PIPES O' PAN AT ZEKESBURY

BY

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

INDIANAPOLIS

BOWEN-MERRILL CO. , PUBLISHERS

1895

_TO MY BROTHER JOHN A. RILEY WITH MANY MEMORIES OF THE OLD HOME_

CONTENTS

 PAGE

AT ZEKESBURY 13

DOWN AROUND THE RIVER POEMS

 DOWN AROUND THE RIVER 37

 KNEELING WITH HERRICK 39

 ROMANCIN' 40

 HAS SHE FORGOTTEN 43

 A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG 45

 THE LOST PATH 47

 THE LITTLE TINY KICKSHAW 48

 HIS MOTHER 49

 KISSING THE ROD 50

 HOW IT HAPPENED 51

 BABYHOOD 53

 THE DAYS GONE BY 54

 MRS. MILLER 57

RHYMES OF RAINY DAYS

 THE TREE-TOAD 79

 A WORN-OUT PENCIL 80

 THE STEPMOTHER 82

 THE RAIN 83

 THE LEGEND GLORIFIED 84

 WHUR MOTHER IS 85

 OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME 86

 THREE DEAD FRIENDS 88

 IN BOHEMIA 91

 IN THE DARK 93

 WET-WEATHER TALK 94

 WHERE SHALL WE LAND 96

 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 101

SWEET-KNOT AND GALAMUS

 AN OLD SWEETHEART 159

 MARTHY ELLEN 161

 MOON-DROWNED 163

 LONG AFORE HE KNOWED 164

 DEAR HANDS 166

 THIS MAN JONES 167

 TO MY GOOD MASTER 169

 WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK 170

 AT BROAD RIPPLE 171

 WHEN OLD JACK DIED 172

 DOC SIFERS 174

 AT NOON--AND MIDNIGHT 177

 A WILD IRISHMAN 181

RAGWEED AND FENNEL

 WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE 205

 A DOS'T O' BLUES 206

 THE BAT 208

 THE WAY IT WUZ 209

 THE DRUM 212

 TOM JOHNSON'S QUIT 214

 LULLABY 216

 IN THE SOUTH 217

 THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL 219

 A LEAVE-TAKING 221

 WAIT FOR THE MORNING 222

 WHEN JUNE IS HERE 223

 THE GILDED ROLL 227

PIPES O' PAN AT ZEKESBURY

 The pipes of Pan! Not idler now are they Than when their cunning fashioner first blew The pith of music from them: Yet for you And me their notes are blown in many a way Lost in our murmurings for that old day That fared so well, without us. --Waken to The pipings here at hand:--The clear halloo Of truant-voices, and the roundelay The waters warble in the solitude Of blooming thickets, where the robin's breast Sends up such ecstacy o'er dale and dell, Each tree top answers, till in all the wood There lingers not one squirrel in his nest Whetting his hunger on an empty shell. 

AT ZEKESBURY. 

The little town, as I recall it, was of just enough dignity and dearthof the same to be an ordinary county seat in Indiana--"The Grand OldHoosier State, " as it was used to being howlingly referred to by theforensic stump orator from the old stand in the courthouse yard--apolitical campaign being the wildest delight that Zekesbury might everhope to call its own. 

Through years the fitful happenings of the town and its vicinity wenton the same--the same! Annually about one circus ventured in, andvanished, and was gone, even as a passing trumpet-blast; the usualrainy-season swelled the "Crick, " the driftage choking at "the coveredbridge, " and backing water till the old road looked amphibious; andcrowds of curious townsfolk straggled down to look upon the waterywonder, and lean awe-struck above it, and spit in it, and turn mutelyhome again. 

The usual formula of incidents peculiar to an uneventful town and itsvicinity: The countryman from "Jessup's Crossing, " with the cornstalkcoffin-measure, loped into town, his steaming littlegray-and-red-flecked "roadster" gurgitating, as it were, with thatmysterious utterance that ever has commanded and ever must evoke thewonder and bewilderment of every boy. The small-pox rumor becameprevalent betimes, and the subtle aroma of the assafoetida-bagpermeated the graded schools "from turret to foundation-stone;" thestill recurring exposé of the poor-house management; the farm-hand, with the scythe across his shoulder, struck dead by lightning; thelong-drawn quarrel between the rival editors culminating in one ofthem assaulting the other with a "sidestick, " and the other kickingthe one down stairs and thenceward _ad libitum;_ the tramp, suppositiously stealing a ride, found dead on the railroad; the grandjury returning a sensational indictment against a bar-tender _nonest_; the Temperance outbreak; the "Revival;" the Church Festival; andthe "Free Lectures on Phrenology, and Marvels of Mesmerism, " at thetown hall. It was during the time of the last-mentioned sensation, anddirectly through this scientific investigation, that I came upon twoof the town's most remarkable characters. And however meager myoutline of them may prove, my material for the sketch is most accuratein every detail, and no deviation from the cold facts of the caseshall influence any line of my report. 

For some years prior to this odd experience I had been connected witha daily paper at the state capitol; and latterly a prolonged sessionof the legislature, where I specially reported, having toldthreateningly upon my health, I took both the advantage of a briefvacation, and the invitation of a young bachelor Senator, to get outof the city for awhile, and bask my respiratory organs in therevivifying rural air of Zekesbury--the home of my new friend. 

"It'll pay you to get out here, " he said, cordially, meeting me at thelittle station, "and I'm glad you've come, for you'll find no end ofodd characters to amuse you. " And under the very pleasant sponsorshipof my senatorial friend, I was placed at once on genial terms withhalf the citizens of the little town--from the shirt-sleeved nabob ofthe county office to the droll wag of the favorite loafing-place--therules and by-laws of which resort, by the way, being rudely charcoaledon the wall above the cutter's bench, and somewhat artisticallyculminating in an original dialectic legend which ran thus:

 F'rinstance, now whar _some_ folks gits To relyin' on their wits. Ten to one they git too smart, And spile it all right at the start!-- Feller wants to jest go slow And do his _thinkin'_ first, you know:---- _Ef I can't think up somepin' good, _ _I set still and chaw my cood!_

And it was at this inviting rendezvous, two or three eveningsfollowing my arrival, that the general crowd, acting upon the randomproposition of one of the boys, rose as a man and wended its hilariousway to the town hall. 

"Phrenology, " said the little, old, bald-headed lecturer andmesmerist, thumbing the egg-shaped head of a young man I remembered tohave met that afternoon in some law office; "Phrenology, " repeated theprofessor--"or rather the _term_ phrenology--is derived from two Greekwords signifying _mind_ and _discourse_; hence we find embodied inphrenology-proper, the science of intellectual measurement, togetherwith the capacity of intelligent communication of the varying mentalforces and their flexibilities, etc. , &c. The study, then, ofphrenology is, to wholly simplify it--is, I say, the generalcontemplation of the workings of the mind as made manifest through thecertain corresponding depressions and protuberances of the humanskull, when, of course, in a healthy state of action and development, as we here find the conditions exemplified in the subject before us. "

Here the "subject" vaguely smiled. 

"You recognize that mug, don't you?" whispered my friend. "It's thatcoruscating young ass, you know, Hedrick--in Cummings' office--tryingto study law and literature at the same time, and tampering with 'TheMonster that Annually, ' don't you know?--where we found the two youngstudents scuffling round the office, and smelling ofpeppermint?--Hedrick, you know, and Sweeney. Sweeney, the slim chap, with the pallid face, and frog-eyes, and clammy hands! You remember Itold you 'there was a pair of 'em?' Well, they're up to something hereto-night. Hedrick, there on the stage in front; and Sweeney--don't yousee?--with the gang on the rear seats. "

"Phrenology--again, " continued the lecturer, "is, we may say, aspecies of mental geography, as it were; which--by a study of theskull--leads also to a study of the brain within, even as geologynaturally follows the initial contemplation of the earth's surface. The brain, thurfur, or intellectual retort, as we may say, nativelyexerts a molding influence on the skull contour; thurfur is the expertin phrenology most readily enabled to accurately locate themultitudinous intellectual forces, and most exactingly estimate, aswell, the sequent character of each subject submitted to his scrutiny. As, in the example before us--a young man, doubtless well known inyour midst, though, I may say, an entire stranger to myself--I ventureto disclose some characteristic trends and tendencies, as indicated bythis phrenological depression and development of the skull-proper, aslater we will show, through the mesmeric condition, the accuracy ofour mental diagnosis. "

Throughout the latter part of this speech my friend nudged mespasmodically, whispering something which was jostled out ofintelligent utterance by some inward spasm of laughter. 

"In this head, " said the Professor, straddling his malleable fingersacross the young man's bumpy brow--"In this head we find Idealitylarge--abnormally large, in fact; thurby indicating--taken inconjunction with a like development of the perceptivequalities--language following, as well, in the prominent eye--thurbyindicating, I say, our subject as especially endowed with a love forthe beautiful--the sublime--the elevating--the refined anddelicate--the lofty and superb--in nature, and in all the sublimatedattributes of the human heart and beatific soul. In fact, we find thisyoung man possessed of such natural gifts as would befit him for theexalted career of the sculptor, the actor, the artist, or thepoet--any ideal calling; in fact, any calling but a practical, matter-of-fact vocation; though in poetry he would seem to bestsucceed. "

"Well, " said my friend, seriously, "he's _feeling_ for the boy!" Thenlaughingly: "Hedrick _has_ written some rhymes for the county papers, and Sweeney once introduced him, at an Old Settlers' Meeting, as 'TheBest Poet in Center Township, ' and never cracked a smile! Always aftereach other that way, but the best friends in the world. _Sweeney's_strong suit is elocution. He has a native ability that way by no meansordinary, but even that gift he abuses and distorts simply to producegrotesque, and oftentimes ridiculous effects. For instance, nothingmore delights him than to 'lothfully' consent to answer a request, atThe Mite Society, some evening, for 'an appropriate selection, ' andthen, with an elaborate introduction of the same, and an exaltedtribute to the refined genius of the author, proceed with a mostgruesome rendition of 'Alonzo The Brave and The Fair Imogene, ' in away to coagulate the blood and curl the hair of his fair listenerswith abject terror. Pale as a corpse, you know, and with thatcadaverous face, lit with those malignant-looking eyes, his slenderfigure, and his long, thin legs and arms and hands, and his wholediabolical talent and adroitness brought into play--why, I want to sayto you, it's enough to scare 'em to death! Never a smile from him, though, till he and Hedrick are safe out into the night again--then, of course, they hug each other and howl over it like Modocs! Butpardon; I'm interrupting the lecture. Listen. "

"A lack of continuity, however, " continued the Professor, "and anundue love of approbation, would, measurably, at least, tend to retardthe young man's progress toward the consummation of any loftierambition, I fear; yet as we have intimated, if the subject wereappropriately educated to the need's demand, he could doubtlessproduce a high order of both prose and poetry--especially thelatter--though he could very illy bear being laughed at for hispains. "

"He's dead wrong there, " said my friend; "Hedrick enjoys being laughedat; he 's used to it--gets fat on it!"

"He is fond of his friends, " continued the Professor "and the heartierthey are the better; might even be convivially inclined--if sotempted--but prudent--in a degree, " loiteringly concluded the speaker, as though unable to find the exact bump with which to bolster up thelast named attribute. 

The subject blushed vividly--my friend's right eyelid dropped, andthere was a noticeable, though elusive sensation throughout theaudience. 

"_But!_" said the Professor, explosively, "selecting a directlyopposite subject, in conjunction with the study of the one before us[turning to the group at the rear of the stage and beckoning], we mayfind a newer interest in the practical comparison of these subjectsside by side. " And the Professor pushed a very pale young man intoposition. 

"Sweeney!" whispered my friend, delightedly; "now look out!"

"In _this_ subject, " said the Professor, "we find the practicalbusiness head. Square--though small--a trifle light at the base, infact; but well balanced at the important points at least; thoughtfuleyes--wide-awake--crafty--quick--restless--a policy eye, though notdenoting language--unless, perhaps, mere business forms and directstatements. "

"Fooled again!" whispered my friend; "and I'm afraid the old man willfail to nest out the fact also that Sweeney is the cold-bloodedestguyer on the face of the earth, and with more diabolical resourcesthan a prosecuting attorney; the Professor ought to know this, too, bythis time--for these same two chaps have been visiting the old man inhis room at the hotel;--that's what I was trying to tell you awhileago. The old sharp thinks he's 'playing' the boys, is my idea; butit's the other way, or I lose my guess. "

"Now, under the mesmeric influence--if the two subjects will consentto its administration, " said the Professor, after some further tediouspreamble, "we may at once determine the fact of my assertions, as willbe proved by their action while in this peculiar state. " Here someapparent remonstrance was met with from both subjects, though amicablyovercome by the Professor first manipulating the stolid brow andpallid front of the imperturbable Sweeney--after which the samemysterious ordeal was lothfully submitted to by Hedrick--though anoticeably longer time was consumed in securing his final loss ofself-control. At last, however, this curious phenomenon was presented, and there before us stood the two swaying figures, the heads droppedback, the lifted hands, with thumb and finger-tips pressed lightlytogether, the eyelids languid and half closed, and the features, inappearance, wan and humid. 

"Now, sir!" said the Professor, leading the limp Sweeney forward, andaddressing him in a quick, sharp tone of voice. --"Now, sir, you are agreat contractor--own large factories, and with untold businessinterests. Just look out there! [pointing out across the expectantaudience] look there, and see the countless minions toiling servilelyat your dread mandates. And yet--ha! ha! See! see!--They recognize theavaricious greed that would thus grind them in the very dust; theysee, alas! they see themselves half-clothed--half-fed, that you mayglut your coffers. Half-starved, they listen to the wail of wife andbabe, and, with eyes upraised in prayer, they see _you_ rolling by ingilded coach, and swathed in silk attire. But--ha! again! Look--look!they are rising in revolt against you! Speak to them before too late!Appeal to them--quell them with the promise of the just advance ofwages they demand!"

The limp figure of Sweeney took on something of a stately and majesticair. With a graceful and commanding gesture of the hand, he advanced astep or two; then, after a pause of some seconds duration, in whichthe lifted face grew paler, as it seemed, and the eyes a denser black, he said:

 "But yesterday I looked away O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay In golden blots, Inlaid with spots Of shade and wild forget-me-nots. "

The voice was low, but clear, and ever musical. The Professor startedat the strange utterance, looked extremely confused, and, as theboisterous crowd cried "Hear, hear!" he motioned the subject tocontinue, with some gasping comment interjected, which, if audible, would have run thus: "My God! It's an inspirational poem!"

 "My head was fair With flaxen hair--"

resumed the subject. 

"Yoop-ee!" yelled an irreverent auditor. 

"Silence! silence!" commanded the excited Professor in a hoarsewhisper; then, turning enthusiastically to the subject--"Go on, youngman! Go on!--'_Thy head-was fair-with flaxen hair_--'"

 "My head was fair With flaxen hair, And fragrant breezes, faint and rare, And warm with drouth From out the south, Blew all my curls across my mouth. "

The speaker's voice, exquisitely modulated, yet resonant as the twangof a harp, now seemed of itself to draw and hold each listener; whilea certain extravagance of gesticulation--a fantastic movement of bothform and feature--seemed very near akin to fascination. And so flowedon the curious utterance:

 "And, cool and sweet, My naked feet Found dewy pathways through the wheat; And out again Where, down the lane, The dust was dimpled with the rain. "

In the pause following there was a breathlessness almost painful. Thepoem went on:

 "But yesterday I heard the lay Of summer birds, when I, as they With breast and wing, All quivering With life and love, could only sing. 

 "My head was leant, Where, with it, blent A maiden's, o'er her instrument; While all the night, From vale to height, Was filled with echoes of delight. 

 "And all our dreams Were lit with gleams Of that lost land of reedy streams, Along whose brim Forever swim Pan's lilies, laughing up at him. "

And still the inspired singer held rapt sway. 

"It is wonderful!" I whispered, under breath. 

"Of course it is!" answered my friend. "But listen; there is more:"

 "But yesterday!. .. O blooms of May, And summer roses--Where-away? O stars above; And lips of love, And all the honeyed sweets thereof!

 "O lad and lass. And orchard-pass, And briared lane, and daisied grass! O gleam and gloom, And woodland bloom, And breezy breaths of all perfume!--

 "No more for me Or mine shall be Thy raptures--save in memory, -- No more--no more-- Till through the Door Of Glory gleam the days of yore. "

This was the evident conclusion of the remarkable utterance, and theProfessor was impetuously fluttering his hands about the subject'supward-staring eyes, stroking his temples, and snapping his fingers inhis face. 

"Well, " said Sweeney, as he stood suddenly awakened, and grinning inan idiotic way, "how did the old thing work?" And it was in theconsequent hilarity and loud and long applause, perhaps, that theProfessor was relieved from the explanation of this rather astoundingphenomenon of the idealistic workings of a purely practical brain--or, as my impious friend scoffed the incongruity later, in a particularlywithering allusion, as the "blank-blanked fallacy, don't you know, ofstaying the hunger of a howling mob by feeding 'em on Spring poetry!"

