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.
Then the newcomer answered: 'Well, neighbour dear, in Jingleville We live by faith but we eat our fill; An' what w'u'd we do if it wa'n't fer prayer?
Fer we can't raise a thing but whiskers an' hair.' 'Cur'us how you can talk po'try,' said Uncle Eb.

'The only thing I've got agin you is them whiskers an' thet hair.