“Time flies!” I remarked, presently.
“Beats all,” Uncle Eb answered.
The Brower farm had run down, as they say in the back country. The
house and stable were in ill repair. Evil days had come to the neat and cleanly fireside, where in the old time Santa Claus had blessed us, and I had heard the cry of the swift and felt the touch of love and sorrow.
The tenant, a man who showed the wear of hard times, put our team in the stable.
“If you'd stayed here,” said he, with a glance at me, “this farm wouldn't 'a' looked as it does now.
Uncle Eb smiled.