Sometimes I hear the half-audible, disembodied voices of my neighbors across the pond, playing weirdly through the pines, seeming to float around the sloping walls of the kettle. It makes you think of Spirits -- "Sperrits" -- and this passage from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn:
"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.
Phelps's was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations; and they all look alike....."
-- THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN, Ch. 32.
No comments:
Post a Comment