while the child talked. He would squint his eyes like he was trying to
sight something away ahead of him, puffed out his cheeks till they
resembled an inflated bellows. Finally, slapped his thigh vigorously,
blurting out, "You iz er sharp one, Lil Misus, you won' never 'go fru er
thicket en pick up er 'oop-pole', he-he-he."

"Can you manage it for me, Uncle Squire?" asked the child anxiously.

"Ob cose I kin, Lil Misus, ob cose I kin. Squire's your man."

"O, you dear, good, Uncle Squire," cried the delighted child. "I feel like
hugging you."

The old man twisted around in his seat and went through his facial
pantomimes again, pretty much on the principle of a dog wagging his tail
when he is fed.

Roberta was feeding him with the daintiest of food, the nectar of the gods
to all of us, old and young, high and low.

Although it was July, there was a bed of glowing embers on the stone
hearth, where Uncle Squire was cooking his supper. He liked the
independence of it. A pot of steaming coffee stood close beside the fire,
slices of middling meat were broiling on the coals, and an ash cake slowly
browning. He nodded his head toward them, on hospitable thoughts intent.

"Iz you hongry, Lil Missus?"

"Well, I believe I am, rather, Uncle Squire, and your supper looks nice,
but I think I will save myself for Aunt Judy's waffles. I took her a