"Wuz you eber homesick, Boss?" asked Uncle Jimpson inconsequently.
"Rather," said the stranger emphatically. "I was born homesick."
"Well, dat's what ails my young Miss an' dat's whut's de matter wid me
an' Carline an' Mike. Ain't none ob us used to libin' in other folks'
houses an' mixin' up wid other folkses families. 'Course hit's mighty
fine to be rich an' put on airs, but hit's lonesome. 'Fore hit got so
cold, me an' Carline'd go down home most ebery night an' set round de
quarters, listenin' to de frogs an' de crickets, an' I'd say,'
Carline, don't you mind de time dat Miss Lady fell head fust into de
barrel ob sorghum? An' de time she made de chickens drunk often egg-
nog?' Nebber wus nobody in de world lak dat chile, up to ever
mischievousness dat ever wuz concocted, but jus' so sweet an' coaxin'
dat de Cunnel nebber knowed how to punish her."
The stranger took out a meerschaum pipe, started to light a match,
evidently forgot his intention, and looked absently ahead into the
darkness.
"Dis is Thornwood!" said Uncle Jimpson eagerly, pointing with his whip
up a long avenue of trees; "you can't see de house 'cause dey ain't no
lights in de winders.
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