The tumult of the audience did not cease even with the retirement ofSweeney, and cries of "Hedrick! Hedrick!" only subsided with theProfessor's high-keyed announcement that the subject was even thenendeavoring to make himself heard, but could not until utter quiet wasrestored, adding the further appeal that the young man had alreadybeen a long time under the mesmeric spell, and ought not be sodetained for an unnecessary period. "See, " he concluded, with anassuring wave of the hand toward the subject, "see; he is about toaddress you. Now, quiet!--utter quiet, if you please!"

"Great heavens!" exclaimed my friend, stiflingly; "Just look at theboy! Get onto that position for a poet! Even Sweeney has fled from thesight of him!"

And truly, too, it was a grotesque pose the young man had assumed; notwholly ridiculous either, since the dwarfed position he had settledinto seemed more a genuine physical condition than an affected one. The head, back-tilted, and sunk between the shoulders, lookedabnormally large, while the features of the face appeared peculiarlychild-like--especially the eyes--wakeful and wide apart, and verybright, yet very mild and very artless; and the drawn and crampedoutline of the legs and feet, and of the arms and hands, even to theshrunken, slender-looking fingers, all combined to most strikinglyconvey to the pained senses the fragile frame and pixey figure of somepitiably afflicted child, unconscious altogether of the pathos of itsown deformity. 

"Now, mark the kuss, Horatio!" gasped my friend. 

At first the speaker's voice came very low, and somewhat piping, too, and broken--an eerie sort of voice it was, of brittle and erratic_timbre_ and undulant inflection. Yet it was beautiful. It had thering of childhood in it, though the ring was not pure golden, and attimes fell echoless. The _spirit_ of its utterance was always clearand pure and crisp and cheery as the twitter of a bird, and yetforever ran an undercadence through it like a low-pleading prayer. Half garrulously, and like a shallow brook might brawl across a shelvybottom, the rhythmic little changeling thus began:

 "I'm thist a little crippled boy, an' never goin' to grow An' git a great big man at all!--'cause Aunty told me so. When I was thist a baby one't I falled out of the bed An' got 'The Curv'ture of the Spine'--'at's what the Doctor said. I never had no Mother nen--far my Pa run away An' dassn't come back here no more--'cause he was drunk one day An' stobbed a man in thish-ere town, an' couldn't pay his fine! An' nen my Ma she died--an' I got 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"

A few titterings from the younger people in the audience marked theopening stanza, while a certain restlessness, and a changing to moreattentive positions seemed the general tendency. The old Professor, inthe meantime, had sunk into one of the empty chairs. The speaker wenton with more gaiety:

 "I'm nine years old! An' you can't guess how much I weigh, I bet!-- Last birthday I weighed thirty-three!--An' I weigh thirty yet! I'm awful little far my size--I'm purt' nigh littler 'an Some babies is!--an' neighbors all calls me 'The Little Man!' An' Doc one time he laughed an' said: 'I 'spect, first thing you know, You'll have a little spike-tail coat an' travel with a show!' An' nen I laughed--till I looked round an' Aunty was a-cryin'-- Sometimes she acts like that, 'cause I got 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"

Just in front of me a great broad-shouldered countryman, with a rainysmell in his cumbrous overcoat, cleared his throat vehemently, lookedstartled at the sound, and again settled forward, his weedy chinresting on the knuckles of his hands as they tightly clutched the seatbefore him. And it was like being taken into a childish confidence asthe quaint speech continued:

 "I set--while Aunty's washin'--on my little long-leg stool, An' watch the little boys an' girls 'a-skippin' by to school; An' I peck on the winder, an' holler out an' say: 'Who wants to fight The Little Man 'at dares you all to-day?' An' nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' little girls peeks through, An' they all says: 'Cause you're so big, you think we're 'feared o' you!' An' nen they yell, an' shake their fist at me, like I shake mine-- They're thist in fun, you know, 'cause I got 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"

"Well, " whispered my friend, with rather odd irrelevance, I thought, "of course you see through the scheme of the fellows by this time, don't you?"

"I see nothing, " said I, most earnestly, "but a poor little wisp of achild that makes me love him so I dare not think of his dying soon, ashe surely must! There; listen!" And the plaintive gaiety of the homelypoem ran on:

 "At evening, when the ironin's done, an' Aunty's fixed the fire, An' filled an' lit the lamp, an' trimmed the wick an' turned it higher, An' fetched the wood all in far night, an' locked the kitchen door, An' stuffed the ole crack where the wind blows in up through the floor-- She sets the kittle on the coals, an' biles an' makes the tea, An' fries the liver an' the mush, an' cooks a egg far me; An' sometimes--when I cough so hard--her elderberry wine Don't go so bad far little boys with 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"

"Look!" whispered my friend, touching me with his elbow. "Look at theProfessor!"

"Look at everybody!" said I. And the artless little voice went onagain half quaveringly:

 "But Aunty's all so childish-like on my account, you see, I'm 'most afeared she'll be took down--an' 'at's what bothers _me!_-- 'Cause ef my good ole Aunty ever would git sick an' die, I don't know what she'd do in Heaven--till _I_ come, by an' by:-- Far she's so ust to all my ways, an' ever'thing, you know, An' no one there like me, to nurse, an' worry over so!-- 'Cause all the little childerns there's so straight an' strong an' fine, They's nary angel 'bout the place with 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"

The old Professor's face was in his handkerchief; so was my friend'sin his; and so was mine in mine, as even now my pen drops and I reachfor it again. 

I half regret joining the mad party that had gathered an hour later inthe old law-office where these two graceless characters held almostnightly revel, the instigators and conniving hosts of a reputedbanquet whose _menu's_ range confined itself to herrings, or "blindrobins, " dried beef, and cheese, with crackers, gingerbread, andsometimes pie; the whole washed down with anything but

 "----Wines that heaven knows when Had sucked the fire of some forgotten sun, And kept it through a hundred years of gloom Still glowing in a heart of ruby. "

But the affair was memorable. The old Professor was himself lured intoit, and loudest in his praise of Hedrick's realistic art; and I yetrecall him at the orgie's height, excitedly repulsing the continuedslurs and insinuations of the clammy-handed Sweeney, who, stillcontending against the old man's fulsome praise of his more fortunaterival, at last openly declared that Hedrick was _not_ a poet, _not_ agenius, and in no way worthy to be classed in the same breath with_himself_--"the gifted but unfortunate _Sweeney_, sir--theunacknowledged author, sir--'y gad, sir!--of the two poems that heldyou spell-bound to-night!"

DOWN AROUND THE RIVER POEMS

DOWN AROUND THE RIVER. 

 Noon-time and June-time, down around the river! Have to furse with 'Lizey Ann--but lawzy! I fergive her! Drives me off the place, and says 'at all 'at she's a-wishin', Land o' gracious! time'll come I'll git enough o' fishin'! Little Dave, a-choppin' wood, never 'pears to notice; Don't know where she's hid his hat, er keerin' where his coat is, -- Specalatin', more 'n like, he haint a-goin' to mind me, And guessin' where, say twelve o'clock, a feller'd likely find me. 

 Noon-time and June-time, down around the river! Clean out o' sight o' home, and skulkin' under kivver Of the sycamores, jack-oaks, and swamp-ash and ellum-- Idies all so jumbled up, you kin hardly tell 'em!-- _Tired_, you know, but _lovin'_ it, and smilin' jest to think 'at Any sweeter tiredness you'd fairly want to _drink_ it. Tired o' fishin'--tired o' fun--line out slack and slacker-- All you want in all the world's a little more tobacker!

 Hungry, but _a-hidin'_ it, er jes' a-not a-keerin':- Kingfisher gittin' up and skootin' out o' hearin'; Snipes on the t'other side, where the County Ditch is, Wadin' up and down the aidge like they'd rolled their britches! Old turkle on the root kindo-sorto drappin' Intoo th' worter like he don't know how it happen! Worter, shade and all so mixed, don't know which you'd orter Say, th' _worter_ in the shadder--_shadder_ in the _worter!_

 Somebody hollerin'--'way around the bend in Upper Fork--where yer eye kin jes' ketch the endin' Of the shiney wedge o' wake some muss-rat's a-makin' With that pesky nose o' his! Then a sniff o' bacon, Corn-bread and 'dock-greens--and little Dave a-shinnin' 'Crost the rocks and mussel-shells, a-limpin' and a-grinnin', With yer dinner far ye, and a blessin' from the giver. Noon-time and June-time down around the river!

KNEELING WITH HERRICK. 

 Dear Lord, to Thee my knee is bent. -- Give me content-- Full-pleasured with what comes to me, What e'er it be: An humble roof--a frugal board, And simple hoard; The wintry fagot piled beside The chimney wide, While the enwreathing flames up-sprout And twine about The brazen dogs that guard my hearth And household worth: Tinge with the ember's ruddy glow The rafters low; And let the sparks snap with delight, As ringers might That mark deft measures of some tune The children croon: Then, with good friends, the rarest few Thou holdest true, Ranged round about the blaze, to share My comfort there, -- Give me to claim the service meet That makes each seat A place of honor, and each guest Loved as the rest. 

ROMANCIN'. 

 I' b'en a-kindo musin', as the feller says, and I'm About o' the conclusion that they ain't no better time, When you come to cipher on it, than the times we used to know When we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto solem'-like and low!

 You git my idy, do you?--_Little_ tads, you understand-- Jes' a wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y was a _man_. -- Yit here I am, this minute, even forty, to a day, And fergittin' all that's in it, wishin' jes' the other way!

 I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrate Whur the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate, -- But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue, And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I do!--

 I jes' gee-haw the hosses, and unhook the swingle-tree, Whur the hazel-bushes tosses down their shadders over me, And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, and set Jes' a-thinkin' here, 'y gravy! till my eyes is wringin'-wet!

 Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the _present_, I kin see-- Kindo like my sight was double--all the things that _used to be_; And the flutter o' the robin, and the teeter o' the wren Sets the willer branches bobbin "howdy-do" thum Now to Then!

 The deadnin' and the thicket's jes' a bilin' full of June, Thum the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's tune; And the catbird in the bottom, and the sap-suck on the snag, Seems ef they cain't--od-rot'em!--jes' do nothin' else but brag!

 They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay, And that sassy little critter jes' a-peckin' all the day; They's music in the "flicker, " and they's music in the thrush, And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the brush!

 They's music _all around_ me!--And I go back, in a dream-- Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep--and in the stream That used to split the medder whur the dandylions growed, I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the road. 

 Then's when I' b'en a-fishin'!--and they's other fellers, too, With their hickry poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and a few Little "shiners" on our stringers, with their tails tiptoein' bloom, As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy journey home. 

 I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout!" I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam, And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern of the dam. 

 I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill; And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growlin' still; And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe, And jes' git in and row it like the miller used to do. 

 W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortal plain I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane; And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n "money musk" Far the lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin'and a-dancin'in the dusk. 

 And so I keep on musin', as the feller says, till I'm Firm-fixed in the conclusion that they hain't no better time, When you come to cipher on it, than the _old_ times, --and, I swear, I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it!" jes' as soft as any prayer!

HAS SHE FORGOTTEN. 

I. 

 Has she forgotten? On this very May We were to meet here, with the birds and bees, As on that Sabbath, underneath the trees We strayed among the tombs, and stripped away The vines from these old granites, cold and gray-- And yet, indeed, not grim enough were they To stay our kisses, smiles and ecstacies, Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies. Has she forgotten--that the May has won Its promise?--that the bird-songs from the tree Are sprayed above the grasses as the sun Might jar the dazzling dew down showeringly? Has she forgotten life--love--everyone-- Has she forgotten me--forgotten me?

II. 

 Low, low down in the violets I press My lips and whisper to her. Does she hear, And yet hold silence, though I call her dear, Just as of old, save for the tearfulness Of the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress? Has she forgotten thus the old caress That made our breath a quickened atmosphere That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer Delight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep In memory of days that used to be, -- Has she forgotten these? And, in her sleep, Has she forgotten me--forgotten me?

III. 

 To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes, I mean to weld our faces--through the dense Incalculable darkness make pretense That she has risen from her reveries To mate her dreams with mine in marriages Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease Of every longing nerve of indolence, -- Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun My senses with her kisses--drawl the glee Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly, Across mine own, forgetful if is done The old love's awful dawn-time when said we, "To-day is ours!". .. . Ah, Heaven! can it be She has forgotten me--forgotten me!

A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG. 

 It's the curiousest thing in creation, Whenever I hear that old song, "Do They Miss Me at Home?" I'm so bothered, My life seems as short as it's long!-- Far ever'thing 'pears like adzackly It 'peared, in the years past and gone, -- When I started out sparkin', at twenty, And had my first neckercher on!

 Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayer Right now than my parents was then, You strike up that song, "Do They Miss Me?" And I'm jest a youngster again!-- I'm a-standin' back there in the furries A-wishin' far evening to come, And a-whisperin' over and over Them words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?"

 You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it The first time I heerd it; and so, As she was my very first sweetheart, It reminds of her, don't you know, -- How her face ust to look, in the twilight, As I tuck her to spellin'; and she Kep' a-hummin' that song 'tel I ast her, Pine-blank, ef she ever missed me!

 I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it, And hear her low answerin' words, And then the glad chirp of the crickets As clear as the twitter of birds; And the dust in the road is like velvet, And the ragweed, and fennel, and grass Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies Of Eden of old, as we pass. 

 "Do They Miss Me at Home?" Sing it lower-- And softer--and sweet as the breeze That powdered our path with the snowy White bloom of the old locus'-trees! Let the whippoorwills he'p you to sing it, And the echoes 'way over the hill, 'Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus Of stars, and our voices is still. 

 But, oh! "They's a chord in the music That's missed when _her_ voice is away!" Though I listen from midnight 'tel morning, And dawn, 'tel the dusk of the day; And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards And on through the heavenly dome, With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin' The words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?"

THE LOST PATH. 

 Alone they walked--their fingers knit together, And swaying listlessly as might a swing Wherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weather Of some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring. 

 Within the clover-fields the tickled cricket Laughed lightly as they loitered down the lane, And from the covert of the hazel-thicket The squirrel peeped and laughed at them again. 

 The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vases Along the road-side in the shadows dim, Went following the blossoms of their faces As though their sweets must needs be shared with him. 

 Between the pasture bars the wondering cattle Stared wistfully, and from their mellow bells Shook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattle Fell swooningly away in faint farewells. 

 And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er them, And folded all the landscape from their eyes, They only know the dusky path before them Was leading safely on to Paradise. 

THE LITTLE TINY KICKSHAW. 

 "--_And any little tiny kickshaws_. "--Shakespeare. 

 O the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me, 'Tis sweeter than the sugar-plum that reepens on the tree, Wi' denty flavorin's o' spice an' musky rosemarie, The little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me. 

 'Tis luscious wi' the stalen tang o' fruits frae ower the sea, An' e'en its fragrance gars we laugh wi' langin' lip an' ee, Till a' its frazen sheen o' white maun melten hinnie be-- Sae weel I luve the kickshaw that Mither sent tae me. 

 O I luve the tiny kickshaw, an' I smack my lips wi' glee, Aye mickle do I luve the taste o' sic a luxourie, But maist I luve the luvein' han's that could the giftie gie O' the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me. 

HIS MOTHER. 

 DEAD! my wayward boy--_my own_-- Not _the Law's!_ but _mine_--the good God's free gift to me alone, Sanctified by motherhood. 

 "Bad, " you say: Well, who is not? "Brutal"--"with a heart of stone"-- And "red-handed. "--Ah! the hot Blood upon your own!

 I come not, with downward eyes, To plead for him shamedly, -- God did not apologize When He gave the boy to me. 

 Simply, I make ready now For _His_ verdict. --_You_ prepare-- You have killed us both--and how Will you face us There!

KISSING THE ROD. 

 O heart of mine, we shouldn't Worry so! What we've missed of calm we couldn't Have, you know! What we've met of stormy pain, And of sorrow's driving rain, We can better meet again, If it blow!

 We have erred in that dark hour We have known, When our tears fell with the shower, All alone!-- Were not shine and shadow blent As the gracious Master meant?-- Let us temper our content With His own. 

 For, we know, not every morrow Can be sad; So, forgetting all the sorrow We have had, Let us fold away our fears, And put by our foolish tears, And through all the coming years Just be glad. 

HOW IT HAPPENED. 

 I got to thinkin' of her--both her parents dead and gone-- And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John A-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o' way, And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev'ry day! I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the time He settled in the neighborhood, and had n't ary a dime Er dollar, when he married, far to start housekeepin' on!-- So I got to thinkin' of her--both her parents dead and gone!

 I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she done That all her sisters kep' a gittin' married, one by one, And her without no chances--and the best girl of the pack-- An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back! And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on, When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John, And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be bline To not see what a wife they 'd git if they got Evaline!

 I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction she Was sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly, -- She 'd come, and leave her housework, far to be'p out little Jane, And talk of _her own_ mother 'at she 'd never see again-- Maybe sometimes cry together--though, far the most part she Would have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at we Felt lonesomer 'n ever when she 'd put her bonnet on And say she 'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John!

 I got to thinkin' of her, as I say, --and more and more I'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore, -- Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone And married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John-- You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life Far a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife-- 'Less some one married _Evaline_, and packed her off some day!-- So I got to thinkin' of her--and it happened thataway. 

