“Wal, how's ev'rything down there in the city?”
“About as usual.”
“Too many folks there,” he said,
“an' they all look a leetle cross. I like t' pass the time o' day with ev'ry man I meet, but mighty Dinah! they's so many of 'em!—there ain't no use tryin' t' be pleasant. I got t' showin' the whites o' my eyes as bad as any of 'em.” He spoke, laughingly, of a symphony concert to which we had taken him.
“I'll never fergit the man with a p'inter,” he said, his head noddin with amusement. “How he could toss the music! It was like spreadin' hay.” Again his cheery voice, after a moment of silence: “No more meat! Hope Brower, if you don't eat yer dinner, you'll be put to bed.”
After dinner I gathered up my tackle.
“I dunno,” Uncle Eb remarked.