'There was a man come to me the other day an' wanted t' hev a poem 'bout his wife that hed jes' died. 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. Kind o' out o' tune with everybody I know. Alwus quarrelled with my own folks, an' now I ain't got any home. Someday I'm goin' t' die in the poorhouse er on the ground under these woods. But I tell ye'--here he spoke in a voice that grew loud with feeling--'mebbe I've been lazy, as they say, but I've got more out o' my life than any o' these fools. And someday God'll honour me far above them. When my wife an' I parted I wrote some lines that say well my meaning. It was only a log house we had, but this will show what I got out of it.' Then he spoke the lines, his voice trembling with emotion. 'O humble home! Thou hadst a secret door Thro' which I looked, betimes, with wondering eye On treasures that no palace ever wore But now--goodbye! In hallowed scenes what feet have trod thy stage! The babe, the maiden, leaving home to wed The young man going forth by duty led And faltering age. Thou hadst a magic window broad and high The light and glory of the morning shone Thro' it, however dark the day had grown, Or bleak the sky. 'I know Dave Brower's folks hev got brains an' decency, but when thet boy is old enough t' take care uv himself, let him git out o' this country. I tell ye he'll never make a farmer, an' if he marries an' settles down here he'll git t' be a poet, mebbe, er some such shif'less cuss, an' die in the poorhouse. Guess I better git back t' my bilin' now. Good-night,' he added, rising and buttoning his old coat as he walked away.