"'What colour be I? not green, I calc'late!' Then we both laughed, and felt better. I asked if I might smoke, too, and took out my pipe. Pretty soon the old fellow began to talk.
"'My women-folks sent for you, did they? I suspicioned they had. Fact,
I was slim this mornin'; took slim suddin, whilest I was milkin'.
Didn't relish my victuals, and that scairt the woman. But I took my
physic, and, come afternoon, I was spryer 'n a steer agin.'
"'What is your physic, if I may ask, Mr. Butters?'
"'Woodpile!' says the old fellow.
"'Woodpile?' said I.
"'Cord o' wood. Axe. Sweat o' the brow. Them's the best physic I know of.'
"He smoked on for a bit, and I sat and looked at him, admiring how the world was made. I don't know whether you read Kipling, Miss Vesta. I was rewarded for my patience.
"'Young feller,' said the old man, after awhile, 'how old do you s'pose
I be?'
"'Seventy,' said I; and he looked it, not a day over.
"'Add fifteen to that,' says he, 'and you have it. Eighty-five year last Jenooary. You are under thirty, I reckon? Thought so! Well, I was gettin' on for sixty year old when you was born. See?'