“Absalom Bunkel was a man ez was nat’rally so lazy it was a credit to him every time he moved,” the Patriarch began. He fixed his stick firmly on the floor, piled his two fat hands on its big knob head, and leaned forward until his chin almost rested on his knuckles. “You uns knows the old lawg house that stands where the Big Run crosses the road over the mo’ntain. It’s all tumbled down now. They ain’t no daubin’ atween the lawgs; the chimbley’s fallen, the fence is gone, an’ the lot’s choked up with weeds. It’s a forlorn place to-day, but ’hen I was a lad it was jest about the slickest thing along the ridge yander. That’s where Absalom Bunkel lived, an’ his pap, an’ his pap’s pap lived afore him. Ezry Bunkel was a mean man, an’ he come nat’ral by his meanness, fer they never was one o’ the name who was knowed to buy anything he could borry or give away anything he could sell. So ’hen he died he left Absalom a neat little pile o’ about nine hundred dollars. An’ a fortunate thing it was fer the son, fer he’d ruther by fur set on the porch with the pangs o’hunger gnawin’ th’oo him, a-listenin’ to the birds an’ watchin’ the bees a-hummin’ over the sunflowers, than to ’a’ worked. “Now Absalom was afore my time, an’ I never seen him myself, but I’ve heard tell of him from my pap, an’ what my pap sayd was allus true--true ez gawspel it was. He otter ’a’ knowd all about it, too, fer he was a pall-bearer at Ezry’s funeral. Absalom was thirty-five year old ’hen that happened. He didn’t go off spendin’ his fortune--not much. He jest set right down in a rockin’ chair on the front porch an’ let his sister Nancy look after the place. Nance done the farmin’; Nance made the garden; Nance milked the cow; Nance done the housework an’ come to the store. He done nawthin’--absolute nawthin’. “He was never out o’ bed afore sun-up. Ef it was warm he’d set on the leetle porch all day lookin’ over the walley, watchin’ the folks goin’ by an’ the birds swoopin’ th’oo the fiel’s, an’ listenin’ to the dreamy hum o’ nature. Ef it was cold he’d loaf all day be the fireplace, bakin’ his shins. Sometim’s Nance ’ud go away fer a spell an’ fergit to leave him wood. Does he cut some fer himself like an ordinary man? Not him. He jest walks to the nearest possible fence-rail, kerrys it inter the house, puts one eend inter the fire an’ keeps pushin’ een ez it burns off. That’s the kind o’ a felly Absalom Bunkel was.