The rail fence inclosed the space of an acre, perhaps,
which was covered with spent bark. Across the pits planks were
laid, with heavy stones upon them to hold them in place. A rude
roof sheltered the bark-mill from the weather, and there was the
patient mule, with Birt and a whip to make sure that he did not fall
into reflective pauses according to his meditative wont. And there,
too, was Tennessee, perched on the lower edge of a great pile of
bark, and gravely watching Birt.
He deprecated the attention she attracted. He was sometimes ashamed
to have the persistent little sister seen following at his heels
like a midday shadow. He could not know that the men who stopped
and spoke to him and to her, and laughed at the infirmities of the
infant tongue when she replied unintelligibly, thought better of him
for his manifestation of strong fraternal affection. They said to
each other that he was a "peart boy an' powerful good ter the
t'other chill'en, an' holped the fambly along ez well ez a man--
better'n thar dad ever done;" for Birt's father had been
characterized always as "slack-twisted an' onlucky."
The shadows dwindled on the tan. The winds had furled their wings.
White clouds rose, dazzling, opaque, up to the blue zenith. The
querulous cicada complained in the laurel. Birt heard the call of a
jay from the woods. And then, as he once more urged the old mule
on, the busy bark-mill kept up such a whir that he could hear
nothing else.
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