BABYHOOD. 

 Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger: Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray; Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away. 

 Turn back the leaves of life; don't read the story, -- Let's find the _pictures_, and fancy all the rest:-- We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory Than Old Time, the story-teller, at his very best!

 Turn to the brook, where the honeysuckle, tipping O'er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze, And the bee and humming-bird in ecstacy are sipping From the fairy flagons of the blooming locust trees. 

 Turn to the lane, where we used to "teeter-totter, " Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold, Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the water Where the ripples dimple round the buttercups of gold:

 Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the gravel Of the sunny sandbar in the middle-tide, And the ghostly dragonfly pauses in his travel To rest like a blossom where the water-lily died. 

 Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger: Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray; Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away. 

THE DAYS GONE BY. 

 O the days gone by! O the days gone by! The apples in the orchard, and the pathway through the rye; The chirrup of the robin, and the whistle of the quail As he piped across the meadows sweet as any nightingale; When the bloom was on the clover, and the blue was in the sky, And my happy heart brimmed over in the days gone by. 

 In the days gone by, when my naked feet were tripped By the honey-suckle's tangles where the water-lilies dipped, And the ripples of the river lipped the moss along the brink Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to drink, And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant's wayward cry And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by. 

 O the days gone by! O the days gone by! The music of the laughing lip, the luster of the eye; The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin's magic ring-- The simple, soul-reposing, glad belief in everything, -- When life was like a story, holding neither sob nor sigh, In the golden olden glory of the days gone by. 

MRS. MILLER

John B. McKinney, Attorney and Counselor at Law, as his sign read, was, for many reasons, a fortunate man. For many other reasons he wasnot. He was chiefly fortunate in being, as certain opponents oftenstrove to witheringly designate him, "the son of his father, " sincethat sound old gentleman was the wealthiest farmer in that section, with but one son and heir to, in time, supplant him in the role of"county god, " and haply perpetuate the prouder title of "the biggesttax-payer on the assessment list. " And this fact, too, fortunate as itwould seem, was doubtless the indirect occasion of a liberalpercentage of all John's misfortunes. From his earliest school-days inthe little town, up to his tardy graduation from a distant college, the influence of his father's wealth invited his procrastination, humored its results, encouraged the laxity of his ambition, "and evennow, " as John used, in bitter irony, to put it, "it is aiding andabetting me in the ostensible practice of my chosen profession, alistless, aimless undetermined man of forty, and a confirmed bachelorat that!" At the utterance of this self-depreciating statement, Johngenerally jerked his legs down from the top of his desk; and, risingand kicking his chair back to the wall, he would stump around hislittered office till the manilla carpet steamed with dust. Then hewould wildly break away, seeking refuge either in the open street, orin his room at the old-time tavern, The Eagle House, "where, " he wouldsay, "I have lodged and boarded, I do solemnly asseverate, for a long, unbroken, middle-aged eternity of ten years, and can yet assert, inthe words of the more fortunately-dying Webster, that 'I still live!'"

Extravagantly satirical as he was at times, John had always anindefinable drollery about him that made him agreeable company to hisfriends, at least; and such an admiring friend he had constantly athand in the person of Bert Haines. Both were Bohemians in naturaltendency, and, though John was far in Bert's advance in point of age, he found the young man "just the kind of a fellow to have around;"while Bert, in turn, held his senior in profound esteem--looked up tohim, in fact, and in even his eccentricities strove to pattern afterhim. And so it was, when summer days were dull and tedious, these twocould muse and doze the hours away together; and when the nights werelong, and dark, and deep, and beautiful, they could drift out in thenoon-light of the stars, and with "the soft complaining flute" and"warbling lute, " "lay the pipes, " as John would say, for theirenduring popularity with the girls! And it was immediately subsequentto one of these romantic excursions, when the belated pair, at twoo'clock in the morning, had skulked up a side stairway of the oldhotel, and gained John's room, with nothing more serious happeningthan Bert falling over a trunk and smashing his guitar, --just aftersuch a night of romance and adventure it was that, in the seclusion ofJohn's room, Bert had something of especial import to communicate. 

"Mack, " he said, as that worthy anathematized a spiteful match, andthen sucked his finger. 

"Blast the all-fired old torch!" said John, wrestling with thelamp-flue, and turning on a welcome flame at last. "Well, you said'Mack!' Why don't you go on? And don't bawl at the top of your lungs, either. You've already succeeded in waking every boarder in the housewith that guitar, and you want to make amends now by letting them goto sleep again!"

"But my dear fellow, " said Bert, with forced calmness, "you're thefellow that's making all the noise--and--"

"Why, you howling dervish!" interrupted John, with a feigned air ofpleased surprise and admiration. "But let's drop controversy. Throwthe fragments of your guitar in the wood-box there, and proceed withthe opening proposition. "

"What I was going to say was this, " said Bert, with a half-desperateenunciation; "I'm getting tired of this way of living--clean, dead-tired, and fagged out, and sick of the whole artificialbusiness!"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed John, with a towering disdain, "you needn't goany further! I know just what malady is throttling you. It'sreform--reform! You're going to 'turn over a new leaf, ' and all that, and sign the pledge, and quit cigars, and go to work, and pay yourdebts, and gravitate back into Sunday-School, where you can make loveto the preacher's daughter under the guise of religion, and desecratethe sanctity of the innermost pale of the church by confessions atClass of your 'thorough conversion!' Oh, you're going to--"

"No, but I'm going to do nothing of the sort, " interrupted Bert, resentfully. "What I mean--if you'll let me finish--is, I'm gettingtoo old to be eternally undignifying myself with this 'singing ofmidnight strains under Bonnybell's window panes, ' and too old to bekeeping myself in constant humiliation and expense by the borrowingand stringing up of old guitars, together with the breakage of thesame, and the general wear-and-tear on a constitution that is slowlybeing sapped to its foundations by exposure in the night-air and thedew. " "And while you receive no further compensation in return, " saidJohn, "than, perhaps, the coy turning up of a lamp at an uppercasement where the jasmine climbs; or an exasperating patter ofinvisible palms; or a huge dank wedge of fruit-cake shoved at you bythe old man, through a crack in the door. "

"Yes, and I'm going to have my just reward, is what I mean, " saidBert, "and exchange the lover's life for the benedict's. Going to huntout a good, sensible girl and marry her. " And as the young manconcluded this desperate avowal he jerked the bow of his cravat into ahard knot, kicked his hat under the bed, and threw himself on the sofalike an old suit. 

John stared at him with absolute compassion. "Poor devil, " he said, half musingly, "I know just how he feels--

 'Ring in the wind his wedding chimes, Smile, villagers, at every door; Old church-yards stuffed with buried crimes, Be clad in sunshine o'er and o'er. --'"

"Oh, here!" exclaimed the wretched Bert, jumping to his feet; "let upon that dismal recitative. It would make a dog howl to hear that!"

"Then you 'let up' on that suicidal talk of marrying, " replied John, "and all that harangue of incoherency about your growing old. Why, mydear fellow, you're at least a dozen years my junior, and look at me!"and John glanced at himself in the glass with a feeble pride, notingthe gray sparseness of his side-hair, and its plaintive dearth on top. "Of course I've got to admit, " he continued, "that my hair isgradually evaporating; but for all that, I'm 'still in the ring, 'don't you know; as young in society, for the matter of that, asyourself! And this is just the reason why I don't want you to blightevery prospect in your life by marrying at your age--especially awoman--I mean the kind of woman you'd be sure to fancy at your age. "

"Didn't I say 'a good, sensible girl' was the kind I had selected?"Bert remonstrated. 

"Oh!" exclaimed John, "you've selected her, then?--and without oneword to me!" he ended, rebukingly. 

"Well, hang it all!" said Bert, impatiently; "I knew how _you_ were, and just how you'd talk me out of it; and I made up my mind that foronce, at least, I'd follow the dictations of a heart that--howevercapricious in youthful frivolties--should beat, in manhood, loyal toitself and loyal to its own affinity. "

"Go it! Fire away! Farewell, vain world!" exclaimed the excitedJohn. --"Trade your soul off for a pair of ear-bobs and abutton-hook--a hank of jute hair and a box of lily-white! I've buriednot less than ten old chums this way, and here's another nominated forthe tomb. "

"But you've got no _reason_ about you, " began Bert, --"I want to"--

"And so do _I_ 'want to, '" broke in John, finally, --"I want to getsome sleep. --So 'register' and come to bed. --And lie up on edge, too, when you _do_ come--'cause this old catafalque-of-a-bed is just aboutas narrow as your views of single blessedness! Peace! Not anotherword! Pile in! Pile in! I'm three-parts sick, anyhow, and I wantrest!" And very truly he spoke. 

It was a bright morning when the slothful John was aroused by a long, vociferous pounding on the door. He started up in bed to find himselfalone--the victim of his wrathful irony having evidently risen andfled away while his pitiless tormentor slept--"Doubtless to at onceaccomplish that nefarious intent as set forth by his unblushingconfession of last night, " mused the miserable John. And he ground hisfingers in the corners of his swollen eyes, and leered grimly in theglass at the feverish orbs, blood-shotten, blurred and aching. 

The pounding on the door continued. John looked at his watch; it wasonly 8 o'clock. 

"Hi, there!" he called viciously. "What do you mean, anyhow?" he wenton, elevating his voice again; "shaking a man out of bed when he'sjust dropping into his first sleep?"

"I mean that you're going to get up; that's what!" replied a firmfemale voice. "It's 8 o'clock, and I want to put your room in order;and I'm not going to wait all day about it, either! Get up and go downto your breakfast, and let me have the room!" And the clamor at thedoor was industriously renewed. 

"Say!" called John, querulously, hurrying on his clothes, "Say! you!"

"There's no 'say' about it!" responded the determined voice: "I'veheard about you and your ways around this house, and I'm not going toput up with it! You'll not lie in bed till high noon when I've got tokeep your room in proper order!"

"Oh ho!" bawled John, intelligently: "reckon you're the new invasionhere? Doubtless you're the girl that's been hanging up the newwindow-blinds that won't roll, and disguising the pillows with cleanslips, and 'hennin' round among my books and papers on the table here, and ageing me generally till I don't know my own handwriting by thetime I find it! Oh, yes! you're going to revolutionize things here;you're going to introduce promptness, and system, and order. Seeyou've even filled the wash-pitcher and tucked two starched towelsthrough the handle. Haven't got any tin towels, have you? I ratherlike this new soap, too! So solid and durable, you know; warranted notto raise a lather. Might as well wash one's hands with a door-knob!"And as John's voice grumbled away into the sullen silence again, thedetermined voice without responded: "Oh, you can growl away to yourheart's content, Mr. McKinney, but I want you to distinctly understandthat I'm not going to humor you in any of your old bachelor, sluggardly, slovenly ways, and whims and notions. And I want you tounderstand, too, that I'm not hired help in this house, nor achambermaid, nor anything of the kind. I'm the landlady here; and I'llgive you just ten minutes more to get down to your breakfast, oryou'll not get any--that's all!" And as the reversed cuff John was inthe act of buttoning slid from his wrist and rolled under the dresser, he heard a stiff rustling of starched muslin flouncing past the door, and the quick italicized patter of determined gaiters down the hall. 

"Look here, " said John to the bright-faced boy in the hotel office, ahalf hour later. "It seems the house here's been changing handsagain. "

"Yes, sir, " said the boy, closing the cigar case, and handing him alighted match. "Well, the new landlord, whoever he is, " continuedJohn, patronizingly, "is a good one. Leastwise, he knows what's goodto eat, and how to serve it. "

The boy laughed timidly, --"It aint a landlord, ' though--it's alandlady; it's my mother. "

"Ah, " said John, dallying with the change the boy had pushed towardhim. "Your mother, eh?" And where's your father?"

"He's dead, " said the boy. 

"And what's this for?" abruptly asked John, examining his change. 

"That's your change, " said the boy: "You got three for a quarter, andgave me a half. "

"Well, _you_ just keep it, " said John, sliding back the change. "It'sfor good luck, you know, my boy. Same as drinking your long life andprosperity. And, Oh yes, by the way, you may tell your mother I'llhave a friend to dinner with me to-day. "

"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir, " said the beaming boy. 

"Handsome boy!" mused John, as he walked down street. "Takes that fromhis father, though, I'll wager my existence!"

Upon his office desk John found a hastily written note. It wasaddressed in the well-known hand of his old chum. He eyed the missiveapprehensively, and there was a positive pathos in his voice as hesaid aloud, "It's our divorce. I feel it!" The note, headed, "At theOffice, 4 in Morning, " ran like this:

 "Dear Mack--I left you slumbering so soundly that, by noon, when you waken, I hope, in your refreshed state, you will look more tolerantly on my intentions as partially confided to you this night. I will not see you here again to say good-bye. I wanted to, but was afraid to 'rouse the sleeping lion. ' I will not close my eyes to-night--fact is, I haven't time. Our serenade at Josie's was a pre-arranged signal by which she is to be ready and at the station for the 5 morning train. You may remember the lighting of three consecutive matches at her window before the igniting of her lamp. That meant, 'Thrice dearest one, I'll meet thee at the depot at 4:30 sharp. ' So, my dear Mack, this is to inform you that, even as you read, Josie and I have eloped. It is all the old man's fault, yet I forgive him. Hope he'll return the favor. Josie predicts he will, inside of a week--or two weeks, anyhow. Good-bye, Mack, old boy; and let a fellow down as easy as you can. 

 Affectionately, BERT. "

"Heavens!" exclaimed John, stifling the note in his hand and stalkingtragically around the room. "Can it be possible that I have nursed afrozen viper? An ingrate? A wolf in sheep's clothing? An orang-outangin gent's furnishings?"

"Was you callin' me, sir?" asked a voice at the door. It was thejanitor. 

"No!" thundered John; "Quit my sight! get out of my way! No, no, Thompson, I don't mean that, " he called after him. "Here's a halfdollar for you, and I want you to lock up the office, and tell anybodythat wants to see me that I've been set upon, and sacked andassassinated in cold blood; and I've fled to my father's in thecountry, and am lying there in the convulsions of dissolution, babbling of green fields and running brooks, and thirsting for thelife of every woman that comes in gunshot!" And then, more like aconfirmed invalid than a man in the strength and pride of his prime, he crept down into the street again, and thence back to his hotel. 

Dejectedly and painfully climbing to his room, he encountered, on thelanding above, a little woman in a jaunty dusting-cap and a trim habitof crisp muslin. He tried to evade her, but in vain. She looked himsquarely in the face--occasioning him the dubious impression of eitherneeding shaving very badly, or having egg-stains on his chin. 

"You're the gentleman in No. 11, I believe?" she said. 

He nodded confusedly. 

"Mr. McKinney is your name, I think?" she queried, with a prettyelevation of the eyebrows. 

"Yes, ma'am, " said John, rather abjectly. "You see, ma'am--But I begpardon, " he went on stammeringly, and with a very awkward bow--"I begpardon, but I am addressing--ah--the--ah--the--"

"You are addressing the new landlady, " she interpolated, pleasantly. "Mrs. Miller is my name. I think we should be friends, Mr. McKinney, since I hear that you are one of the oldest patrons of the house. "

"Thank you--thank you!" said John, completely embarrassed. "Yes, indeed!--ha, ha. Oh, yes--yes--really, we must be quite old friends, Iassure you, Mrs. --Mrs. --"

"Mrs. Miller, " smilingly prompted the little woman. 

"Yes, ah, yes, --Mrs. Miller. Lovely morning, Mrs. Miller, " said John, edging past her and backing toward his room. 

But as Mrs. Miller was laughing outright, for some mysterious reason, and gave no affirmation in response to his proposition as to thequality of the weather, John, utterly abashed and nonplussed, dartedinto his room and closed the door. "Deucedly extraordinary woman!" hethought; "wonder what's her idea!"

He remained locked in his room till the dinner-hour; and, when hepromptly emerged for that occasion, there was a very noticeableimprovement in his personal appearance, in point of dress, at least, though there still lingered about his smoothly-shaven features acertain haggard, care-worn, anxious look that would not out. 

Next his own place at the table he found a chair tilted forward, asthough in reservation for some honored guest. What did it mean? Oh, heremembered now. Told the boy to tell his mother he would have a friendto dine with him. Bert--and, blast the fellow! he was, doubtless, dining then with a far preferable companion--his wife--in a palace-caron the P. , C. & St. L. , a hundred miles away. The thought wasmaddening. Of course, now, the landlady would have material for a newassault. And how could he avert it? A despairing film blurred hissight for the moment--then the eyes flashed daringly. "I will meet itlike a man!" he said, mentally--"like a State's Attorney, --I willinvite it! Let her do her worst!"

He called a servant, directing some message in an undertone. 

"Yes, sir, " said the agreeable servant, "I'll go right away, sir, " andleft the room. 

Five minutes elapsed, and then a voice at his shoulder startled him:

"Did you send for me, Mr. McKinney? What is it I can do?"

"You are very kind, Mrs. --Mrs. --"

"Mrs. Miller, " said the lady, with a smile that he remembered. 

