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

We lived then about eight mild from Ezry's, and it tuck about a day to make the trip; so you kin kind o' git an idee o' how the roads was in them days.

Well, on the way over I noticed Steve was mighty quiet-like, but I didn't think nothin' of it, tel at last he says, says he, "Tom, I want you to kind o' keep an eye out far Ezry's new hand," meanin Bills. And then I kind o' suspicioned somepin' o' nother was up betwixt 'em; and shore 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. His name 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 his wife, and a little baby only a few months old, come through in a kivvered wagon with a fambly a-goin' som'ers in The Illinoy; and they stopped at the mill, far some meal er somepin', and Bills got to talkin' with Ezry 'bout millin', and one thing o' nother, and said he was expeerenced some 'bout a mill hisse'f, and told Ezry ef he'd give him work he'd stop; said his wife and baby wasn't strong enough to stand trav'lin', and ef Ezry'd give him work he was ready to lick into it then and there; said his woman could pay her board by sewin' and the like, tel they got ahead a little; and then, ef he liked the neighberhood, he said he'd as leave settle there as anywheres; he was huntin' a home, he said, and the outlook kind o' struck him, and his woman 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 to spare, and railly in need of a good hand at the mill, he said all right; and so the feller stopped and the wagon druv ahead and left 'em; and they didn't have no things ner nothin'—not even a cyarpet-satchel, ner a stitch o' clothes, on'y what they had on their backs. 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 would n't a-knowed him!

Well, I'd heerd o' this, and the fact is I'd made up my mind 'at Bills was 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 the mill, I ketched sight o' Bills the first thing, a-lookin' out o' where some boards was knocked off, jist over the worter-wheel; and he knowed Steve—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's Steve 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 to take it up. Steve was allus quiet like, but ef you raised his dander one't—and you could do that 'thout much trouble, callin' him names er somepin', particular' anything 'bout his mother. Steve loved his mother—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 keerful of 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 said nothin', o' course, and didn't let on like I noticed him. So we druv round to the south side and hitched; and Steve 'lowed he'd better feed; so I left him with the hosses and went into the mill.

They was jist a-stoppin' far dinner. Most of 'em brought ther dinners—lived so far away, you know. The two Smith boys lived on what used to be the old Warrick farm, five er six mild, anyhow, from wher' the mill stood. Great stout fellers, they was; and little Jake, the father 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 Ben Carter, and Wesley Morris, John Coke—wiry little cuss, he was, afore he got his leg sawed off—and Ezry, and—Well, I don't jist mind all the boys—'s a long time ago, and I never was much of a hand far names.—Now, some folks'll hear a name and never fergit it, but I can't boast of a good ricollection, 'specially o' names; and far the last 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, I went a-sainin' with a passel o' the boys, fool-like, and let my clothes freeze on me a-comin' home. Wy, my breeches was like stove-pipes when I pulled 'em off. 'Ll, ef I didn't pay far that spree! Rheumatiz got a holt o' me and helt me there flat o' my back far 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't a-be'n far a' old hoss-doctor, name o' Jones; and he gits a lot o' sod and steeps it in hot whisky and pops it on me, and I'll-be-switched-to-death ef it didn't cuore me up, far all I laughed and told him I'd better take the whisky inardly and let him keep the grass far his doctor bill. But that's nuther here ner there:—As I was a-saying 'bout the mill: As I went in, the boys had stopped work and was a-gittin' down ther dinners, and Bills amongst 'em, and old Ezry a-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 he was in particular good humor. He'd brought some liquor down far the boys, and he'd be'n drinkin' a little hisse'f, enough to feel it. He didn't drink much—that is to say, he didn't git drunk adzactly; but he tuck his dram, you understand. You see, they made ther own whisky in them days, and it was n't nothin' like the bilin' stuff you git now. 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 put tobacker in it, and strychnine, and the Lord knows what; ner I never knowed 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' it purty free; I seed that as quick as I went in. And old Ezry called out to me to come and take some, the first thing. Told him I did n't b'lieve I keered about it; but nothin' would do but I must take a drink with the boys; and I was tired anyhow and I thought a little would n't hurt; so I takes a swig; and as I set the jug down Bills spoke up and says, "You're a stranger to me, and I'm a stranger to you, but I reckon we can drink to our better acquaintance," er somepin' to that amount, and poured out another snifter in a gourd he'd be'n a-drinkin' coffee in, and handed it to me. Well, I could n't well refuse, of course, so I says, "Here 's to us," and drunk her down—mighty nigh a half pint, I reckon. Now, I railly did n't want it, but, as I tell you, I was obleeged to take it, and I downed her at a swaller and never batted an eye, far, to tell the fact about it, I liked the taste o' liquor; and I do yit, only I know when I' got enough. Jist then I didn't want to drink on account o' Steve. Steve couldn'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 jist a-tellin' Ezry what they was a-astin' far ther liquor there—far I 'd fetched 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 Ezry was a-sayin' what an oudacious figger that was, and how he could make money 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 jist then Steve comes in, jist as Bills was a-sayin' 'at a man 'at wouldn't drink that whisky wasn't no man at all. So, of course, when they ast Steve to take some and he told 'em no, 'at he was much obleeged, Bills was kind o' tuck down, you understand, and had to say somepin'; and says 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 Bills at all, and rech and shuck hands with the other boys and ast how they was all a-comin' on.

