“Well,” said Uncle John, “If Christmas comes soon, I shouldn’t be surprised if we did get some snow. Why does Buddy want snow?”
“So dat Santa Claus can make his sleigh go.”
The two had been walking back and forth for quite a while in the morning sunshine along the path to the garden gate. As a variation they had sat upon the bench under the wide spreading pine tree that stood near the corner of the house, its long branches reaching almost to the porch. Of late the days had been almost summer-like, and old gray-headed Uncle John enjoyed the change of being out in the fresh air. Thus their companionship had grown from day to day.
The path from the porch and front door of the house was well beaten. It led right out to the gate. On either side were bushes, bare of leaves and dry with the winter season, as well as the withered stems of flowers. Along the fence that lined the road was a row of locust trees, from which practically every leaf was gone. This meant a good deal when one remembers how small the leaves of the locust are.
“Look—look, Unc’e Don!”
“Well, Buddy, you know I can’t look,” was the answer.
“No look, Unc’e Don?”—Buddy seemed very much surprised. He looked up at the tall figure beside him with a puzzled air.
“Whyfor, Unc’e Don, whyfor no look?”
“Well, Buddy, you know my eyes don’t see. I used to see pretty well—few better, I should say—many is the squirrel I have hit right in the fall—but I’m getting old, and some time ago, before Buddy came, my eyes quit seeing.”
“Eye quit?”