"Now, please spare me even the mildest of rebukes. I deserve yourcensure, but I can't stand it--I can't positively!" and there was apleading look in John's lifted eyes that changed the little woman'ssmile to an expression of real solicitude. "I have sent for you, "continued John, "to ask of you three great favors. Please be seatedwhile I enumerate them. First--I want you to forgive and forget thatill-natured, uncalled-for grumbling of mine this morning when youwakened me. "

"Why, certainly, " said the landlady, again smiling, though quiteseriously. 

"I thank you, " said John, with dignity. "And, second, " hecontinued--"I want your assurance that my extreme confusion andawkwardness on the occasion of our meeting later were rightlyinterpreted. "

"Certainly--certainly, " said the landlady, with the kindliestsympathy. 

"I am grateful--utterly, " said John, with newer dignity. "And then, "he went on, --after informing you that it is impossible for the bestfriend I have in the world to be with me at this hour, as intended, Iwant you to do me the very great honor of dining with me. Will you?"

"Why, certainly, " said the charming little landlady--"and a thousandthanks beside! But tell me something of your friend, " she continued, as they were being served. "What is he like--and what is his name--andwhere is he?"

"Well, " said John, warily, --"he's like all young fellows of his age. He's quite young, you know--not over thirty, I should say--a mere boy, in fact, but clever--talented--versatile. "

"--Unmarried, of course, " said the chatty little woman. 

"Oh, yes!" said John, in a matter-of-course tone--but he caughthimself abruptly--then stared intently at his napkin--glancedevasively at the side-face of his questioner, and said, --"Oh yes! Yes, indeed! He's unmarried. --Old bachelor like myself, you know. Ha! Ha!"

"So he's not like the young man here that distinguished himself lastnight?" said the little woman, archly. 

The fork in John's hand, half-lifted to his lips, faltered and fellback toward his plate. 

"Why, what's that?" said John, in a strange voice; "I hadn't heardanything about it--I mean I haven't heard anything about any youngman. What was it?"

"Haven't heard anything about the elopement?" exclaimed the littlewoman, in astonishment. --"Why, it's been the talk of the town allmorning. Elopement in high life--son of a grain-dealer, name of Hines, or Himes, or something, and a preacher's daughter--Josiesomebody--didn't catch her last name. Wonder if you don't know theparties--Why, Mr. McKinney, are you ill?"

"Oh, no--not at all!" said John: "Don't mention it. Ha--ha! Justeating too rapidly, that's all. Go on with--you were saying that Bertand Josie had really eloped. "

"What 'Bert'?" asked the little woman quickly. 

"Why, did I say Bert?" said John, with a guilty look. "I meant Haines, of course, you know--Haines and Josie. --And did they really elope?"

"That's the report, " answered the little woman, as though deliberatingsome important evidence; "and they say, too, that the plot of therunaway was quite ingenious. It seems the young lovers were assistedin their flight by some old fellow--friend of the young man's--Why, Mr. McKinney, you _are_ ill, surely?"

John's face was ashen. 

"No--no!" he gasped, painfully: "Go on--go on! Tell me more aboutthe--the--the old fellow--the old reprobate! And is he still atlarge?"

"Yes, " said the little womon, anxiously regarding the strange demeanorof her companion. "They say, though, that the law can do nothing withhim, and that this fact only intensifies the agony of thebroken-hearted parents--for it seems they have, till now, regarded himboth as a gentleman and family friend in whom"--

"I really am ill, " moaned John, waveringly rising to his feet; "but Ibeg you not to be alarmed. Tell your little boy to come to my room, where I will retire at once, if you'll excuse me, and send for myphysician. It is simply a nervous attack. I am often troubled so; andonly perfect quiet and seclusion restores me. You have done me a greathonor, Mrs. "--("Mrs. --Miller, " sighed the sympathetic littlewoman)--"Mrs. Miller, --and I thank you more than I have words toexpress. " He bowed limply, turned through a side door opening on astair, and tottered to his room. 

During the three weeks' illness through which he passed, John hadevery attention--much more, indeed, than he had consciousness toappreciate. For the most part his mind wandered, and he talked ofcurious things, and laughed hysterically, and serenaded mermaids thatdwelt in grassy seas of dew, and were bald-headed like himself. Heplayed upon a fourteen-jointed flute of solid gold, with diamondholes, and keys carved out of thawless ice. His old father came atfirst to take him home; but he could not be moved, the doctor said. 

Two weeks of John's illness had worn away, when a very serious lookingyoung man, in a traveling duster, and a high hat, came up the stairsto see him. A handsome young lady was clinging to his arm. It was Bertand Josie. She had guessed the very date of their forgiveness. Johnwakened even clearer in mind than usual that afternoon. He recognizedhis old chum at a glance, and Josie--now Bert's wife. Yes, hecomprehended that. He was holding a hand of each when another figureentered. His thin, white fingers loosened their clasp, and he held ahand toward the new comer. "Here, " he said, "is my best friend in theworld--Bert, you and Josie will love her, I know; for this isMrs. --Mrs. "--"Mrs. Miller, " said the radiant littlewoman. --"Yes, --Mrs. Miller, " said John, very proudly. 

RHYMES OF RAINY DAYS

THE TREE-TOAD. 

 "'Scurious-like, " said the tree-toad, "I've twittered far rain all day; And I got up soon, And I hollered till noon-- But the sun, hit blazed away, Till I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole, Weary at heart, and sick at soul!

"Dozed away far an hour, And I tackled the thing agin; And I sung, and sung, Till I knowed my lung Was jest about give in; And then, thinks I, ef hit don't rain now. There're nothin' in singin', anyhow!

 "Once in awhile some Would come a drivin' past; And he'd hear my cry, And stop and sigh-- Till I jest laid back, at last, And I hollered rain till I thought my th'oat Would bust right open at ever' note!

 "But _I fetched_ her! O _I fetched_ her!-- 'Cause a little while ago, As I kindo' set, With one eye shet, And a-singin' soft and low, A voice drapped down on my fevered brain, Sayin', --' Ef you'll jest hush I'll rain!'"

A WORN-OUT PENCIL. 

 Welladay! Here I lay You at rest--all worn away, O my pencil, to the tip Of our old companionship!

 Memory Sighs to see What you are, and used to be, Looking backward to the time When you wrote your earliest rhyme!--

 When I sat Filing at Your first point, and dreaming that Your initial song should be Worthy of posterity. 

 With regret I forget If the song be living yet, Yet remember, vaguely now, It was honest, anyhow. 

 You have brought Me a thought-- Truer yet was never taught, -- That the silent song is best, And the unsung worthiest. 

 So if I, When I die, May as uncomplainingly Drop aside as now you do, Write of me, as I of you:--

 Here lies one Who begun Life a-singing, heard of none; And he died, satisfied, With his dead songs by his side. 

THE STEPMOTHER. 

 First she come to our house, Tommy run and hid; And Emily and Bob and me We cried jus' like we did When Mother died, --and we all said 'At we all wisht 'at we was dead!

 And Nurse she couldn't stop us, And Pa he tried and tried, -- We sobbed and shook and wouldn't look, But only cried and cried; And nen someone--we couldn't jus' Tell who--was cryin' same as us!

 Our Stepmother! Yes, it was her, Her arms around us all-- 'Cause Tom slid down the bannister And peeked in from the hall. -- And we all love her, too, because She's purt nigh good as Mother was!

THE RAIN. 

I. 

 The rain! the rain! the rain! It gushed from the skies and streamed Like awful tears; and the sick man thought How pitiful it seemed! And he turned his face away, And stared at the wall again, His hopes nigh dead and his heart worn out. O the rain! the rain! the rain!

II. 

 The rain! the rain! the rain! And the broad stream brimmed the shores; And ever the river crept over the reeds And the roots of the sycamores: A corpse swirled by in a drift Where the boat had snapt its chain-- And a hoarse-voiced mother shrieked and raved. O the rain! the rain! the rain!

III. 

 The rain! the rain! the rain!-- Pouring, with never a pause, Over the fields and the green byways-- How beautiful it was! And the new-made man and wife Stood at the window-pane Like two glad children kept from school. -- O the rain! the rain! the rain!

THE LEGEND GLORIFIED. 

 "I deem that God is not disquieted"-- This in a mighty poet's rhymes I read; And blazoned so forever doth abide Within my soul the legend glorified. 

 Though awful tempests thunder overhead, I deem that God is not disquieted, -- The faith that trembles somewhat yet is sure Through storm and darkness of a way secure. 

 Bleak winters, when the naked spirit hears The break of hearts, through stinging sleet of tears, I deem that God is not disquieted; Against all stresses am I clothed and fed. 

 Nay, even with fixed eyes and broken breath, My feet dip down into the tides of death, Nor any friend be left, nor prayer be said, I deem that God is not disquieted. 

WANT TO BE WHUR MOTHER IS. 

 "Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!" Jeemses Rivers! won't some one ever shet that howl o' his? That-air yellin' drives me wild! Cain't none of ye stop the child? Want jer Daddy? "Naw. " Gee whizz! "Want to be whur mother is!"

 "Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!" Coax him, Sairy! Mary, sing somepin far him! Lift him, Liz-- Bang the clock-bell with the key-- Er the _meat-ax!_ Gee-mun-nee! Listen to them lungs o' his! "Want to be whur mother is!"

 "Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!" Preacher guess'll pound all night on that old pulpit o' his; 'Pears to me some wimmin jest Shows religious interest Mostly 'fore their fambly's riz! "Want to be whur mother is!"

 * * * * *

 "Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!" Nights like these and whipperwills allus brings that voice of his! Sairy; Mary; 'Lizabeth; Don't set there and ketch yer death In the dew--er rheumatiz-- Want to be whur mother is?

OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME. 

I. 

 In the jolly winters Of the long-ago, It was not so cold as now-- O! No! No! Then, as I remember, Snowballs, to eat, Were as good as apples now, And every bit as sweet!

II. 

 In the jolly winters Of the dead-and-gone, Bub was warm as summer, With his red mitts on, -- Just in his little waist- And-pants all together, Who ever heard him growl About cold weather?

III. 

 In the jolly winters of the long-ago-- Was it _half_ so cold as now? O! No! No! Who caught his death o' cold, Making prints of men Flat-backed in snow that now's Twice as cold again?

IV. 

 In the jolly winters Of the dead-and-gone, Startin' out rabbit-hunting Early as the dawn, -- Who ever froze his fingers, Ears, heels, or toes, -- Or'd a cared if he had? Nobody knows!

V. 

 Nights by the kitchen-stove, Shelling white and red Corn in the skillet, and Sleepin' four abed! Ah! the jolly winters Of the long-ago! We were not so old as now-- O! No! No!

THREE DEAD FRIENDS. 

 Always suddenly they are gone-- The friends we trusted and held secure-- Suddenly we are gazing on, Not a _smiling_ face, but the marble-pure Dead mask of a face that nevermore To a smile of ours will make reply-- The lips close-locked as the eyelids are-- Gone--swift as the flash of the molten ore A meteor pours through a midnight sky, Leaving it blind of a single star. 

 Tell us, O Death, Remorseless Might! What is this old, unescapable ire You wreak on us?--from the birth of light Till the world be charred to a core of fire! We do no evil thing to you-- We seek to evade you--that is all-- That is your will--you will not be known Of men. What, then, would you have us do?-- Cringe, and wait till your vengeance fall, And your graves be fed, and the trumpet blown?

 You desire no friends; but _we_--O we Need them so, as we falter here, Fumbling through each new vacancy, As each is stricken that we hold dear. One you struck but a year ago; And one not a month ago; and one-- (God's vast pity!)--and one lies now Where the widow wails, in her nameless woe, And the soldiers pace, with the sword and gun, Where the comrade sleeps, with the laureled brow. 

 And what did the first?--that wayward soul, Clothed of sorrow, yet nude of sin, And with all hearts bowed in the strange control Of the heavenly voice of his violin. Why, it was music the way he _stood_, So grand was the poise of the head and so Full was the figure of majesty!-- One heard with the eyes, as a deaf man would, And with all sense brimmed to the overflow With tears of anguish and ecstasy. 

 And what did the girl, with the great warm light Of genius sunning her eyes of blue, With her heart so pure, and her soul so white-- What, O Death, did she do to you? Through field and wood as a child she strayed, As Nature, the dear sweet mother led; While from her canvas, mirrored back, Glimmered the stream through the everglade Where the grapevine trailed from the trees to wed Its likeness of emerald, blue and black. 

 And what did he, who, the last of these, Faced you, with never a fear, O Death? Did you hate _him_ that he loved the breeze, And the morning dews, and the rose's breath? Did you hate him that he answered not Your hate again--but turned, instead, His only hate on his country's wrongs? Well--you possess him, dead!--but what Of the good he wrought? With laureled head He bides with us in his deeds and songs. 

 Laureled, first, that he bravely fought, And forged a way to our flag's release; Laureled, next--for the harp he taught To wake glad songs in the days of peace-- Songs of the woodland haunts he held As close in his love as they held their bloom In their inmost bosoms of leaf and vine-- Songs that echoed, and pulsed and welled Through the town's pent streets, and the sick child's room, Pure as a shower in soft sunshine. 

 Claim them, Death; yet their fame endures, What friend next will you rend from us In that cold, pitiless way of yours, And leave us a grief more dolorous? Speak to us!--tell us, O Dreadful Power!-- Are we to have not a lone friend left?-- Since, frozen, sodden, or green the sod, -- In every second of every hour, _Some one_, Death, you have left thus bereft, Half inaudibly shrieks to God. 

IN BOHEMIA. 

 Ha! My dear! I'm back again-- Vendor of Bohemia's wares! Lordy! How it pants a man Climbing up those awful stairs! Well, I've made the dealer say Your sketch _might_ sell, anyway! And I've made a publisher Hear my poem, Kate, my dear. 

 In Bohemia, Kate, my dear-- Lodgers in a musty flat On the top floor--living here Neighborless, and used to that, -- Like a nest beneath the eaves, So our little home receives Only guests of chirping cheer-- We'll be happy, Kate, my dear!

 Under your north-light there, you At your easel, with a stain On your nose of Prussian blue, Paint your bits of shine and rain; With my feet thrown up at will O'er my littered window-sill, I write rhymes that ring as clear As your laughter, Kate, my dear. 

 Puff my pipe, and stroke my hair-- Bite my pencil-tip and gaze At you, mutely mooning there O'er your "Aprils" and your "Mays!" Equal inspiration in Dimples of your cheek and chin, And the golden atmosphere Of your paintings, Kate, my dear!

 _Trying_! Yes, at times it is, To clink happy rhymes, and fling On the canvas scenes of bliss, When we are half famishing!-- When your "jersey" rips in spots, And your hat's "forget-me-nots" Have grown tousled, old and sere-- It is trying, Kate, my dear!

 But--as sure--_some_ picture sells, And--sometimes--the poetry-- Bless us! How the parrot yells His acclaims at you and me! How we revel then in scenes Of high banqueting!--sardines-- Salads--olives--and a sheer Pint of sherry, Kate, my dear!

 Even now I cross your palm, With this great round world of gold!-- "Talking wild?" Perhaps I am-- Then, this little five-year-old!-- Call it anything you will, So it lifts your face until I may kiss away that tear Ere it drowns me, Kate, my dear. 

IN THE DARK. 

 O in the depths of midnight What fancies haunt the brain! When even the sigh of the sleeper Sounds like a sob of pain. 

 A sense of awe and of wonder I may never well define, -- For the thoughts that come in the shadows Never come in the shine. 

 The old clock down in the parlor Like a sleepless mourner grieves, And the seconds drip in the silence As the rain drips from the eaves. 

 And I think of the hands that signal The hours there in the gloom, And wonder what angel watchers Wait in the darkened room. 

 And I think of the smiling faces That used to watch and wait, Till the click of the clock was answered By the click of the opening gate. --

 They are not there now in the evening-- Morning or noon--not there; Yet I know that they keep their vigil, And wait for me Somewhere. 

WET WEATHER TALK. 

 It ain't no use to grumble and complain; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice: When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice. 

 Men giner'ly, to all intents-- Although they're ap' to grumble some-- Puts most their trust in Providence, And takes things as they come;-- That is, the commonality Of men that's lived as long as me, Has watched the world enough to learn They're not the boss of the concern. 

 With _some_, of course, it's different-- I've seed _young_ men that knowed it all, And didn't like the way things went On this terrestial ball! But, all the same, the rain some way Rained jest as hard on picnic-day; Er when they railly wanted it, It maybe wouldn't rain a bit!

 In this existence, dry and wet Will overtake the best of men-- Some little skift o' clouds'll shet The sun off now and then; But maybe, while you're wondern' who You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to, And _want_ it--out'll pop the sun, And you'll be glad you ain't got none!

 It aggervates the farmers, too-- They's too much wet, er too much sun, Er work, er waiting round to do Before the plowin''s done; And maybe, like as not, the wheat, Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat, Will ketch the storm--and jest about The time the corn 's a-jintin' out!

 These here cy-clones a-foolin' round-- And back'ard crops--and wind and rain, And yit the corn that's wallered down May elbow up again! They ain't no sense, as I kin see, In mortals, sich as you and me, A-faultin' Nature's wise intents, And lockin' horns with Providence!

 It ain't no use to grumble and complain; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice: When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice. 

