After a time my companion and I moved to the exceedingly dirty smoking
room at the end of the car, where we sat and listened to the homely
conversation of a group of men who seemed not only to know one another,
but to know the same people in towns along the line. Between stations
they gossiped, smoked, chewed, spat, and swore together like so many New
England crossroad sages, but when the train stopped they gave
encouraging attention to the droll performances of one of their number,
a shaggy, unshaven, rawboned man, of middle age, gray-haired and
collarless, who sat near the window and uttered convincing imitations of
the sounds made by chickens, roosters, pigs, goats, and crows.
The platform crowds, the negroes in particular, were mystified and lured
by this animal chorus coming from a passenger coach. On hearing it they
would first gaze in astonishment at the car, then edge up to the windows
and doors, and peer in with eyes solemn, round, and wondering, only to
be more amazed than ever by the discovery that the car housed neither
bird nor beast. This bucolic comedy was repeated at every station until
we reached Wyatt, Alabama, where our gifted fellow traveler arose,
pointed his collar button toward the door, bade us farewell, and
departed, saying that he was going to "walk over to Democrat.
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