I seed Bills was riled, and more 'n likely wanted trouble; and shore enough, 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 their betters ast 'em;" and said furder 'at "a lickin' wasn't none too good far anybody 'at would refuse liquor like that o' Ezry's, and in his own house too"—er buildin', ruther. Ezry shuck his head at him, but I seed 'at Bills was bound far a quarrel, and I winks at Steve, as much as to say, "Don't you let him bully you; you'll find your brother here to see you have fair play!" I was a-feelin' my oats some about then, and Steve seed I was, and looked so sorry like, and like his mother, '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 would amount 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 a glitterin' like a snake's; but Bills didn't seem to take warnin', but went on to say 'at he'd knowed boys 'at loved the'r mothers so well they 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 a piece o' scantlin' jist in time to ketch his arm as he struck at Steve,—far Steve was a-comin' far him dangerss. But they'd ketched Steve from behind jist then; and Bills turned far me. I seed him draw back, and I seed Steve a-scufflin' to ketch his arm; but he didn't reach 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 when I kind o' come a little better to, and crawled up and peeked over the saw-log I was a-layin' the other side of, I seed a couple clinched and a rollin' over and over, and a-makin' the chips and saw-dust fly, now I 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 in Bills's head, and Steve was purty well tuckered, and a-pantin' like a lizard; and I made a rush in, and one o' the Carter boys grabbed me and told me to jist keep cool; 'at Steve didn't need no he'p, and they might need me to keep Bills's friends off ef they made a rush. By this time Steve had whirlt Bills, and was a-jist a-gittin' in a fair way to finish him up in good style, when Wesley Morris run in—I seed him do it—run in, and afore we could ketch him he struck Steve a deadener in the butt o' the ear and knocked him as limber as a rag. And then Bills whirlt Steve and got him by the throat, and Ben Carter and me and old Ezry closed in—Carter tackled Morris, and Ezry and me grabs Bills—and as old Ezry grabbed him to pull him off, Bills kind o' give him 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 right amongst 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 last chance and I tuck advantage of it:—As Wesley and Ben fell it pulled Bills down in a kind o' twist, don't you understand, so's he couldn't he'p hisse'f, yit still a-clinchin' Steve by the throat, and him black in 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 over like a stuck pig—and not any too soon, nuther, far he had Steve's chunk as nigh put out as you ever seed a man's, to come to agin. But he was up th'reckly and ready to a-went at it ef Bills could a-come to the 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, we concluded 'at we'd better he'p him, maybe. And we worked with him, and washed him, and drenched him with whisky, but it 'peared like it wasn't no use: He jist laid there with his eyes about half shet, and a-breathin' like a hoss when he's bad sceart; and I'll be dad-limbed ef I don't believe he'd a-died on our hands ef it hadn't a-happened old Doc Zions come a-ridin' past on his way home from the Murdock neighberhood, 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 to the house—'bout a mild, I reckon, from the mill. Looked kind o' curous to see Steve a-heppin' pack the feller, after his nearly chokin' him to death. Oh, it was a bloody fight, I tell you! W'y, ther wasn't a man in the mill 'at didn't have a black eye er somepin'; and old Ezry, where Bills hit him, had his nose broke, and was as bloody as a butcher. And you'd ort a-seed the women-folks when our p'session come a-bringin' Bills in. I never seed anybody take on like Bills's woman. It was distressin'; it was, indeed.—Went into hysterics, she did; and we thought far awhile she'd gone plum crazy, far she cried so pitiful over him, and called him "Charley! Charley!" 'stid of his right name, and went on, clean out of her head, tel she finally jist fainted clean away.

Far three weeks Bills laid betwixt life and death, and that woman set by him night and day, and tended him as patient as a' angel—and she was a' angel, too; and he'd a-never lived to bother nobody agin ef it hadn'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 struck jist a quarter of a' inch below—jist a quarter of a' inch—he'd a-be'n a dead man. And I've sence wished—not 'at I want the life of a human bein' to account far, on'y, well, no odds—I've sence wished 'at I had a-hit him jist a quarter of a' inch below!