WHERE SHALL WE LAND. 

 "_Where shall we land you, sweet_?"--Swinburne. 

 All listlessly we float Out seaward in the boat That beareth Love. Our sails of purest snow Bend to the blue below And to the blue above. Where shall we land?

 We drift upon a tide Shoreless on every side, Save where the eye Of Fancy sweeps far lands Shelved slopingly with sands Of gold and porphyry. Where shall we land?

 The fairy isles we see, Loom up so mistily-- So vaguely fair, We do not care to break Fresh bubbles in our wake To bend our course for there. Where shall we land?

 The warm winds of the deep Have lulled our sails to sleep, And so we glide Careless of wave or wind, Or change of any kind, Or turn of any tide. Where shall we land?

 We droop our dreamy eyes Where our reflection lies Steeped in the sea, And, in an endless fit Of languor, smile on it And its sweet mimicry. Where shall we land?

 "Where shall we land?" God's grace! I know not any place So fair as this-- Swung here between the blue Of sea and sky, with you To ask me, with a kiss, "Where shall we land?"

AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY

William Williams his name was--or so he said;--Bill Williams theycalled him, and them 'at knowed him best called him Bill Bills. 

The first I seed o' Bills was about two weeks after he got here. TheSettlement wasn't nothin' but a baby in them days, far I mind 'at oldEzry Sturgiss had jist got his saw and griss-mill a-goin', and Billshad come along and claimed to know all about millin', and got a jobwith him; and millers in them times was wanted worse'n congerss-men, and I reckon got better wages; far afore Ezry built, ther wasn't adust o' meal er flour to be had short o' the White Water, better'nsixty mild from here, the way we had to fetch it. And they used tocome to Ezry's far ther grindin' as far as that; and one feller Iknowed to come from what used to be the old South Fork, over eightymild from here, and in the wettest, rainyest weather; and mud! _Law!_

Well, this-here Bills was a-workin' far Ezry at the time--part thetime a-grindin', and part the time a-lookin' after the sawin', andgittin' out timber and the like. Bills was a queer-lookin' feller, shore! About as tall a build man as Tom Carter--but of course youdon't know nothin' o' Tom Carter. A great big hulk of a feller, Tomwas; and as far back as Fifty-eight used to make his brags that hecould cut and put up his seven cord a day. 

Well, what give Bills this queer look, as I was a-goin' on to say, wasa great big ugly scar a-runnin' from the corner o' one eye clean downhis face and neck, and I don't know how far down his breast--awfullookin'; and he never shaved, and ther wasn't a hair a-growin' in thatscar, and it looked like a--some kind o' pizen snake er somepin' acrawlin' in the grass and weeds. I never seed sich a' out-an'-outonry-lookin' chap, and I'll never fergit the first time I set eyes onhim. 

Steve and me--Steve was my youngest brother; Steve's be'n in Californynow far, le' me see, --well, anyways, I reckon, over thirtyyear. --Steve was a-drivin' the team at the time--I allus let Stevedrive; 'peared like Steve was made a-purpose far hosses. Thebeatin'est hand with hosses 'at ever you _did_ see-an'-I-know! W'y, ahoss, after he got kind o' used to Steve a-handlin' of him, would doanything far _him_! And I've knowed that boy to swap far hosses 'atcou'dn't hardly make a shadder; and, afore you knowed it, Steve wouldhave 'em a-cavortin' around a-lookin' as peert and fat and slick!

Well, we'd come over to Ezry's far some grindin' that day; and Stevewanted to price some lumber far a house, intendin' to marry thatFall--and would a-married, I reckon, ef the girl hadn't a-died jist asshe'd got her weddin' clothes done, and that set hard on Steve farawhile. Yit he rallied, you know, as a youngster will; but he nevermarried, someway--never married. Reckon he never found no other womanhe could love well enough, 'less it was--well, no odds. --The GoodBein's jedge o' what's best far each and all. 

We lived _then_ about eight mild from Ezry's, and it tuck about a dayto make the trip; so you kin kind o' git an idee o' how the roads wasin them days. 

Well, on the way over I noticed Steve was mighty quiet-like, but Ididn't think nothin' of it, tel at last he says, says he, "Tom, I wantyou to kind o' keep an eye out far Ezry's new hand, " meanin Bills. Andthen I kind o' suspicioned somepin' o' nother was up betwixt 'em; andshore enough ther was, as I found out afore the day was over. 

I knowed 'at Bills was a mean sort of a man, from what I'd heerd. Hisname was all over the neighborhood afore he'd be'n here two weeks. 

In the first place, he come in a suspicious sort o' way. Him and hiswife, and a little baby only a few months old, come through in akivvered wagon with a fambly a-goin' som'ers in The Illinoy; and theystopped at the mill, far some meal er somepin', and Bills got totalkin' with Ezry 'bout millin', and one thing o' nother, and said hewas expeerenced some 'bout a mill hisse'f, and told Ezry ef he'd givehim work he'd stop; said his wife and baby wasn't strong enough tostand trav'lin', and ef Ezry'd give him work he was ready to lick intoit then and there; said his woman could pay her board by sewin' andthe like, tel they got ahead a little; and then, ef he liked theneighberhood, he said he'd as leave settle there as anywheres; he washuntin' a home, he said, and the outlook kind o' struck him, and hiswoman railly needed rest, and wasn't strong enough to go much furder. And old Ezry kind o' tuck pity on the feller; and havin' houseroom tospare, and railly in need of a good hand at the mill, he said allright; and so the feller stopped and the wagon druv ahead and left'em; and they didn't have no things ner nothin'--not even acyarpet-satchel, ner a stitch o' clothes, on'y what they had on theirbacks. And I think it was the third er fourth day after Bills stopped'at he whirped Tomps Burk, the bully o' here them days, tel you wouldn't a-knowed him!

Well, I'd heerd o' this, and the fact is I'd made up my mind 'at Billswas a bad stick, and the place was n't none the better far his bein'here. But, as I was a-goin' on to say, --as Steve and me driv up to themill, I ketched sight o' Bills the first thing, a-lookin' out o' wheresome boards was knocked off, jist over the worter-wheel; and he knowedSteve--I could see that by his face; and he hollered somepin', too, but what it was I couldn't jist make out, far the noise o' the wheel;but he looked to me as ef he'd hollered somepin' mean a-purpose so'sSteve _wouldn't_ hear it, and _he'd_ have the consolation o' knowin''at he'd called Steve some onry name 'thout givin' him a chance totake it up. Steve was allus quiet like, but ef you raised his danderone't--and you could do that 'thout much trouble, callin' him names ersomepin', particular' anything 'bout his mother. Steve loved hismother--allus loved his mother, and would fight far her at the drap o'the hat. And he was her favo-_rite_--allus a-talkin' o' "her boy, Steven, " as she used to call him, and so proud of him, and so keerfulof him allus, when he 'd be sick er anything; nuss him like a baby, she would. 

So when Bills hollered, Steve didn't pay no attention; and I saidnothin', o' course, and didn't let on like I noticed him. So we druvround to the south side and hitched; and Steve 'lowed he'd betterfeed; so I left him with the hosses and went into the mill. 

They was jist a-stoppin' far dinner. Most of 'em brought therdinners--lived so far away, you know. The two Smith boys lived on whatused to be the old Warrick farm, five er six mild, anyhow, from wher'the mill stood. Great stout fellers, they was; and little Jake, thefather of 'em, wasn't no man at all--not much bigger'n you, I rickon. Le' me see, now:--Ther was Tomps Burk, Wade Elwood, and Joe and BenCarter, and Wesley Morris, John Coke--wiry little cuss, he was, aforehe got his leg sawed off--and Ezry, and--Well, I don't jist mind allthe boys--'s a long time ago, and I never was much of a hand farnames. --Now, some folks'll hear a name and never fergit it, but Ican't boast of a good ricollection, 'specially o' names; and far thelast thirty year my mem'ry's be'n a-failin' me, ever sence a spell o'fever 'at I brought on onc't--fever and rheumatiz together. You see, Iwent a-sainin' with a passel o' the boys, fool-like, and let myclothes freeze on me a-comin' home. Wy, my breeches was likestove-pipes when I pulled 'em off. 'Ll, ef I didn't pay far thatspree! Rheumatiz got a holt o' me and helt me there flat o' my backfar eight weeks, and couldn't move hand er foot 'thout a-hollerin'like a' Injun. And I'd a-be'n there yit, I reckon, ef it had n'ta-be'n far a' old hoss-doctor, name o' Jones; and he gits a lot o' sodand steeps it in hot whisky and pops it on me, andI'll-be-switched-to-death ef it didn't cuore me up, far all I laughedand told him I'd better take the whisky inardly and let him keep thegrass far his doctor bill. But that's nuther here ner there:--As I wasa-saying 'bout the mill: As I went in, the boys had stopped work andwas a-gittin' down ther dinners, and Bills amongst 'em, and old Ezrya-chattin' away--great hand, he was, far his joke, and allus a-cuttin'up and a-gittin' off his odd-come-shorts on the boys. And that day hewas in particular good humor. He'd brought some liquor down far theboys, and he'd be'n drinkin' a little hisse'f, enough to feel it. Hedidn't drink much--that is to say, he didn't git drunk adzactly; buthe tuck his dram, you understand. You see, they made ther own whiskyin them days, and it was n't nothin' like the bilin' stuff you gitnow. Old Ezry had a little still, and allus made his own whisky, enough far fambly use, and jist as puore as worter, and as harmless. But now-a-days the liquor you git's rank pizen. They say they puttobacker in it, and strychnine, and the Lord knows what; ner I neverknowed why, 'less it was to give it a richer-lookin' flavor, like. Well, Ezry he 'd brought up a jug, and the boys had be'n a-takin' itpurty free; I seed that as quick as I went in. And old Ezry called outto me to come and take some, the first thing. Told him I did n'tb'lieve I keered about it; but nothin' would do but I must take adrink with the boys; and I was tired anyhow and I thought a littlewould n't hurt; so I takes a swig; and as I set the jug down Billsspoke up and says, "You're a stranger to me, and I'm a stranger toyou, but I reckon we can drink to our better acquaintance, " ersomepin' to that amount, and poured out another snifter in a gourdhe'd be'n a-drinkin' coffee in, and handed it to me. Well, I could n'twell refuse, of course, so I says, "Here 's to us, " and drunk herdown--mighty nigh a half pint, I reckon. Now, I railly did n't wantit, but, as I tell you, I was obleeged to take it, and I downed her ata swaller and never batted an eye, far, to tell the fact about it, Iliked the taste o' liquor; and I do yit, only I know when I' gotenough. Jist then I didn't want to drink on account o' Steve. Stevecouldn't abide liquor in no shape ner form--far medicine ner nothin', and I 've allus thought it was his mother's doin's. 

Now, a few months afore this I 'd be'n to Vincennes, and I was jista-tellin' Ezry what they was a-astin' far ther liquor there--far I 'dfetched a couple o' gallon home with me 'at I 'd paid six bits far, and pore liquor at that: And I was a-tellin' about it, and old Ezrywas a-sayin' what an oudacious figger that was, and how he could makemoney a-sellin' it far half that price, and was a-goin' on a-braggin'about his liquor--and it was a good article--far new whisky, --and jistthen Steve comes in, jist as Bills was a-sayin' 'at a man 'at wouldn'tdrink that whisky wasn't no man at all. So, of course, when they astSteve to take some and he told 'em no, 'at he was much obleeged, Billswas kind o' tuck down, you understand, and had to say somepin'; andsays he, "I reckon you ain't no better 'n the rest of us, and _we 've_be'n a-drinkin' of it. " But Steve did n't let on like he noticed Billsat all, and rech and shuck hands with the other boys and ast how theywas all a-comin' on. 

I seed Bills was riled, and more 'n likely wanted trouble; and shoreenough, he went on to say, kind o' snarlin' like, 'at "he'd knowed o'men in his day 'at had be'n licked far refusin' to drink when theirbetters ast 'em;" and said furder 'at "a lickin' wasn't none too goodfar anybody 'at would refuse liquor like that o' Ezry's, and in hisown house too"--er _buildin'_, ruther. Ezry shuck his head at him, butI seed 'at Bills was bound far a quarrel, and I winks at Steve, asmuch as to say, "Don't you let him bully you; you'll find your brotherhere to see you have fair play!" _I_ was a-feelin' my oats some aboutthen, and Steve seed I was, and looked so sorry like, and like hismother, 'at I jist thought, "I kin fight far you, and die far you, 'cause you're wuth it!"--And I didn't someway feel like it wouldamount to much ef I did die er git killed er somepin' on his account. I seed Steve was mighty white around the mouth and his eyes was aglitterin' like a snake's; but Bills didn't seem to take warnin', butwent on to say 'at he'd knowed boys 'at loved the'r mothers so wellthey couldn't drink nothin' stronger 'n milk. --And then you'd ort o'seed Steve's coat fly off, jist like it wanted to git out of his way, and give the boy room accordin' to his stren'th. I seed Bills grab apiece o' scantlin' jist in time to ketch his arm as he struck atSteve, --far Steve was a-comin' far him dangerss. But they'd ketchedSteve from behind jist then; and Bills turned far me. I seed him drawback, and I seed Steve a-scufflin' to ketch his arm; but he didn'treach it quite in time to do me no good. It must a-come awful suddent. The first I ricollect was a roarin' and a buzzin' in my ears, and whenI kind o' come a little better to, and crawled up and peeked over thesaw-log I was a-layin' the other side of, I seed a couple clinched anda rollin' over and over, and a-makin' the chips and saw-dust fly, nowI tell you! Bills and Steve it was--head and tail, tooth and toenail, and a-bleedin' like good fellers. I seed a gash o' some kind inBills's head, and Steve was purty well tuckered, and a-pantin' like alizard; and I made a rush in, and one o' the Carter boys grabbed meand told me to jist keep cool; 'at Steve didn't need no he'p, and theymight need me to keep Bills's friends off ef they made a rush. By thistime Steve had whirlt Bills, and was a-jist a-gittin' in a fair way tofinish him up in good style, when Wesley Morris run in--I seed him doit--run in, and afore we could ketch him he struck Steve a deadener inthe butt o' the ear and knocked him as limber as a rag. And then Billswhirlt Steve and got him by the throat, and Ben Carter and me and oldEzry closed in--Carter tackled Morris, and Ezry and me grabsBills--and as old Ezry grabbed him to pull him off, Bills kind o' givehim a side swipe o' some kind and knocked him--I don't know how far!And jist then Carter and Morris come a-scufflin' back'ards rightamongst us, and Carter throwed him right acrost Bills and Steve. Well, it ain't fair, and I don't like to tell it, but I seed it was the lastchance and I tuck advantage of it:--As Wesley and Ben fell it pulledBills down in a kind o' twist, don't you understand, so's he couldn'the'p hisse'f, yit still a-clinchin' Steve by the throat, and him blackin the face: Well, as they fell I grabbed up a little hick'ry limb, not bigger 'n my two thumbs, and I struck Bills a little tap kind o'over the back of his head like, and blame me ef he didn't keel overlike a stuck pig--and not any too soon, nuther, far he had Steve'schunk as nigh put out as you ever seed a man's, to come to agin. Buthe was up th'reckly and ready to a-went at it ef Bills could a-come tothe scratch; but Mister Bills he wasn't in no fix to try it over!After a-waitin' awhile far him to come to, and him not a-comin' to, weconcluded 'at we'd better he'p him, maybe. And we worked with him, andwashed him, and drenched him with whisky, but it 'peared like itwasn't no use: He jist laid there with his eyes about half shet, anda-breathin' like a hoss when he's bad sceart; and I'll be dad-limbedef I don't believe he'd a-died on our hands ef it hadn't a-happenedold Doc Zions come a-ridin' past on his way home from the Murdockneighberhood, where they was a-havin' sich a time with the milk-sick. And he examined Bills, and had him laid on a plank and carried down tothe house--'bout a mild, I reckon, from the mill. Looked kind o'curous to see Steve a-heppin' pack the feller, after his nearlychokin' him to death. Oh, it was a bloody fight, I tell you! W'y, therwasn't a man in the mill 'at didn't have a black eye er somepin'; andold Ezry, where Bills hit him, had his nose broke, and was as bloodyas a butcher. And you'd ort a-seed the women-folks when our p'sessioncome a-bringin' Bills in. I never seed anybody take on like Bills'swoman. It was distressin'; it was, indeed. --Went into hysterics, shedid; and we thought far awhile she'd gone plum crazy, far she cried sopitiful over him, and called him "Charley! Charley!" 'stid of hisright name, and went on, clean out of her head, tel she finally jistfainted clean away. 

Far three weeks Bills laid betwixt life and death, and that woman setby him night and day, and tended him as patient as a' angel--and shewas a' angel, too; and he'd a-never lived to bother nobody agin ef ithadn't a-be'n far Annie, as he called her. Zions said ther was a'brazure of the--some kind o' p'tubernce, and ef he'd a-be'n struckjist a quarter of a' inch below--jist a quarter of a' inch--he'da-be'n a dead man. And I've sence wished--not 'at I want the life of ahuman bein' to account far, on'y, well, no odds--I've sence wished 'atI had a-hit him jist a quarter of a' inch below!

