Indeed, it may be said that from a scenic standpoint
everything through which we had passed was overdone: mountains, rocks,
streams, trees, all sounding a characteristic American note of
exaggeration.
Then at last we came to the wilderness abode of Cousin Egbert. A rude
hut of native logs it was, set in this highland glen beside a tarn.
From afar we descried its smoke, and presently in the doorway observed
Cousin Egbert himself, who waved cheerfully at us. His appearance gave
me a shock. Quite aware of his inclination to laxness, I was yet
unprepared for his present state. Never, indeed, have I seen a man so
badly turned out. Too evidently unshaven since his disappearance, he
was gotten up in a faded flannel shirt, open at the neck and without
the sign of cravat, a pair of overalls, also faded and quite wretchedly
spotty, and boots of the most shocking description. Yet in spite of
this dreadful tenue he greeted me without embarrassment and indeed
with a kind of artless pleasure. Truly the man was impossible, and when
I observed the placard he had allowed to remain on the waistband of his
overalls, boastfully alleging their indestructibility, my sympathies
flew back to Mrs. Effie. There was a cartoon emblazoned on this placard,
depicting the futile efforts of two teams of stout horses, each attached
to a leg of the garment, to wrench it in twain.
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