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.
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