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But now he was so picturesque, so much nobler, really, than he had been in his healthier, uninjured days. A fabled giant, he seemed to me, half-god, half-man, composed in part of flesh, in part of brick and stone, gazing down on our earthly efforts with the eye of a demi-god. "Come, now get the j'ists from aaf the end, there. Take the bricks away from that man. Can't ye see?
The old negro, shabbier, lonelier, poorer than ever, shambled up to the wall where she was standing and uncovered a split basket full of eggs. "I'se got a pa'cel er hens hid in de woods over yonder," he explained, "en I keep de eggs behin' de j'ists in my cabin. Sis Floretty she tole me dat de w'ite folks wuz wuss off den de niggers now, so I brung you dese."
The dialog on the bank continued. "Thar, you kin see thar air men in a canoe," said the first voice. "I can't see nothin' o' the kind," replied the other. "If hit ain't a log with three dead limbs, hit's a piece o' barn-timber with the j'ists a-stickin' up." "I don't believe hit nary mite. Hit's men, an' I'm a-gwine t' shoot." "No, yo' hain't gwine t' make a durned fool o' yourself. Wait a minute.
Ye hae whaur to put them. "Ow, guid dale fleers what ither?" answered the farmer. " It's the wa's, wuman, no the fleers we hae to be concernt aboot i' this wather." "Gien the j'ists be strang, an' weel set intil the wa's, what for sudna ye tak the horse up the stair intil yer bedrooms?
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