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While we sat alone I plead for a story, but the thoughts of Uncle
Eb had gone to roost early in a sort of gloomy meditation.
'Be still, my boy,' said he, 'an' go t' sleep. I ain't agoin' t' tell no
yarns an' git ye all stirred up. Ye go t' sleep. Come mornin' we'll go
down t' the brook an' see if we can't find a mink or tew 'n the traps.'
I remember hearing a great crackling of twigs in the dark wood
before I slept. As I lifted my head, Uncle Eb whispered, 'Hark!' and
we both listened. A bent and aged figure came stalking into the
firelight His long white hair mingled with his beard and covered
his coat collar behind.
'Don't be scairt,' said Uncle Eb. ''Tain' no bear. It's nuthin' but a
poet.'
I knew him for a man who wandered much and had a rhyme for
everyone - a kindly man with a reputation for laziness and without
any home.
'Bilin', eh?' said the poet
'Bilin',' said Uncle Eb.
'I'm bilin' over 'n the next bush,' said the poet, sitting down.
'How's everything in Jingleville?' Uncle Eb enquired.


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