasperation. 'Whenst ye war up ter the Cayces', this mornin'.'
'Naw'm,' said Amos. He had never admitted, save by indirection, that he had been to the Cayces'.
'War he gone ter the still?'
'I never axed.'
'I s'pose not, bein' ez ye never drinks nuthin' but buttermilk, do ye?'—this with a scathing inflection.
She presently sighed deeply.
'Waal, waal. The millinium an' the revenue will git thar rights one of these days, I hopes an' prays. I'm a favorin' of ennythink ez'll storp sin an' a-swillin' o' liquor. Tax 'em all, I say! Tax the sinners!'