UNCLE SIMON'S
SUNDAYS OUT
UNCLE SIMON'S SUNDAYS OUT
Mr. Marston sat upon his wide veranda in the cool of the summer Sabbath morning. His hat was off, the soft breeze was playing with his brown hair, and a fragrant cigar was rolled lazily between his lips. He was taking his ease after the fashion of a true gentleman. But his eyes roamed widely, and his glance rested now on the blue-green sweep of the great lawn, again on the bright blades of the growing corn, and anon on the waving fields of tobacco, and he sighed a sigh of ineffable content. The breath had hardly died on his lips when the figure of an old man appeared before him, and, hat in hand, shuffled up the wide steps of the porch.
It was a funny old figure, stooped and so one-sided that the tail of the long and shabby coat he wore dragged on the ground. The face was black and shrewd, and little patches of snow-white hair fringed the shiny pate.
"Good-morning, Uncle Simon," said Mr. Marston, heartily.
"Mornin' Mas' Gawge. How you come on?"
"I'm first-rate. How are you? How are your rheumatics coming on?"
"Oh, my, dey's mos' nigh well. Dey don' trouble me no mo'!"
"Most nigh well, don't trouble you any more?"