Our grotto, in the corn, was shortly as cheerful as any room in a palace, and our fire sent its light into the long aisles that opened opposite, and nobody could see the warm glow of it but ourselves.
'We'll hev our supper,' said Uncle Eb, as he opened a paper and spread out the eggs and bread and butter and crackers.

'We'll jest hev our supper an' by 'n by when everyone's abed we'll make tracks in the dirt, I can tell ye.' Our supper over, Uncle Eb let me look at his tobacco-box--a shiny thing of German silver that always seemed to snap out a quick farewell to me before it dove into his pocket.

He was very cheerful and communicative, and joked a good deal as we lay there waiting in the firelight.

I got some further acquaintance with the swift, learning among other things that it had no appetite for the pure in heart.
'Why not ?' I enquired.
'Well,' said Uncle Eb, 'it's like this: the meaner the boy, the sweeter the meat.' He sang an old song as he sat by the fire, with a whistled interlude between lines, and the swing of it, even now, carries me back to that far day in the fields.

I lay with my head in his lap while he was singing.
Years after, when I could have carried him on my back' he wrote down for me the words of the old song.