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Updated: May 28, 2025
Mis' Poteet have done left her with Tobe to take care of and he put her on a stump while he chased a polecat that he fell on while it was going under a fence, and now Uncle Tuck is a-burying of him up in the woods lot. Jest joggle her with your foot this way if she goes to cry."
"Tobe Gryce, ye air fairly demented," exclaimed the register a chin-whiskered, grizzled old fellow, sitting on a stump and hugging his knee with a desolate, bereaved look "talkin' 'bout the stray-book, an' all the records gone! What will folks do 'bout thar deeds, an' mortgages, an' sech? An' that thar keerful index ez I had made ez straight ez a string all cinders!"
Downstairs, on the way out of the place, if by chance he encountered the warden in his office, the warden, in all likelihood, would say: "Well, how about it this time, Uncle Tobe?" And Uncle Tobe would make some such answer as this: "Well, suh, accordin' to my reckonin' this here one will heft about a hund'ed an' sixty-five pound, ez he stands now. How's he takin' it, warden?" "Oh, so-so."
Reading the narrative, one living at a distance got an accurate picture of a personality elevated above the commonplace solely by the rôle which its owner filled; a picture of an old man thoroughly sincere and thoroughly conscientious; a man dull, earnest, and capable to his limits; a man who was neither morbid nor imaginative, but filled with rather a stupid gravity; a man canny about the pennies and affectionately inclined toward the dollars; a man honestly imbued with the idea that he was a public servant performing a necessary public service; a man without nerves, but in all other essentials a small-town man with a small-town mind; in short, saw Uncle Tobe as he really was.
They don't feel strong like they did when I helped Uncle Tucker mow the south pasture and turn the corn chopper they're weak and and sorter useless and empty. Tell Stonie he could beat me bear-hugging any day now. Has Tobe discovered any new adventure in aromatics lately, and can little Poteet sit up and take notice? Help, help, I'm getting so homesick that I'm about to cry and fall into the ink!
"Chrismus!" rang from the roof, scintillating with calcspar; "Chrismus!" sounded from the colonnade of stalactites that hung down to meet the uprising stalagmites; "Chrismus!" repeated the walls incrusted with roses that, shut in from the light and the fresh air of heaven, bloomed forever in the stone. Was ever chorus so sweet as this? It reached Tobe Gryce, who stood at his improvised corn-bin.
The man in the painted vest had transferred his attention from stallion to mare. "Yes. Quickest way is down this alley. Tobe Kells owns it. He’s a tolerable vet, too. She’s near her time, ain’t she?" "Yes." The rider raised one finger to the straight wide brim of his low-crowned black hat. He was already turning his mount when the townsman added: "No hotel here, stranger.
Besides small presents of cloth, dates, tobacco and rice to his friends, he had six cubits of Sauda Wilayati or English indigo-dyed calico for women's fillets, and two of Sauda Kashshi, a Cutch imitation, a Shukkah or half Tobe for his daughter, and a sheep for himself, together with a large bundle of tobacco.
"Don't know what's the matter with him," he remarked, dropping down beside Nan again, and stirring the horses to a faster pace. "S'pose he's got into a mud-hold, team and all, maybe." "Oh, Tom! Maybe he'll be sucked right down into this awful mud." "Not likely. There aren't many quicksands, or the like, hereabout. Never heard tell of 'em, if there are. Old Tobe lost a cow once in some slough."
This is Uncle Tobe addressing the visiting correspondent: "It stands to reason don't it? that these here sinful men have got to be hung, an' that somebody has got to hang 'em. That's perzactly whut it says, an' I'm one whut believes the Bible frum kiver to kiver.
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