be a lonesome, sickly ol' man, I went to see him one day. Says I:
“'Deacon, I wouldn't wonder if the fish 'u'd bite.'
“'Fish!' says he, 'my mind ain't on fish. I'm thinkin' o' my immortal soul.'
“'Man's soul is like his stummick,' says I. 'It ain't healthy 'less he can fergit it. Come an' have some fun.'.rdquo; We rode in silence until Uncle Eb went on:
“He seemed to think that God was a kind of a bully, an' that he loved to make men cowards. It don't seem likely to me. I don't b'lieve He meant toil fer a curse nuther. I couldn't be happy 'less I had suthin' to do. Seems 's 'o' them who wrote down the plans o' the Almighty made a mistake now an' then, an' it ain't no wonder if they
did. No man can be perfect, specially when he takes holt o' so big a job. Prob'ly it was purty hot where they lived, an' work didn't agree with 'em. Now it looks to me as if that fust family couldn't 'a' been very happy without a thing to do. I don't wonder that Cain an' Abel quarrelled. God must 'a' seen that the world lacked suthin' very important. So He blessed it with toil. I don't believe He ever intended to curse it, 'cause, if He did, ye got to own up that He ain't succeeded fust-rate.”
We came to the top of Bowman's Hill and looked down into the little valley, and were both silent.