Well, of course, them days ther wasn't no law o' no account, andnothin' was ever done about it. So Steve and me got our grindin', andtalked the matter over with Ezry and the boys. Ezry said he wasa-goin' to do all he could far Bills, 'cause he was a good hand, andwhen he wasn't drinkin' ther wasn't no peaceabler man in thesettlement. I kind o' suspicioned what was up, but I said nothin'then. And Ezry said furder, as we was about drivin' off, that Billswas a despert feller, and it was best to kind o' humor him a little. "And you must kind o' be on your guard, " he says, "and I'll watch himand ef anything happens 'at I git wind of I'll let you know, " he says;and so we put out far home. 

Mother tuck on awful about it. You see, she thought she'd be'h thewhole blame of it, 'cause the Sunday afore that her and Steve had wentto meetin', and they got there late, and the house was crowded, andSteve had ast Bills to give up his seat to Mother, and he wouldn't doit, and said somepin' 'at disturbed the prayin', and the preacherprayed 'at the feller 'at was a-makin' the disturbance might beforgive; and that riled Bills so he got up and left, and hung aroundtill it broke up, so's he could git a chance at Steve to pick a fight. And he did try it, and dared Steve and double-dared him far a fight, but Mother begged so hard 'at she kep' him out of it. Steve said 'athe'd a-told me all about it on the way to Ezry's, on'y he'd promisedMother, you know, not to say nothin' to me. 

 * * * * *

Ezry was over at our house about six weeks after the fight, appearantly as happy as you please. We ast him how him and Bills wasa-makin' it, and he said firstrate; said 'at Bills was jist a-doin'splendid; said he'd got moved in his new house 'at he'd fixed up farhim, and ever'thing was a-goin' on as smooth as could be; and Billsand the boys was on better terms 'n ever; and says he, "As far as youand Steve 's concerned, Bills don't 'pear to bear you no ill feelin's, and says as far as he 's concerned the thing 's settled. " "Well, " saysI, "Ezry, I hope so; but I can't he'p but think ther 's somepin' atthe bottom of all this;" and says I, "I do n't think it's in Bills toever amount to anything good;" and says I, "It's my opinion ther 's adog in the well, and now you mark it!"

Well, he said he _wasn't_ jist easy, but maybe he 'd come out allright; said he couldn't turn the feller off--he hadn't the heart to dothat, with that-air pore, dilicate woman o' his, and the baby. Andthen he went on to tell what a smart sort o' woman Bills's wifewas, --one of the nicest little women he 'd ever laid eyes on, said shewas; said she was the kindest thing, and the sweetest-tempered, andall--and the handiest woman 'bout the house, and 'bout sewin', andcookin', and the like, and all kinds o' housework; and so good to thechildern, and all; and how they all got along so well; and how proudshe was of her baby, and allus a-goin' on about it and a-cryin' overit and a-carryin' on, and wouldn't leave it out of her sight a minute. And Ezry said 'at she could write so purty, and made sich purtypictures far the childern; and how they all liked her better'n therown mother. And, sence she'd moved, he said it seemed so lonesome like'thout _her_ about the house--like they'd lost one o' ther own fambly;said they didn't git to see her much now, on'y sometimes, when her manwould be at work, she'd run over far awhile, and kiss all the childernand women-folks about the place, --the greatest hand far the childern, she was; tell 'em all sorts o'little stories, you know, and sing far'em; said 'at she could sing so sweet-like, 'at time and time aginshe'd break clean down in some song o'nuther, and her voice wouldtrimble so mournful-like 'at you'd find yourse'f a-cryin' afore youknowed it. And she used to coax Ezry's woman to let her take thechildern home with her; and they used to allus want to go, 'tel Billscome onc't while they was there, and they said he got to jawin' herfar a-makin' some to-do over the baby, and swore at her and tuck itaway from her and whipped it far cryin', and she cried and told him towhip her and not little Annie, and he said that was jist what he wasa-doin'. And the childern was allus afear'd to go there any more afterthat--'fear'd he'd come home and whip little Annie agin. Ezry said hejist done that to skeer 'em away--'cause he didn't want a passel o'childern a-whoopin' and a-howlin' and a-trackin' 'round the house allthe time. 

But, shore enough, Bills, after the fight, 'peared like he 'd settleddown, and went 'bout his business so stiddy-like, and worked so well, the neighbors begin to think he was all right after all, and railly_some_ got to _likin'_ him. But far me, well, I was a leetle slow toargy 'at the feller wasn't "a-possumin'. " But the next time I wentover to the mill--and Steve went with me--old Ezry come and met us, and said 'at Bills didn't have no hard feelin's ef _we_ didn't, and'at he wanted us to fergive him; said 'at Bills wanted him to tell us'at he was sorry the way he'd acted, and wanted us to fergive him. Well, I looked at Ezry, and we both looked at him, jist perfectly tuckback--the idee o' Bills a-wantin' anybody to fergive him! And says I, "Ezry, what in the name o' common sense do you mean?" And says he, "Imean jist what I say; Bills jined meetin' last night and had 'em alla-prayin' far him; and we all had _a glorious time_, " says old Ezry;"and his woman was there and jined, too, and prayed and shouted andtuck on to beat all; and Bills got up and spoke and give in hisexperience, and said he'd be'n a bad man, but, glory to God, themtimes was past and gone; said 'at he wanted all of 'em to pray farhim, and he wanted to prove faithful, and wanted all his inemies tofergive him; and prayed 'at you and Steve and your folks would fergivehim, and ever'body 'at he ever wronged anyway. " And old Ezry wasa-goin' on, and his eyes a-sparklin', and a-rubbin' his hands, he wasso excited and tickled over it, 'at Steve and me we jist stood therea-gawkin' like, tel Bills hisse'f come up and rech out one hand toSteve and one to me; and Steve shuck with him kind o' oneasy like, andI--well, sir, I never felt cur'oser in my born days than I did thatminute. The cold chills crep' over me, and I shuck as ef I had theagur, and I folded my hands behind me and I looked that feller squarein the eye, and I tried to speak three or four times afore I couldmake it, and when I did, my voice wasn't natchurl--sounded like afeller a-whisperin' through a tin horn er somepin'. --and I says, saysI, "You're a liar, " slow and delibert. That was all. His eyes blazed aminute, and drapped; and he turned, 'thout a word, and walked off. AndEzry says, "He's in airnest; I know he's in airnest, er he'd a-nevera-tuck that!" And so he went on, tel finally Steve jined in, andbetwixt 'em they p'suaded me 'at I was in the wrong and the best thingto do was to make it all up, which I finally did. And Bills said 'athe'd a-never a-felt jist right 'thout _my_ friendship, far he'dwronged me, he said, and he'd wronged Steve and Mother, too, and hewanted a chance, he said, o' makin' things straight agin. 

Well, a-goin' home, I don't think Steve and me talked o' nothin' elsebut Bills--how airnest the feller acted 'bout it, and how, ef he_wasn't_ in airnest he'd a-never a-swallered that 'lie, ' you see. That's what walked my log, far he could a-jist as easy a-knocked mehigher 'n Kilgore's kite as he could to walk away 'thout a-doin' ofit. 

Mother was awful tickled when she heerd about it, far she'd had anidee 'at we'd have trouble afore we got back, and a-gitten home safe, and a-bringin' the news 'bout Bills a-jinin' church and all, tickledher so 'at she mighty nigh shouted far joy. You see, Mother was a' oldchurch-member all her life; and I don't think she ever missed asermont er a prayer-meetin' 'at she could possibly git to--rain ershine, wet er dry. When ther was a meetin' of any kind a-goin' on, goshe would, and nothin' short o' sickness in the fambly, er knowin'nothin' of it would stop _her_! And clean up to her dyin' day she wasa God-fearin' and consistent Christian ef ther ever was one. I mindnow when she was tuck with her last spell and laid bedfast fareighteen months, she used to tell the preacher, when he 'd come to seeher and pray and go on, 'at she could die happy ef she could on'y bewith 'em all agin in their love-feasts and revivals. She was purty lowthen, and had be'n a-failin' fast far a day er two; and that daythey'd be'n a-holdin' service at the house. It was her request, youknow, and the neighbers had congergated and was a-prayin' anda-singin' her favorite hymns--one in p'tickler, "God moves in amysterous way his wunders to p'form, " and 'bout his "Walkin' on thesea and a-ridin' of the storm. "--Well, anyway, they'd be'n a-singin'that hymn far her--she used to sing that 'n so much, I ricollect asfar back as I kin remember; and I mind how it used to make me feel solonesome-like and solemn, don't you know, --when I'd be a-knockin'round the place along of evenin's, and she'd be a-milkin', and I'dhear her, at my feedin', way off by myse'f, and it allus somehow mademe feel like a feller'd ort o' try and live as nigh right as the lawallows, and that's about my doctern yit. Well, as I was a-goin' on tosay, they'd jist finished that old hymn, and Granny Lowry was jista-goin to lead in prayer, when I noticed mother kind o' tried to turnherse'f in bed, and smiled so weak and faint-like, and looked at me, with her lips a-kind o' movin'; and I thought maybe she wanted anotherdos't of her syrup 'at Ezry's woman had fixed up far her, and I kindo' stooped down over her and ast her if she wanted anything. "Yes, "she says, and nodded, and her voice sounded so low and solemn and sofar away-like 'at I knowed she'd never take no more medicine on thisairth. And I tried to ast her what it was she wanted, but I couldn'tsay nothin'; my throat hurt me, and I felt the warm tears a-boolgin'up, and her kind old face a-glimmerin' a-way so pale-like afore myeyes, and still a-smilin' up so lovin' and forgivin' and so good 'atit made me think so far back in the past I seemed to be a little boyagin; and seemed like her thin gray hair was brown, and a-shinin' inthe sun as it used to do when she helt me on her shoulder in the opendoor, when Father was a-livin' and we used to go to meet him at thebars; seemed like her face was young agin, and a-smilin' like it allusused to be, and her eyes as full o' hope and happiness as afore theyever looked on grief er ever shed a tear. And I thought of all thetrouble they had saw on my account, and of all the lovin' words herlips had said, and of all the thousand things her pore old hands haddone far me 'at I never even thanked her far; and how I loved herbetter 'n all the world besides, and would be so lonesome ef she wentaway--Lord! I can't tell you what I didn't think and feel and see. AndI knelt down by her, and she whispered then far Steven, and he come, and we kissed her--and she died--a smilin' like a child--jist like achild. 

Well--well! 'Pears like I'm allus a-runnin' into somepin' else. Iwisht I could tell a story 'thout driftin' off in matters 'at hain'tno livin' thing to do with what I started out with. I try to keep fromthinkin' of afflictions and the like, 'cause sich is bound to come tothe best of us; but a feller's ricollection will bring 'em up, and Ireckon it'd ort 'o be er it wouldn't be; and I've thought, sometimes, it was done may be to kind o' admonish a feller, as the Good Booksays, of how good a world 'd be 'thout no sorrow in it. 

Where was I? Oh, yes, I ricollect;--about Bills a-jinin' church. Well, sir, ther' wasn't a better-actin' feller and more religious-like inall the neighberhood. Spoke in meetin's, he did, and tuck a' activepart in all religious doin's, and, in fact, was jist as square a man, appearantly, as the preacher hisse'f. And about six er eight weeksafter he'd jined, they got up another revival, and things run high. Ther' was a big excitement, and ever'body was a'tendin' from far andnear. Bills and Ezry got the mill-hands to go, and didn't talk o'nothin' but religion. People thought awhile 'at old Ezry 'd turnpreacher, he got so interested 'bout church matters. He was easyexcited 'bout anything; and when he went into a thing it was in deadearnest, shore!--"jist flew off the handle, " as I heerd a comicalfeller git off onct. And him and Bills was up and at it ever'night--prayin' and shoutin' at the top o' the'r voice. Them railly didseem like good times--when ever'body jined together, and prayed andshouted ho-sanner, and danced around together, and hugged each otherlike they was so full o' glory they jist couldn't he'ptheirse'v's--that's the reason I jined; it looked so kind o'whole-souled-like and good, you understand. But la! I didn't hold outon'y far a little while, and no wunder!

Well, about them times Bills was tuck down with the agur; first got tochillin' ever'-other-day, then ever' day, and harder and harder, telsometimes he 'd be obleeged to stay away from meetin' on account ofit. And one't I was at meetin' when he told about it, and how when hecouldn't be with 'em he allus prayed at home, and he said 'at hebelieved his prayers was answered, far onc't he'd prayed far a newoutpourin' of the Holy Sperit, and that very night ther' was three newjiners. And another time he said 'at he 'd prayed 'at Wesley Morriswould jine, and lo and behold you! he _did_ jine, and the very night'at he prayed he would. 

Well, the night I'm a-speakin' of he'd had a chill the day afore andcouldn't go that night, and was in bed when Ezry druv past far him;said he'd like to go, but had a high fever and couldn't. And thenEzry's woman ast him ef he was too sick to spare Annie; and he saidno, they could take her and the baby: and told her to fix his medicineso's he could reach it 'thout gittin' out o' bed, and he'd git along'thout her. And so she tuck the baby and went along with Ezry and hisfolks. 

I was at meetin' that night and ricollect 'em comin' in. Annie got aseat jist behind me--Steve give her his'n and stood up; and Iricollect a-astin' her how Bills was a-gittin' along with the agur;and little Annie, the baby, kep' a-pullin' my hair and a-crowin' telfinally she went to sleep; and Steve ast her mother to let _him_ holdher--cutest little thing you ever laid eyes on, and the very pictur'_of_ her mother. 

Old Daddy Barker preached that night, and a mighty good sermont. Histext, ef I ricollect right, was "workin' out your own salvation;" andwhen I listen to preachers nowadays in ther big churches and ther finepulpits, I allus think o' Daddy Barker, and kind o' some way wisht theold times could come agin, with the old log meetin'-house with itspuncheon floor and the chinkin' in the walls, and old Daddy Barker inthe pulpit. He'd make you feel 'at the Lord could make hissef at homethere, and find jist as abundant comfort in the old log house as hecould in any of your fine-furnished churches 'at you can't set down in'thout payin' far the privilege, like it was a theater. 

Ezry had his two little girls jine that night, and I ricollect thepreacher made sich a purty prayer about the Savior a-cotin' from theBible 'bout "Suffer little childern to come unto me" and all; andtalked so purty about the jedgment day, and mothers a-meetin' the'rlittle ones there and all; and went on tel ther wasn't a dry eye inthe house--and jist as he was a-windin' up, Abe Riggers stuck his headin at the door and hollered "fire" loud as he could yell. We allrushed out, a-thinkin' it was the meetin'-house; but he hollered itwas the mill; and shore enough, away off to the southards we could seethe light acrost the woods, and see the blaze a-lickin' up above thetrees. I seed old Ezry as he come a-scufflin' through the crowd; andwe put out together far it. Well, it was two mild to the mill, but bythe time we'd half way got there, we could tell it wasn't the milla-burnin', 'at the fire was furder to the left, and that was Ezry'shouse; and by the time we got there it wasn't much use. We pitchedinto the household goods, and got out the beddin', and the furnitur'and cheers and the like o' that; saved the clock and a bedstid, andgot the bureau purt' nigh out when they hollered to us 'at the roofwas a cavin' in, and we had to leave it; well, we'd tuck the drawersout, all but the big one, and that was locked; and it and all in itwent with the buildin', and that was a big loss: All the money 'atEzry was a-layin' by was in that-air drawer, and a lot o' keepsakesand trinkets 'at Ezry's woman said she wouldn't a-parted with far theworld and all. 

I never seed a troubleder fambly than they was. It jist 'peared likeold Ezry give clean down, and the women and childern a-cryin' anda-takin' on. It looked jist awful--shore's you're born!--Losin'ever'thing they'd worked so hard far--and there it was, purt' nighmidnight, and a fambly, jist a little while ago all so happy, and nowwith no home to go to ner nothin'!

It was arranged far Ezry's to move in with Bills--that was about theon'y chance--on'y one room and a loft; but Bills said they couldmanage _some_ way, far a while anyhow. 

Bills said he seed the fire when it first started, and could a-put itout ef he'd on'y be'n strong enough to git there; said he startedtwic't to go, but was too weak and had to go back to bed agin; said itwas a-blazin' in the kitchen roof when he first seed it. So thegineral conclusion 'at we all come to was--it must a-ketched from theflue. 

It was too late in the Fall then to think o' buildin' even the onryestkind o' shanty, and so Ezry moved in with Bills. And Bills used to sayef it had n't a-be'n far Ezry _he'd_ a-never a-had no house, nernuthin' to put in it, nuther. You see, all the household goods 'atBills had in the world he'd got of Ezry, and he 'lowed he'd be atriflin' whelp ef he didn't do all in his power to make Ezry perfecklyat home 's long as he wanted to stay there. And together they managedto make room far 'em all, by a-buildin' a kind o' shed-like to themain house, intendin' to build when Spring come. And ever'thing wentalong first-rate, I guess; never heerd no complaints--that is, p'ticular. 

