"Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides
On its fair, windin' way to the sea--"
It was Macie Sewell singin'. Ole Number 201 'd just pulled outen
Briggs City, haided southwest with her freight of tenderfeet, and with
Ingineer Dave Reynolds stickin' in his spurs to make up lost time.
The passengers 'd had twenty-five minutes fer a good grubbin'-up at
the eatin'-house, and now the little gal was help-in' the balance of
the Harvey bunch to clear off the lunch-counter. Whilst she worked,
she was chirpin' away like she'd plumb bust her throat.
I was outside, settin' on a truck with Up-State. He was watchin'
acrosst the rails, straight afore him, and listenin', and I could see
he was swallerin' some, and his eyes looked kinda like he'd been
ridin' agin the wind. When I shifted my _po_sition, he turned the
other way quick, and coughed--that pore little gone-in cough of hisn.
Wal, I felt pretty bad myself; and I seen somethin' turrible was wrong
with Up-State--I couldn't just make out what. Pretty soon, I put my
hand on his arm, and I says, "I don't want t' worm anythin' outen
you, ole man; I just want t' say I'm you' friend."
"Cupid," he whispers back, "it's The Mohawk Vale."
(He allus whispered, y' savvy; couldn't talk out loud no more, bein'
so turrible shy on lung.)
"Is that a bony fido place?" I ast, "'r just made up a-purpose fer
the song?"
"It's _my_ country," he whispers, slow and husky, and begun gazin'
acrosst to the mesquite again. "And, Cupid, it's a _beau_tiful
country!"
"I reckon," I says. "It's likely got Oklahomaw skinned t' death."
Up-State, he didn't answer that--too _po_lite. Aw, he was a gent, too,
same as the parson.