We heard footsteps in a moment, and I turned and saw Jed Feary approaching us. He was past eighty years of age, and his hair and beard were white, and he walked slowly with a cane. He stopped near us, and began to laugh as we greeted him.
“Heard you was here,” he said, “an' Rans Walker druv me down the road.”
“Stump ye t' rassle with me,” said Uncle Eb, with a smile.
“Wait 'til I've throwed the rheumatiz, an' then I'll tackle you,” said the poet.
“How are you, Uncle Jed?” was my query.
“As you see—the trembling hand an' slippered pantaloon.”
“All the world's a stage,” I quoted.