“When first I chanced the Eagle to explore, Ezra sat listless by the open door; One chair careened him at an angle meet, Another nursed his hugely-slippered feet; Upon a third reposed a shirt-sleeved arm, And the whole man diffused tobacco’s charm. 'Are you the landlord?' 'Wahl, I guess I be,' Watching the smoke, he answered leisurely. He was a stoutish man, and through the breast Of his loose shirt there showed a brambly chest; Streaked redly as a wind-foreboding morn, His tanned cheeks curved to temples closely shorn; Clean-shaved he was, save where a hedge of gray Upon his brawny throat leaned every way About an Adam’s-apple, that beneath Bulged like a boulder from a brambly heath. The Western World’s true child and nursling he, Equipt with aptitudes enough for three: No eye like his to value horse or cow, Or gauge the contents of a stack or mow; He could foretell the weather at a word, He knew the haunt of every beast and bird, Or where a two-pound trout was sure to lie, Waiting the flutter of his home-made fly; Nay, once in autumns five, he had the luck To drop at fair-play range a ten-tined buck; Of sportsmen true he favored every whim, But never cockney found a guide in him; A natural man, with all his instincts fresh, Not buzzing helpless in Reflection’s mesh, Firm on its feet stood his broad-shouldered mind, As bluffly honest as a northwest wind; Hard-headed and soft-hearted, you’d scarce meet A kindlier mixture of the shrewd and sweet; Generous by birth, and ill at saying 'No,' Yet in a bargain he was all men’s foe, Would yield no inch of vantage in a trade, And give away ere nightfall all he made. “'Can I have lodging here?' once more I said. He blew a whiff, and, leaning back his head, 'You come a piece through Bailey’s woods, I s’pose, Acrost a bridge where a big swamp-oak grows? It don’t grow, neither; it’s ben dead ten year, Nor th' ain’t a livin' creetur, fur nor near, Can tell wut killed it; but I some misdoubt ’Twas borers, there’s sech heaps on ’em about. You did n' chance to run ag’inst my son, A long, slab-sided youngster with a gun? He’d oughto ben back more ’n an hour ago, An' brought some birds to dress for supper--sho! There he comes now. 'Say, Obed, wut ye got? (He’ll hev some upland plover like as not.) Wal, them’s real nice uns, an’ll eat A 1, Ef I can stop their bein' over-done; Nothin' riles _me_ (I pledge my fastin' word) Like cookin' out the natur' of a bird; (Obed, you pick ’em out o' sight an' sound, Your ma’am don’t love no feathers cluttrin' round;) Jes' scare ’em with the coals,--thet’s _my_ idee.' Then, turning suddenly about on me, 'Wal, Square, I guess so. Callilate to stay? I’ll ask Mis' Weeks; ’bout _thet_ it’s hern to say.'