Ezry was kind o' down far a long time, though; didn't like to talkabout his trouble much, and didn't 'tend meetin' much, like he usedto; said it made him think 'bout his house burnin', and he didn't feelsafe to lose sight o' the mill. And the meetin's kind o' broke upaltogether that winter. Almost broke up religious doin's, it did. 'Slong as I've lived here I never seed jist sich a slack in religion asther' was that winter; and 'fore then, I kin mind the time when ther'wasn't a night the whole endurin' winter when they didn't havepreachin' er prayer-meetin' o' some kind a-goin' on. W'y, I ricollectone night in p'ticular--_the coldest_ night, _whooh!_ And somebody hadstold the meetin'-house door, and they was obleeged to preach 'thoutit. And the wind blowed in so they had to hold the'r hats afore thecandles, and then one't-in-a-while they'd git sluffed out. And thesnow drifted in so it was jist like settin' out doors; and they had tostand up when they prayed--yessir! stood up to pray. I noticed thatnight they was a' oncommon lot o' jiners, and I believe to this day'at most of 'em jined jist to git up wher' the stove was. Lots o'folks had the'r feet froze right in meetin'; and Steve come home withhis ears froze like they was whittled out o' bone; and he said 'atMary Madaline Wells's feet was froze, and she had two pair o' socks onover her shoes. Oh, it was cold, now I tell you!

They run the mill part o' that winter--part they couldn't. And theydidn't work to say stiddy tel along in Aprile, and then ther' was snowon the ground yit--in the shadders--and the ground froze, so youcouldn't hardly dig a grave. But at last they got to kind o' jiggin'along agin. Plenty to do ther' was; and old Ezry was mighty tickled, too; 'peared to recruit right up like. Ezry was allus best tickledwhen things was a-stirrin', and then he was a-gittin' ready farbuildin', you know, wanted a house of his own, he said--and of courseit wasn't adzackly like home, all cluttered up as they was there atBills's. They got along mighty well, though, together; and thewomen-folks and childern got along the best in the world. Ezry's womanused to say she never laid eyes on jist sich another woman as Anniewas. Said it was jist as good as a winter's schoolin' far thechildern; said her two little girls had learnt to read, and didn'tknow the'r a-b abs afore Annie learnt 'em; well, the oldest one, MaryPatience, she did know her letters, I guess--fourteen year old, shewas; but Mandy, the youngest, had never seed inside a book afore thatwinter; and the way she learnt was jist su'prisin'. She was puny-likeand frail-lookin' allus, but ever'body 'lowed she was a heap smarter'n Mary Patience, and she was; and in my opinion she railly had moresense 'n all the rest o' the childern put together, 'bout books andcipherin' and arethmetic, and the like; and John Wesley, the oldest of'em, he got to teachin' at last, when he growed up, --but, la! hecouldn't write his own name so 's you could read it. I allus thoughtther was a good 'eal of old Ezry in John Wesley. Liked to romance'round with the youngsters 'most too well. --Spiled him far teachin', Iallus thought; far instance, ef a scholard said somepin' funny inschool, John-Wes he'd jist have to have his laugh out with the rest, and it was jist fun far the boys, you know, to go to school to him. Allus in far spellin'-matches and the like, and learnin' songs andsich. I ricollect he give a' exhibition onc't, one winter, and I'llnever fergit it, I reckon. 

The school-house would on'y hold 'bout forty, comfortable, and thatnight ther' was up'ards of a hunderd er more--jist crammed and jammed!And the benches was piled back so's to make room far the flatformthey'd built to make the'r speeches and dialogues on; and fellersa-settin' up on them back seats, the'r heads was clean aginst thej'ist. It was a low ceilin', anyhow, and o' course them 'at tuck apart in the doin's was way up, too. Janey Thompson had to give up herpart in a dialogue, 'cause she looked so tall she was afeard thecongergation would laugh at her; and they couldn't git her to come outand sing in the openin' song 'thout lettin' her set down first and gitready 'fore they pulled the curtain. You see, they had sheets sewedtogether, and fixed on a string some way, to slide back'ards andfor'ards, don't you know. But they was a big bother to 'em--couldn'tgit 'em to work like. Ever' time they'd git 'em slid 'bout half wayacrost, somepin' would ketch, and they'd have to stop and fool with'em awhile 'fore they could git 'em the balance o' the way acrost. Well, finally, t'ords the last, they jist kep' 'em drawed back all thetime. It was a pore affair, and spiled purt nigh ever' piece; but thescholards all wanted it fixed thataway, the teacher said, in a fewappropert remarks he made when the thing was over. Well, I was asettin' in the back part o' the house on them high benches, and myhead was jist even with them on the flatform, and the lights was pore, wher' the string was stretched far the curtain to slide on it lookedlike the p'formers was strung on it. And when Lige Boyer's boy wasa-speakin'--kind o' mumbled it, you know, and you couldn't halfhear--it looked far the world like he was a-chawin' on that-airstring; and some devilish feller 'lowed ef he'd chaw it clean in twoit'd be a good thing far the balance. After that they all sung asleigh-ridin' song, and it was right purty, the way they got it off. Had a passel o' sleigh-bells they'd ring ever' onc't-in-a-while, andit sounded purty--shore!

Then Hunicut's girl, Marindy, read a letter 'bout winter, and what funthe youngsters allus had in winter-time, a-sleighin' and the like, andspellin'-matches, and huskin'-bees, and all. Purty good, it was, andmade a feller think o' old times. Well, that was about the best thingther' was done that night; but ever'body said the teacher wrote it farher; and I wouldn't be su'prised much, far they was married not longafterwards. I expect he wrote it far her. --Wouldn't put it past Wes!

They had a dialogue, too, 'at was purty good. Little Bob Arnold wasall fixed up--had on his pap's old bell-crowned hat, the one he wasmarried in. Well, I jist thought die I would when I seed that old hatand called to mind the night his pap was married, and we all got him alittle how-come-you-so on some left-handed cider 'at had be'n a-layin'in a whisky-bar'l tel it was strong enough to bear up a' egg. I kinricollect now jist how he looked in that hat, when it was all new, youknow, and a-settin on the back of his head, and his hair in his eyes;and sich hair!--as red as git-out--and his little black eyes a-shinin'like beads. Well sir, you'd a-died to a-seed him a-dancin'. We dancedall night that night, and would a-be'n a-dancin' yit, I reckon, ef thefiddler hadn't a-give out. Wash Lowry was a-fiddlin' far us; and alongto'rds three or four in the mornin' Wash was purty well fagged out. You see, Wash could never play far a dance er nothin' 'thouta-drinkin' more er less, and when he got to a certain pitch youcouldn't git nothin' out o' him but "Barbary Allan;" so at last hestruck up on that, and jist kep' it up and _kep_' it up, and nobodycouldn't git nothin' else out of him!

Now, anybody 'at ever danced knows 'at "Barbary Allan" hain't no tuneto dance by, no way you can fix it; and, o' course, the boys seed atonc't the'r fun was gone ef they could n't git him on anothertune. --And they 'd coax and beg and plead with him, and maybe git himstarted on "The Wind Blows over the Barley, " and 'bout the time they'dgit to knockin' it down agin purty lively, he'd go to sawin' away on"Barbary Allan"--and I'll-be-switched-to-death ef that feller didn'tset there and play hisse'f sound asleep on "Barbary Allan, " and we hadto wake him up afore he'd quit! Now, that's jes' a plum' facts. Andther' wasn't a better fiddler nowheres than Wash Lowry, when he was athisse'f. I've heerd a good many fiddlers in my day, and I never heerdone yit 'at could play my style o' fiddlin' ekal to Wash Lowry. Yousee, Wash didn't play none o' this-here newfangled music--nothin' butthe old tunes, you understand, "The Forkéd Deer, " and "Old Fat Gal, "and "Gray Eagle, " and the like. Now, them's music! Used to like tohear Wash play "Gray Eagle. " He could come as nigh a-makin' that oldtune talk as ever you heerd! Used to think a heap o' his fiddle--andhe had a good one, shore. I've heard him say, time and time agin, 'ata five-dollar gold-piece wouldn't buy it, and I knowed him my-se'f torefuse a calf far it onc't--yessir, a yearland calf--and the felleroffered him a double-bar'l'd pistol to boot, and blame ef he'd takeit; said he'd ruther part with anything else he owned than hisfiddle. --But here I am, clean out o' the furry agin. Oh, yes; I wasa-tellin' about little Bob, with that old hat; and he had on aswaller-tail coat and a lot o' fixin's, a-actin' like he was 'squire;and he had him a great long beard made out o' corn-silks, and youwouldn't a-knowed him ef it wasn't far his voice. Well, he wasa-p'tendin' he was a 'squire a-tryin' some kind o' law-suit, you see;and John Wesley he was the defendunt, and Joney Wiles, I believe itwas, played like he was the plaintive. And they'd had a fallin' out'bout some land, and was a-lawin' far p'session, you understand. Well, Bob he made out it was a mighty bad case when John-Wes comes toconsult him about it, and tells _him_ ef a little p'int o' law wasleft out he thought he could git the land far him. And then John-Wesbribes him, you understand, to leave out the p'int o' law, and the'squire says he'll do all he kin, and so John-Wes goes out a feelin'purty good. Then _Wiles_ comes in to consult the 'squire don't yousee. And the 'squire tells _him_ the same tale he told _John Wesley_. So _Wiles_ bribes him to leave out the p'int o' law in _his_ favor, don't you know. So when the case is tried he decides in favor o'John-Wes, a-tellin' Wiles some cock-and-bull story 'bout havin' tomanage it thataway so 's to git the case mixed so's he could git itfar him shore; and posts him to sue far change of venue ersomepin', --anyway, Wiles gits a new trial, and then the 'squiredecides in _his_ favor, and tells John-Wes another trial will fix itin _his_ favor, and so on. --And so it goes on tel, anyway, he gitsholt o' the land hisse'f and all ther money besides, and leaves themto hold the bag! Wellsir, it was purty well got up; and they said itwas John-Wes's doin's, and I 'low it was--he was a good hand atanything o' that sort, and knowed how to make fun. --But I've be'n atellin' you purty much ever'thing but what I started out with, andI'll try and hurry through, 'cause I know you're tired. 

'Long 'bout the beginin' o' summer, things had got back to purty muchthe old way. The boys round was a-gittin' devilish, and o' nights'specially ther' was a sight o' meanness a-goin' on. The mill-hands, most of'em, was mixed up in it--Coke and Morris, and them 'at hadjined meetin' 'long in the winter, had all backslid, and wasa-drinkin' and carousin' 'round worse 'n ever. 

People perdicted 'at Bills would backslide, but he helt on faithful, to all appearance; said he liked to see a feller when he made up hismind to do right, he liked to see him do it, and not go back on hisword; and even went so far as to tell Ezry ef they didn't put a stopto it he'd quit the neighberhood and go some'rs else. And Bills wasEzry's head man then, and he couldn't a-got along 'thout him; and Ib'lieve ef Bills had a-said the word old Ezry would a-turned off ever'hand he had. He got so he jist left ever'thing to Bills. Ben Carterwas turned off far somepin', and nobody ever knowed what. Bills andhim had never got along jist right sence the fight. 

Ben was with this set I was a-tellin' you 'bout, and they'd got him todrinkin' and in trouble, o' course. I'd knowed Ben well enough to knowhe wouldn't do nothin' onry ef he wasn't agged on, and ef he ever wasmixed up in anything o' the kind Wes Morris and John Coke was at thebottom of it, and I take notice they wasn't turned off when Ben was. 

One night the crowd was out, and Ben amongst 'em, o' course. --Sencehe'd be'n turned off he'd be'n a-drinkin', --and I never blamed himmuch; he was so good-hearted like and easy led off, and I allusb'lieved it wasn't his own doin's. 

Well, this night they cut up awful, and ef ther was one fight ther wasa dozend; and when all the devilment was done they _could_ do, theystarted on a stealin' expedition, and stold a lot o' chickens and tuck'em to the mill to roast'em; and, to make a long story short, thatnight the mill burnt clean to the ground. And the whole pack of 'emcologued together aginst Carter to saddle it onto him; claimed 'atthey left Ben there at the mill 'bout twelve o'clock--which was afact, far he was dead drunk and couldn't git away. Steve stumbled overhim while the mill was a-burnin' and drug him out afore he knowed whatwas a-goin' on, and it was all plain enough to Steve 'at Ben didn'thave no hand in the firm' of it. But I'll tell you he sobered upmighty suddent when he seed what was a-goin' on, and heerd theneighbors a-hollerin', and a-threatenin', and a-goin' on!--far itseemed to be the ginerl idee 'at the buildin' was fired a-purpose. Andsays Ben to Steve, says he, "I expect I'll have to say good-bye toyou, far they've got me in a ticklish place! I kin see through it allnow, when it's too late!" And jist then Wesley Morris hollers out, "Where's Ben Carter?" and started to'rds where me and Ben and Stevewas a-standin'; and Ben says, wild like, "Don't you two fellers everthink it was my doin's, " and whispers "Good-bye, " and started off, andwhen we turned, Wesley Morris was a-layin' flat of his back, and weheerd Carter yell to the crowd 'at "that man"--meanin' Morris--"needed lookin' after worse than _he_ did, " and another minute heplunged into the river and swum acrost; and we all stood and watchedhim in the flickerin' light tel he clum out on t'other bank; and 'atwas last anybody ever seed o' Ben Carter!

It must a-be'n about three o'clock in the mornin' by this time, andthe mill then was jist a-smoulderin' to ashes--far it was as dry astinder and burnt like a flash--and jist as a party was a-talkin' o'organizin' and follerin' Carter, we heerd a yell 'at I'll never fergitef I'd live tel another flood. Old Ezry, it was, as white as a corpse, and with the blood a-streamin' out of a gash in his forehead, and hisclothes half on, come a-rushin' into the crowd and a-hollerin' fireand murder ever' jump. "My house is a-burnin', and my folks is alla-bein' murdered while you 're a-standin' here! And Bills done it!Bills done it!" he hollered, as he headed the crowd and started backfar home. "Bills done it! I caught him at it; and he would a-murderedme in cold blood ef it had n't a-be'n far his woman. He knocked medown, and had me tied to a bed-post in the kitchen afore I come to. And his woman cut me loose and told me to run far he'p; and says I, 'Where's Bills?' and she says, 'He's after me by this time. ' And jistthen we heerd Bills holler, and we looked, and he was a-standin' outin the clearin' in front o' the house, with little Annie in his arms;and he hollered wouldn't she like to kiss the baby good-bye. "

"And she hollered My God! far me to save little Annie, and faintedclean dead away. And I heerd the roof a-crackin', and grabbed her upand packed her out jist in time. And when I looked up, Bills holleredout agin, and says, 'Ezry, ' he says, 'You kin begin to kind a' git anidee o' what a good feller I am! And ef you hadn't a-caught me you 'da-never a-knowed it, and 'Brother Williams' wouldn't a-be'n calledaway to another app'intment like he is. ' And says he, 'Now, ef youfoller me I'll finish you shore!--You're safe now, far I hain't gottime to waste on you furder. ' And jist then his woman kind o' come toher senses agin and hollered far little Annie, and the child heerd herand helt out its little arms to go to her, and hollered 'Mother!Mother!' And Bills says, Dam your mother! ef it hadn't a-be'n far_her_ I'd a-be'n all right. And dam you too!' he says to me, --'This'llpay you far that lick you struck me; and far you a-startin' reportswhen I first come 'at more 'n likely I'd done somepin' mean over eastand come out west to reform! And I wonder ef I _didn't_ do somepin'mean afore I come here?' he went on; 'kill somebody er somepin'? And Iwonder ef I ain't reformed enough to go back? Good-bye, Annie!' hehollered; 'and you needn't fret about your baby, I 'll be the sameindulgent father to it I 've allus be'n!' And the baby was a-cryin'and a-reachin' out its little arms to'rds its mother, when Bills heturned and struck oft' in the dark to'rds the river. "

This was about the tale 'at Ezry told us, as nigh as I can ricollect, and by the time he finished, I never want to see jist sich anothercrowd o' men as was a-swarmin' there. Ain't it awful when sich a crowdgits together? I tell you it makes my flesh creep to think about it!

