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'Hear the crickets holler,' said Uncle Eb, as he followed the bank
up into the open pasture.
'What makes 'em holler?' I asked.
'O, they're jes' filin' their saws an' thinkin'. Mebbe tellin' o' what's
happened 'em. Been a hard day fer them little folks. Terrible flood
in their country. Everyone on em hed t' git up a steeple quick 'she
could er be drownded. They hev their troubles an' they talk 'bout
'em, too.'
'What do they file their saws for?' I enquired.
'Well, ye know,' said he, 'where they live the timber's thick an' they
hev hard work clearin' t' mek a home.'
I was getting too sleepy for further talk. He made his way from
field to field, stopping sometimes to look off at the distant
mountains then at the sky or to whack the dry stalks of mullen with
his cane. I remember he let down some bars after a long walk and
stepped into a smooth roadway. He stood resting a little while, his
basket on the top bar, and then the moon that I had been watching
went down behind the broad rim of his hat and I fell into utter
forgetfulness.


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