“No,” said he; “the farm would 'a' looked better, but he'd 'a' looked a dum sight wuss.”
He cleared his throat, and spoke of the weather as if to soften the blow a little.
I got my tackle ready while the man dug worms for Uncle Eb—an angler
of the bait-and-sinker type. Soon we made our way slowly through the same old cow-path that wavered across the green slope now starred with soft, golden blossoms. It is curious, that conservatism of the cloven hoof, which, like water, follows its old path, having found the way of least resistance. In a few minutes we came near the rotted stump of Lone Pine.
“Hats off!” said Uncle Eb, as he uncovered.
In a second my hat was in my hand; or there, between our feet, was a lonely, half-forgotten grave—that of old Fred. Slowly, silently, we resumed our walk. My venerable friend was breathing hard. I supported him with my arm, and soon we sat down to rest upon a rock. The air was clear and still. There was not a cloud in the sky. A