XXXII

When I got there it was all still and Sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny; the hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind of faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so lonesome and like everybody’s dead and gone; and if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful, because you feel like it’s spirits whispering⁠—spirits that’s been dead ever so many years⁠—and you always think they’re talking about you . As a general thing it makes a body wish he was dead, too, and done with it all.