Well, of course, them days ther wasn't no law o' no account, and nothin' was ever done about it. So Steve and me got our grindin', and talked the matter over with Ezry and the boys. Ezry said he was a-goin' to do all he could far Bills, 'cause he was a good hand, and when he wasn't drinkin' ther wasn't no peaceabler man in the settlement. I kind o' suspicioned what was up, but I said nothin' then. And Ezry said furder, as we was about drivin' off, that Bills was 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 him and 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 the whole blame of it, 'cause the Sunday afore that her and Steve had went to meetin', and they got there late, and the house was crowded, and Steve had ast Bills to give up his seat to Mother, and he wouldn't do it, and said somepin' 'at disturbed the prayin', and the preacher prayed 'at the feller 'at was a-makin' the disturbance might be forgive; and that riled Bills so he got up and left, and hung around till 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 'at he'd a-told me all about it on the way to Ezry's, on'y he'd promised Mother, 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 was a-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 far him, and ever'thing was a-goin' on as smooth as could be; and Bills and the boys was on better terms 'n ever; and says he, "As far as you and 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," says I, "Ezry, I hope so; but I can't he'p but think ther 's somepin' at the bottom of all this;" and says I, "I do n't think it's in Bills to ever amount to anything good;" and says I, "It's my opinion ther 's a dog in the well, and now you mark it!"

Well, he said he wasn't jist easy, but maybe he 'd come out all right; said he couldn't turn the feller off—he hadn't the heart to do that, with that-air pore, dilicate woman o' his, and the baby. And then he went on to tell what a smart sort o' woman Bills's wife was,—one of the nicest little women he 'd ever laid eyes on, said she was; said she was the kindest thing, and the sweetest-tempered, and all—and the handiest woman 'bout the house, and 'bout sewin', and cookin', and the like, and all kinds o' housework; and so good to the childern, and all; and how they all got along so well; and how proud she was of her baby, and allus a-goin' on about it and a-cryin' over it 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 purty pictures far the childern; and how they all liked her better'n ther own 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 man would be at work, she'd run over far awhile, and kiss all the childern and 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 agin she'd break clean down in some song o'nuther, and her voice would trimble so mournful-like 'at you'd find yourse'f a-cryin' afore you knowed it. And she used to coax Ezry's woman to let her take the childern home with her; and they used to allus want to go, 'tel Bills come onc't while they was there, and they said he got to jawin' her far a-makin' some to-do over the baby, and swore at her and tuck it away from her and whipped it far cryin', and she cried and told him to whip her and not little Annie, and he said that was jist what he was a-doin'. And the childern was allus afear'd to go there any more after that—'fear'd he'd come home and whip little Annie agin. Ezry said he jist 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 all the time.

But, shore enough, Bills, after the fight, 'peared like he 'd settled down, 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 to argy 'at the feller wasn't "a-possumin'." But the next time I went over 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 tuck back—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, "I mean jist what I say; Bills jined meetin' last night and had 'em all a-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 and tuck on to beat all; and Bills got up and spoke and give in his experience, and said he'd be'n a bad man, but, glory to God, them times was past and gone; said 'at he wanted all of 'em to pray far him, and he wanted to prove faithful, and wanted all his inemies to fergive him; and prayed 'at you and Steve and your folks would fergive him, and ever'body 'at he ever wronged anyway." And old Ezry was a-goin' on, and his eyes a-sparklin', and a-rubbin' his hands, he was so excited and tickled over it, 'at Steve and me we jist stood there a-gawkin' like, tel Bills hisse'f come up and rech out one hand to Steve and one to me; and Steve shuck with him kind o' oneasy like, and I—well, sir, I never felt cur'oser in my born days than I did that minute. The cold chills crep' over me, and I shuck as ef I had the agur, and I folded my hands behind me and I looked that feller square in the eye, and I tried to speak three or four times afore I could make it, and when I did, my voice wasn't natchurl—sounded like a feller a-whisperin' through a tin horn er somepin'.—and I says, says I, "You're a liar," slow and delibert. That was all. His eyes blazed a minute, and drapped; and he turned, 'thout a word, and walked off. And Ezry says, "He's in airnest; I know he's in airnest, er he'd a-never a-tuck that!" And so he went on, tel finally Steve jined in, and betwixt 'em they p'suaded me 'at I was in the wrong and the best thing to do was to make it all up, which I finally did. And Bills said 'at he'd a-never a-felt jist right 'thout my friendship, far he'd wronged me, he said, and he'd wronged Steve and Mother, too, and he wanted a chance, he said, o' makin' things straight agin.

Well, a-goin' home, I don't think Steve and me talked o' nothin' else but 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 me higher 'n Kilgore's kite as he could to walk away 'thout a-doin' of it.

