I was outside, settin’ on a truck with Up-State. He was watchin’ acrosst the rails, straight afore him, and listenin’, and I could see he was swallerin’ some, and his eyes looked kinda like he’d been ridin’ agin the wind. When I shifted my position, he turned the other way quick, and coughed–that pore little gone-in cough of hisn.
Wal, I felt pretty bad myself; and I seen somethin’ turrible was wrong with Up-State–I couldn’t just make out what. Pretty soon, I put my hand on his arm, and I says, “I don’t want t’ worm anythin’ outen you, ole man; I just want t’ say I’m you’ friend.”
“Cupid,” he whispers back, “it’s The Mohawk Vale.”
(He allus whispered, y’ savvy; couldn’t talk out loud no more, bein’ so turrible shy on lung.)
“Is that a bony fido place?” I ast, “’r just made up a-purpose fer the song?”
“It’s my country,” he whispers, slow and husky, and begun gazin’ acrosst to the mesquite again. “And, Cupid, it’s a beautiful country!”
“I reckon,” I says. “It’s likely got Oklahomaw skinned t’ death.”
Up-State, he didn’t answer that–too polite. Aw, he was a gent, too, same as the parson.
Minute ’r so, Macie struck up again–
| “And dearer by far than all charms on earth byside, Is that bright, rollin’ river to me.” |