mighty array.

Some came down from Barleytown an' the neighbouring city o' Rye.
An' the little black people they climbed every steeple
An' sat looking up at the sky.
They came fer t' see what a wedding might be an' they
furnished the cake an' the pie.

I remember he turned to me when he had finished and took one of my small
hands and held it in his hard palm and looked at it and then into my
face.

'Ah, boy!' he said, 'your way shall lead you far from here, and you
shall get learning and wealth and win--victories.'

'What nonsense are you talking, Jed Ferry?' said Uncle Eb.

'O, you all think I'm a fool an' a humbug, 'cos I look it. Why, Eben
Holden, if you was what ye looked, ye'd be in the presidential chair.
Folks here 'n the valley think o' nuthin' but hard work--most uv 'em,
an' I tell ye now this boy ain't a goin' t' be wuth putty on a farm.
Look a' them slender hands.

'There was a man come to me the other day an' wanted t' hev a poem 'bout
his wife that hed jes' died. I ast him t' tell me all 'bout her.

'"Wall," said he, after he had scratched his head an' thought a minute,
"she was a dretful good woman t' work."

'"Anything else?" I asked.

'He thought agin fer a minute.

'"Broke her leg once," he said, "an' was laid up fer more'n a year."

"Must o' suffered," said I.

'"Not then," he answered. "Ruther enjoyed it layin' abed an' readin' an'
bein' rubbed, but 'twas hard on the children."

'"S'pose ye loved her," I said.

'Then the tears come into his eyes an' he couldn't speak fer a minute.
Putty soon he whispered "Yes" kind o' confidential. 'Course he loved
her, but these Yankees are ashamed o' their feelin's. They hev tender
thoughts, but they hide 'em as careful as the wild goose hides her eggs.
I wrote a poem t' please him, an' goin' home I made up one fer myself,
an 'it run 'bout like this:

O give me more than a life, I beg,
That finds real joy in a broken leg.
Whose only thought is t' work an' save
An' whose only rest is in the grave.
Saving an' scrimping from day to day
While its best it has squandered an' flung away
Fer a life like that of which I tell
Would rob me quite o' the dread o' hell.

'Toil an' slave an' scrimp an' save--thet's 'bout all we think uv 'n
this country. 'Tain't right, Holden.'

'No, 'tain't right,' said Uncle Eb.

'I know I'm a poor, mis'rable critter. Kind o' out o' tune with
everybody I know. Alwus quarrelled with my own f