een carefully if rudely pictured, but the
look of my own person, since I grew to the stature of manhood, I have
left wholly to the imagination of the reader. I will wager he knew long
since what manner of man I was and has measured me to the fraction of an
inch, and knows even the colour of my hair and eyes from having been so
long in my company. If not--well, I shall have to write him a letter.

When Uncle Eb and I took the train for New York that summer day in 1860,
some fifteen years after we came down Paradise Road with the dog and
wagon and pack basket, my head, which, in that far day, came only to
the latitude of his trouser pocket, had now mounted six inches above
his own. That is all I can say here on that branch of my subject. I
was leaving to seek my fortune in the big city; Uncle Eb was off for a
holiday and to see Hope and bring her home for a short visit. I remember
with what sadness I looked back that morning at mother and father as
they stood by the gate slowly waving their handkerchiefs. Our home at
last was emptied of its young, and even as they looked the shadow of old
age must have fallen suddenly before them. I knew how they would go back
into that lonely room and how, while the clock went on with its ticking,
Elizabeth would sit down and cover her face a moment, while David would
make haste to take up his chores.

We sat in silence a long time after the train was off, a mighty sadness
holding our tongues. Uncle Eb, who had never ridden a long journey on
the cars before, had put on his grand suit of broadcloth. The day was
hot and dusty, and before we had gone far he was sadly soiled. But a
suit never gave him any worry, once it was on. He sat calmly, holding
his knee in his hands and looking out of the open window, a squint in
his eyes that stood for some high degree of interest in the scenery.

'What do you think of this country?' I enquired.

'Looks purty fair,' said he, as he brushed his face with his
handkerchief and coughed to clear his throat of the dust, 'but 'tain't
quite so pleasant to the taste as some other parts o' the country. I
ruther liked the flavour of Saint Lawrence all through, but Jefferson is
a leetle gritty.'

He put down the window as he spoke.

'A leetle tobaccer'll improve it some,' he added, as his hand went down
for the old silver box. 'The way these cars dew rip along! Consamed if
it ain't like flyin'! Kind o' makes me feel like a bird.'

The railroad was then not