As Bills had gone in the direction of the river, we wasn't long inmakin' our minds up 'at he'd have to cross it, and ef he done _that_he'd have to use the boat 'at was down below the mill, er wade it atthe ford, a mild er more down. So we divided in three sections, like--one to go and look after the folks at the house, and another tothe boat, and another to the ford. And Steve and me and Ezry was inthe crowd 'at struck far the boat, and we made time a-gittin' there!It was awful dark, and the sky was a-cloudin'up like a storm; but wewasn't long a-gittin' to the p'int where the boat was allus tied; butther' wasn't no boat there! Steve kind o' tuck the lead, and we alltalked in whispers. And Steve said to kind o' lay low and maybe wecould hear somepin', and some feller said he thought he heerd somepin'strange like, but the wind was kind o' raisin' and kep' up sich amoanin' through the trees along the bank 't we couldn't make outnothin'. "Listen!" says Steve, suddent like, "I hear somepin!" We wasall still again--and we all heerd a moanin' 'at was sadder 'n thewind--sounded mournfuller to me 'cause I knowed it in a minute, and Iwhispered, "Little Annie. " And 'way out acrost the river we could hearthe little thing a-sobbin', and we all was still 's death; and weheerd a voice we knowd was Bills's say, "Dam ye! Keep still, or I'lldrownd ye!" And the wind kind o' moaned agin and we could hear thetrees a-screechin' together in the dark, and the leaves a-rustlin';and when it kind o' lulled agin, we heerd Bills make a kind o' splashwith the oars; and jist then Steve whispered far to lay low and beready--he was a-goin' to riconnitre; and he tuck his coat and shoesoff, and slid over the bank and down into the worter as slick as a'eel. Then ever'thing was still agin, 'cept the moanin' o' the child, which kep' a-gittin' louder and louder; and then a voice whispered tous, "He's a-comin' back; the crowd below has sent scouts up, andthey're on t' other side. Now watch clos't, and he's our meat. " Wecould hear Bills, by the moanin' o' the baby, a-comin' nearder andnearder, tel suddently he made a sort o' miss-lick with the oar, Ireckon, and must a splashed the baby, far she set up a loud cryin; andjist then old Ezry, who was a-leanin' over the bank, kind o' lost hisgrip some way o' nuther, and fell kersplash in the worter like a' oldchunk. "Hello!" says Bills, through the dark, "you're there, too, airye?" as old Ezry splashed up the bank agin. And "Cuss you!" he saysthen, to the baby--"ef it hadn't be'n far your infernal squawkin' I'da-be'n all right; but you've brought the whole neighberhood out, and, dam you, I'll jist let you swim out to 'em!" And we heerd a splash, then a kind o' gurglin', and then Steve's voice a-hollerin', "Close inon him, boys; I've got the baby!" And about a dozend of us bobbed offthe bank like so many bull-frogs, and I'll tell you the worter b'iled!We could jist make out the shape o' the boat, and Bills a-standin'with a' oar drawed back to smash the first head 'at come in range. Itwas a mean place to git at him. We knowed he was despert, and far aminute we kind o' helt back. Fifteen foot o' worter 's a mightyonhandy place to git hit over the head in! And Bills says, "You hain'tafeard, I reckon--twenty men agin one!" "You'd better give your se'fup!" hollered Ezry from the shore. "No, Brother Sturgiss, " says Bills, "I can't say 'at I'm at all anxious 'bout bein' borned agin, jist yitawhile, " he says; "I see you kind o' 'pear to go in far babtism; guessyou'd better go home and git some dry clothes on; and, speakin' o'home, you'd ort 'o be there by all means--your house might catch afireand burn up while you're gone!" And jist then the boat give a suddentshove under him--some feller'd div under and tilted it--and far aminute it throwed him off his guard and the boys closed in. Still hehad the advantage, bein' in the boat, and as fast as a feller wouldclimb in he'd git a whack o' the oar, tel finally they got to pilin'in a little too fast far him to manage, and he hollered then 'at we'dhave to come to the bottom ef we got him, and with that he div out o'the end o' the boat, and we lost sight of him; and I'll be blame ef hedidn't give us the slip after all. 

Wellsir, we watched far him, and some o' the boys swum on down stream, expectin' he'd raise, but couldn't find hide ner hair of him; so weleft the boat a-driftin' off down stream and swum ashore, a-thinkin'he'd jist drownded hisse'f a-purpose. But ther' was more su'prisewaitin' far us yit, --for lo-and-behold-you, when we got ashore ther'wasn't no trace o' Steve er the baby to be found. Ezry said he seedSteve when he fetched little Annie ashore, and she was all right on'yshe was purt nigh past cryin'; and he said Steve had lapped his coataround her and give her to him to take charge of, and he got soexcited over the fight he laid her down betwixt a couple o' logs andkind o' forget about her tel the thing was over, and he went to lookfar her, and she was gone. Couldn't a-be'n 'at she'd a-wundered offher-own-se'f; and it couldn't a-be'n 'at Steve'd take her, 'thouta-lettin us know it. It was a mighty aggervatin' conclusion to cometo, but we had to do it, and that was, Bills must a got ashoreunbeknownst to us and packed her off. Sich a thing wasn't hardlyprobable, yit it was a thing 'at might be; and after a-talkin' it overwe had to admit 'at it must a-be'n the way of it. But where was Steve?W'y, we argied, he'd discivvered she was gone, and had put out ontrack of her 'thout losin' time to stop and explain the thing. Thenext question was, what did Bills want with her agin? He'd tried todrownd her onc't. We could ast questions enough, but c'rect answerswas mighty skearce, and we jist concluded 'at the best thing to do wasto put out far the ford, far that was the nighdest place Bills couldcross 'thout a boat, and ef it was him tuck the child he was still onour side o' the river, o' course. So we struck out far the ford, a-leav-in' a couple o' men to search up the river. A drizzlin' sort o'rain had set in by this time, and with that and the darkness and themoanin' of the wind, it made 'bout as lonesome a prospect as a fellerever wants to go through agin. 

It was jist a-gittin' a little gray-like in the mornin' by the time wereached the ford, but you couldn't hardly see two rods afore you farthe mist and the fog 'at had settled along the river. We looked fartracks, but couldn't make out nuthin'. Thereckly old Ezry punched meand p'inted out acrost the river. "What's that?" he whispers. Jist'bout half way acrost was somepin' white-like in the worter--couldn'tmake out what--perfeckly still it was. And I whispered back and toldhim I guess it wasn't nothin' but a sycamore snag. "Listen!" says he;"Sycamore snags don't make no noise like that!" And, shore enough, itwas the same moanin' noise we'd heerd the baby makin' when we firstgot on the track. Sobbin' she was, as though nigh about dead. "Well, ef that's Bills, " says I--"and I reckon ther' hain't no doubt but itis--what in the name o' all that's good and bad's the fellera-standin' there far?" And a-creep-in' clos'ter, we could make him outplainer and plainer. It was him; and there he stood breast-high in theworter, a-holdin' the baby on his shoulder like, and a lookin' upstream, and a-waitin'. 

"What do you make out of it?" says Ezry. "What's he waitin' far?"

And a strainin' my eyes in the direction he was a-lookin' I seedsomepin' a-movin' down the river, and a minute later I'd made out theold boat a-driftin' down stream; and then of course ever'thing wasplain enough: He was waitin' far the boat, and ef he got _that_ he'dhave the same advantage on us he had afore. 

"Boys, " says I, "he mustn't git that boat agin! Foller me, and don'tlet him git to the shore alive. " And in we plunged. He seed us, but henever budged, on'y to grab the baby by its little legs, and swing itout at arms-len'th. "Stop, there, " he hollered. "Stop jist where youair! Move another inch and I'll drownd this dam young-un afore youreyes!" he says. --And he 'd a done it. "Boys, " says I, "he's got us. Don't move! This thing'll have to rest with a higher power 'n our 'n!Ef any of you kin pray, " says I, "now's a good time to do it!"

Jist then the boat swung up, and Bills grabbed it and rech 'round andset the baby in it, never a-takin' his eye off o' us, though, far aminute. "Now, " says he, with a sort o' snarlin' laugh, "I've on'y gota little while to stay with you, and I want to say a few words afore Igo. I want to tell you fellers, in the first place, 'at you've be'n_fooled_ in me: I _hain't_ a good feller, now, honest! And ef you're alittle the worse far findin' it out so late in the day, you hain'tnone the worse far losin' me so soon--far I'm a-goin' away now, andany interference with my arrangements 'll on'y give you more trouble;so it's better all around to let me go peaceable and jist while I'm inthe notion. I expect it'll be a disapp'intment to some o' you that myname hain't 'Williams, ' but it hain't. And maybe you won't think nighas much o' me when I tell you furder 'at I was obleeged to 'dopt thename o' 'Williams' onc't to keep from bein' strung up to a lamp-post, but sich is the facts. I was so extremely unfortunit onc't as to killa p'ticular friend o' mine, and he forgive me with his dyin' breath, and told me to run while I could, and be a better man. But he'dspotted me with a' ugly mark 'at made it kind o' onhandy to git away, but I did at last; and jist as I was a-gittin' reformed-like, youfellers had to kick in the traces, and I've made up my mind to huntout a more moraler community, where they don't make sich a fuss abouttrifles. And havin' nothin' more to say, on'y to send Annie word 'atI'll still be a father to her youngun here, I'll bid you allgood-bye. " And with that he turned and clum in the boat--or rutherfell in, --far somepin' black-like had riz up in it, with a' awfullick--my--God!--and, a minute later, boat and baggage was a-gratin' onthe shore, and a crowd come thrashin' 'crost from tother side to jineus, and 'peared like wasn't a _second_ longer tel a feller wasa-swingin' by his neck to the limb of a scrub-oak, his feet clean offthe ground, and his legs a-jerkin' up and down like a limber-jack's. 

And Steve it was a-layin' in the boat, and he'd rid a mild or more'thout knowin' of it. Bills had struck and stunt him as he clum inwhile the rumpus was a-goin' on, and he'd on'y come to in time to hearBills's farewell address to us there at the ford. 

Steve tuck charge o' little Annie agin, and ef she'd a-be'n his ownchild he wouldn't a-went on more over her than he did; and said nobodybut her mother would git her out o' his hands agin. And he was as goodas his word; and ef you could a-seed him a half hour after that, whenhe _did_ give her to her mother--all lapped up in his coat and asdrippin'-wet as a little drownded angel--it would a-made you wish'tyou was him to see that little woman a caperin' round him, anda-thankin' him, and a-cryin' and a-laughin', and almost a-huggin' him, she was so tickled, --Well, I thought in my soul she'd die! And Steveblushed like a girl to see her a-taking' on, and a-thankin' him, anda-cryin', and a-kissin' little Annie, and a-goin' on. And when sheinquired 'bout Bills, which she did all suddent like, with a burst o'tears, we jist didn't have the heart to tell her--on'y we said he'dcrossed the river and got away. And he had!

And now comes a part o' this thing 'at 'll more 'n like tax you tobelieve it: Williams and her wasn't man and wife--and you needn't looksu'prised, nuther, and I'll tell you far why--They was own brother andsister; and that brings me to _her_ part of the story, which you'llhave to admit beats anything 'at you ever read about in books. 

 * * * * *

Her and Williams--that _wasn't_ his name, like he acknowledged, hisse'f, you ricollect--ner she didn't want to tell his right name;and we forgive her far that. Her and 'Williams' was own brother andsister, and the'r parents lived in Ohio some'ers. The'r mother hadbe'n dead five year' and better--grieved to death over her onnachurlbrother's recklessness, which Annie hinted had broke her father up insome way, in tryin' to shield him from the law. And the secret of herbein' with him was this: She had married a man o' the name of Curtisor Custer, I don't mind which, adzackly--but no matter; she'd marrieda well-to-do young feller 'at her brother helt a' old grudge agin, shenever knowed what; and sence her marriage her brother had went on frombad to worse tel finally her father jist give him up and told him togo it his own way--he'd killed his mother and ruined him, and he'djist give up all hopes. But Annie--you know how a sister is--she stillclung to him and done ever'thing far him, tel finally, one night aboutthree years after she was married she got word some way that he was introuble agin, and sent her husband to he'p him; and a half hour afterhe'd gone, her brother come in, all excited and bloody, and told herto git the baby and come with him, 'at her husband had got in aquarrel with a friend o' his and was bad hurt. And she went with him, of course, and he tuck her in a buggy, and lit out with her as tightas he could go all night; and then told her 'at _he_ was the feller'at had quarreled with her husband, and the officers was after him andhe was obleeged to leave the country, and far fear he hadn't madeshore work o' him, he was a-takin' her along to make shore of hisgittin' his revenge; and he swore he'd kill her and the baby too efshe dared to whimper. And so it was, through a hunderd hardships he'dmade his way at last to our section o' the country, givin' out 'atthey was man and wife, and keepin' her from denyin' of it by threats, and promises of the time a-comin' when he'd send her home to her managin in case he hadn't killed him. And so it run on tel you'd a-criedto hear her tell it, and still see her sister's love far the fellera-breakin' out by a-declarin' how kind he was to her _at times_, andhow he wasn't railly bad at heart, on'y far his ungov'nable temper. But I couldn't he'p but notice, when she was a tellin' of her hist'ry, what a quiet sort o' look o' satisfaction settled on the face o' Steveand the rest of 'em, don't you understand. 

And now ther' was on'y one thing she wanted to ast, she said; and thatwas, could she still make her home with us tel she could git word toher friends?--and there she broke down agin, not knowin', of course, whether _they_ was dead er alive; far time and time agin she saidsomepin' told her she'd never see her husband agin on this airth; andthen the women-folks would cry with her and console her, and the boyswould speak hopeful--all but Steve; some way o' nuther Steve was neverlike hisse'f from that time on. 

And so things went far a month and better. Ever'thing had quieteddown, and Ezry and a lot o' hands, and me and Steve amongst 'em, wasa-workin' on the frame-work of another mill. It was purty weather, andwe was all in good sperits, and it 'peared like the whole neighberhoodwas interested--and they _-was_, too--women-folks and ever'body. Andthat day Ezry's woman and amongst 'em was a-gittin' up a big dinner tofetch down to us from the house; and along about noon a spruce-lookin'young feller, with a pale face and a black beard, like, come a-ridin'by and hitched his hoss, and comin' into the crowd, said "Howdy, "pleasant like, and we all stopped work as he went on to say 'at he wason the track of a feller o' the name o' 'Williams, ' and wanted to knowef we could give him any infermation 'bout sich a man. Told himmaybe, --'at a feller bearin' that name desappeared kind o' myster'ousfrom our neighberhood 'bout five weeks afore that. "My God!" says he, a-turnin' paler'n ever, "am I too late? Where did he go, and was hissister and her baby with him?" Jist then I ketched sight o' thewomen-folks a-comin' with the baskets, and Annie with 'em, with a jugo' worter in her hand; so I spoke up quick to the stranger, and saysI, "I guess 'his sister and baby' wasn't along, " says I, "but his_wife_ and _baby's_ some'eres here in the neighberhood yit. " And thena-watchin' him clos't, I says, suddent, a-pin'tin' over his shoulder, "There his woman is now--that one with the jug, there. " Well, Anniehad jist stooped to lift up one o' the little girls, when the fellerturned, and the'r eyes met, "Annie! My wife!" he says; and Annie shekind o' give a little yelp like and come a-flutterin' down in hisarms; and the jug o' worter rolled clean acrost the road, and turned asomerset and knocked the cob out of its mouth and jist laid back andhollered "Good--good--good--good--good!" like as ef it knowed what wasup and was jist as glad and tickled as the rest of us. 

SWEET-KNOT AND GALAMUS

AN OLD SWEETHEART. 

 As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known, So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design, I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine. 

 The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes, And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke. 

 'Tis a fragrant retrospection--for the loving thoughts that start Into being are like perfumes from the blossom of the heart; And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine-- When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweeheart of mine. 

 Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings, The voices of my children, and the mother as she sings, I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme When care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream

 In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm-- For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine. 

 A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace, Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase; And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies. 

 I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the caress With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine Grew 'round the stump, " she loved me--that old sweetheart of mine. 

 And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand, As we used to talk together of the future we had planned-- When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do But write the tender verses that she set the music to:

 When we should live together in a cozy little cot Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine, And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine:

 When I should be her lover forever and a day, And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray; And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come. 

 * * * * *

 But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair, And the door is softly opened, and--my wife is standing there; Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine. 

MARTHY ELLEN. 

 They's nothin' in the name to strike A feller more'n common like! 'Taint liable to git no praise Ner nothin' like it nowadays; An' yit that name o' her'n is jest As purty as the purtiest-- And more 'n that, I'm here to say I'll live a-thinkin' thataway And die far Marthy Ellen!

 It may be I was prejudust In favor of it from the fust-- 'Cause I kin ricollect jest how We met, and hear her mother now A-callin' of her down the road-- And, aggervatin' little toad!-- I see her now, jes' sort o' half- Way disapp'inted, turn and laugh And mock her--"Marthy Ellen!"

 Our people never had no fuss, And yit they never tuck to us; We neighbered back and foreds some; Until they see she liked to come To our house--and me and her Were jest together ever'whur And all the time--and when they'd see That I liked her and she liked me, They'd holler "Marthy Ellen!"

 When we growed up, and they shet down On me and her a-runnin' roun' Together, and her father said He'd never leave her nary red, So he'p him, ef she married me, And so on--and her mother she Jest agged the gyrl, and said she 'lowed She'd ruther see her in her shroud, I _writ_ to Marthy Ellen--

 That is, I kindo' tuck my pen In hand, and stated whur and when The undersigned would be that night, With two good hosses saddled right Far lively travelin' in case Her folks 'ud like to jine the race. She sent the same note back, and writ "The rose is red!" right under it-- "Your 'n allus, Marthy Ellen. "

 That's all, I reckon--Nothin' more To tell but what you've heerd afore-- The same old story, sweeter though Far all the trouble, don't you know. Old-fashioned name! and yit it's jest As purty as the purtiest; And more 'n that, I'm here to say I'll live a-thinking thataway, And die far Marthy Ellen!

MOON-DROWNED. 

 'Twas the height of the fete when we quitted the riot, And quietly stole to the terrace alone, Where, pale as the lovers that ever swear by it, The moon it