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Updated: May 28, 2025
It were a pesky wind that kep' a-cuffin' me an' whistlin' in the briers on my face an' crackin' my coat-tails. I were lonesome lonesomer'n a he-bear an' the cold grabbin' holt o' all ends o' me so as I had to stop an' argue 'bout whar my bound'ry-lines was located like I were York State. Cat's blood an' gun-powder! I had to kick an' scratch to keep my nose an' toes from gittin' brittle."
He remained as quiet as that too quiet man beside him, until Steve himself opened his lips. "It's a lonesome night," mused the latter at length. Fat Joe could not have endured it much longer. His pent-up spirit leaped fervidly forth in reply. "Lonesome!" he ejaculated. "Man, it's lonesomer'n hell! Hear that damn wind sighin' in the branches, as your poets say. Hear her moan!
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