He went out upon the platform and threw back his
head, sniffing the soft breeze, heavy with the mysterious thrill of
unplowed acres, the wondrous existence of primordial jungle, where
life has rioted unceasingly above unceasing decay. It was dry with the
fine dust of waste places, and wet with the warm mists of slumbering
swamps; it seemed to Gideon to tremble with the songs of birds, the
dry murmur of palm leaves, and the almost inaudible whisper of the
gray moss that festooned the live-oaks.
"Um-m-m," he murmured, apostrophizing it, "yo' 's the right kind o'
breeze, yo' is. Yo'-all's healthy." Still sniffing, he climbed down to
the dusty road-bed.
The negroes who had ridden with him were sprawled about him on the
ground; one of them lay sleeping, face up, in the sunlight. The train
had evidently been there for some time, and there were no signs of an
immediate departure. He bought some oranges of a little, bowlegged
black boy, and sat down on a log to eat them and to give up his mind
to enjoyment. The sun was hot upon him, and his thoughts were vague
and drowsy. He was glad that he was alive, glad to be back once more
among familiar scenes.
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