I ast him t' tell me all 'bout her.
'"Wall," said he, after he had scratched his head an' thought a minute, "she was a dretful good woman t' work." '"Anything else ?" I asked.
'He thought agin fer a minute.
'"Broke her leg once," he said, "an' was laid up fer more'n a year." "Must o' suffered," said I.
'"Not then," he answered.

"Ruther enjoyed it layin' abed an' readin' an' bein' rubbed, but 'twas hard on the children." '"S'pose ye loved her," I said.
'Then the tears come into his eyes an' he couldn't speak fer a minute.
Putty soon he whispered "Yes" kind o' confidential.

'Course he loved her, but these Yankees are ashamed o' their feelin's.

They hev tender thoughts, but they hide 'em as careful as the wild goose hides her eggs.
I wrote a poem t' please him, an' goin' home I made up one fer myself, an 'it run 'bout like this: O give me more than a life, I beg, That finds real joy in a broken leg.
Whose only thought is t' work an' save An' whose only rest is in the grave.
Saving an' scrimping from day to day While its best it has squandered an' flung away Fer a life like that of which I tell Would rob me quite o' the dread o' hell.
'Toil an' slave an' scrimp an' save--thet's 'bout all we think uv 'n this country.

'Tain't right, Holden.' 'No, 'tain't right,' said Uncle Eb.
'I know I'm a poor, mis'rable critter.