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Updated: May 28, 2025
I returned to peer into the mat-roofed yard with piles of corn-stalks and un-threshed beans, and met the man of the house just arriving with his labor-worn burros. He was a sinewy peasant of about fifty, dressed like all country peons in shirt and tight trousers of thinnest white cotton, showing his brown skin here and there.
He looked at her gravely, then his small eyes swept the limited landscape. "A hangin' matter," he mused, scratching his gray head reflectively. "An' if they ketch you here, I guess I'll go to Libby, too. Hey?" He passed his labor-worn hand over his eyes, pressing the lids, and stood so, minute after minute, buried in thought.
sang Vesty, with eyes darkly circled and sunken, and the beautiful, strong hand, labor-worn, and the thin old shawl fallen back from her shoulders. There was a different tone now in the parting salutations of the Basins. "I'm a-comin' up to help ye paper," said one woman to another; "ye got sick last year, and I'm a-comin', whether ye want me to or not." "Oh, I want ye bad enough, Mar'ette."
The nobleman, in his gilded carriage with liveried servants, stops and pays the tribute of an uncovered head to some saintly image by the bridge or the roadside; the peasant, in his shaggy sheepskin capote, doffs his greasy cap, and, while devoutly crossing himself, utters a prayer; the soldier, grim and warlike, marches up in his rattling armor, grounds his musket, and forgets for the time his mission of blood; the tradesman, with his leather apron and labor-worn hands, lays down his tools and does homage to the shrine; the drosky-driver, noted for his petty villainies, checks his horse, and, standing up in his drosky, bows low and crosses himself before he crosses the street or the bridge; even my guide, the saturnine Dominico and every body knows what guides are all over the world halted at every corner, regardless of time, and uttered an elaborate form of adjurations for our mutual salvation.
"Shady nooks Patiently give up their quiet being." None but the weary, labor-worn serf, who has toiled through the long day in the fierce rays of the sun, can sleep such nights as these. I call them nights, yet what a strange mistake.
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