Don't scare poor old Teenie all
alone here with you. Looka out there through the door. Ain't it
something grand? Honest, Jas, I just never get tired looking. See them
low little hills out there. I always say they look like chiffon this
time of evening. Don't they? Just looka the whole fields out there, so
still--like--like a old horse standing up dozing. Smell! Listen to the
little birds! Ain't we happy out here, me and my boy that's getting
well so fine?"
Then Jastrow the Granite Jaw began to whimper, half-moans engendered by
weakness. "Put me out of my misery. Shoot!"
"Jas--Jas--ain't that just an awful way for you to talk? Ain't that
just terrible to say to your poor old Big Tent?"
She smoothed out his pillow, and drew out his cot on ready casters,
closer toward the open door.
"See, Jas--honest, can you ever get enough of how beautiful it is? When
I was a kid on my pap's farm out there, eighty miles beyond the ridge,
instead of playing with the kids that used to torment me because I was a
heavy, I just used to lay out evenings like this on a hay-rack or
something and look and look and look. There's something about this soft
kind of scenery that a person that's born in it never gets tired of.
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