The same eyes that seed down through the brush and ferns in the
Summit woods, the same ears that heerd the music of the wind trailin'
through the pines, don't see you with my eyes or hear you with my ears.
And when she paints you, it's nat'ril for a woman with that pow'ful mind
and grand idees to dip her brush into her heart's blood for warmth and
color. Yer smilin', young man. Well, go on and smile at me, my lad, but
not at her. For you don't know her. When you know her story as I do,
when you know she was made a wife afore she ever knew what it was to be
a young woman, when you know that the man she married never understood
the kind o' critter he was tied to no more than ef he'd been a steer
yoked to a Morgan colt, when ye know she had children growin' up around
her afore she had given over bein' a sort of child herself, when ye
know she worked and slaved for that man and those children about the
house--her heart, her soul, and all her pow'ful mind bein' all the time
in the woods along with the flickering leaves and the shadders,--when
ye mind she couldn't get the small ways o' the ranch because she had the
big ways o' Natur' that made it,--then you'll understand her.
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