Mother was awful tickled when she heerd about it, far she'd had an idee '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, tickled her so 'at she mighty nigh shouted far joy. You see, Mother was a' old church-member all her life; and I don't think she ever missed a sermont er a prayer-meetin' 'at she could possibly git to—rain er shine, wet er dry. When ther was a meetin' of any kind a-goin' on, go she 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 was a God-fearin' and consistent Christian ef ther ever was one. I mind now when she was tuck with her last spell and laid bedfast far eighteen months, she used to tell the preacher, when he 'd come to see her and pray and go on, 'at she could die happy ef she could on'y be with 'em all agin in their love-feasts and revivals. She was purty low then, and had be'n a-failin' fast far a day er two; and that day they'd be'n a-holdin' service at the house. It was her request, you know, and the neighbers had congergated and was a-prayin' and a-singin' her favorite hymns—one in p'tickler, "God moves in a mysterous way his wunders to p'form," and 'bout his "Walkin' on the sea 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 as far back as I kin remember; and I mind how it used to make me feel so lonesome-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'd hear her, at my feedin', way off by myse'f, and it allus somehow made me feel like a feller'd ort o' try and live as nigh right as the law allows, and that's about my doctern yit. Well, as I was a-goin' on to say, they'd jist finished that old hymn, and Granny Lowry was jist a-goin to lead in prayer, when I noticed mother kind o' tried to turn herse'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 another dos't of her syrup 'at Ezry's woman had fixed up far her, and I kind o' 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 so far away-like 'at I knowed she'd never take no more medicine on this airth. And I tried to ast her what it was she wanted, but I couldn't say 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 my eyes, and still a-smilin' up so lovin' and forgivin' and so good 'at it made me think so far back in the past I seemed to be a little boy agin; and seemed like her thin gray hair was brown, and a-shinin' in the sun as it used to do when she helt me on her shoulder in the open door, when Father was a-livin' and we used to go to meet him at the bars; seemed like her face was young agin, and a-smilin' like it allus used to be, and her eyes as full o' hope and happiness as afore they ever looked on grief er ever shed a tear. And I thought of all the trouble they had saw on my account, and of all the lovin' words her lips had said, and of all the thousand things her pore old hands had done far me 'at I never even thanked her far; and how I loved her better 'n all the world besides, and would be so lonesome ef she went away—Lord! I can't tell you what I didn't think and feel and see. And I 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 a child.

Well—well! 'Pears like I'm allus a-runnin' into somepin' else. I wisht I could tell a story 'thout driftin' off in matters 'at hain't no livin' thing to do with what I started out with. I try to keep from thinkin' of afflictions and the like, 'cause sich is bound to come to the best of us; but a feller's ricollection will bring 'em up, and I reckon 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 Book says, 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 in all the neighberhood. Spoke in meetin's, he did, and tuck a' active part 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 weeks after 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 and near. Bills and Ezry got the mill-hands to go, and didn't talk o' nothin' but religion. People thought awhile 'at old Ezry 'd turn preacher, he got so interested 'bout church matters. He was easy excited 'bout anything; and when he went into a thing it was in dead earnest, shore!—"jist flew off the handle," as I heerd a comical feller 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 did seem like good times—when ever'body jined together, and prayed and shouted ho-sanner, and danced around together, and hugged each other like they was so full o' glory they jist couldn't he'p theirse'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 out on'y far a little while, and no wunder!

Well, about them times Bills was tuck down with the agur; first got to chillin' ever'-other-day, then ever' day, and harder and harder, tel sometimes he 'd be obleeged to stay away from meetin' on account of it. And one't I was at meetin' when he told about it, and how when he couldn't be with 'em he allus prayed at home, and he said 'at he believed his prayers was answered, far onc't he'd prayed far a new outpourin' of the Holy Sperit, and that very night ther' was three new jiners. And another time he said 'at he 'd prayed 'at Wesley Morris would 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 and couldn'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 then Ezry's woman ast him ef he was too sick to spare Annie; and he said no, they could take her and the baby: and told her to fix his medicine so'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 his folks.

I was at meetin' that night and ricollect 'em comin' in. Annie got a seat jist behind me—Steve give her his'n and stood up; and I ricollect 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' tel finally she went to sleep; and Steve ast her mother to let him hold her—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. His text, ef I ricollect right, was "workin' out your own salvation;" and when I listen to preachers nowadays in ther big churches and ther fine pulpits, I allus think o' Daddy Barker, and kind o' some way wisht the old times could come agin, with the old log meetin'-house with its puncheon floor and the chinkin' in the walls, and old Daddy Barker in the pulpit. He'd make you feel 'at the Lord could make hissef at home there, and find jist as abundant comfort in the old log house as he could 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 the preacher made sich a purty prayer about the Savior a-cotin' from the Bible 'bout "Suffer little childern to come unto me" and all; and talked so purty about the jedgment day, and mothers a-meetin' the'r little ones there and all; and went on tel ther wasn't a dry eye in the house—and jist as he was a-windin' up, Abe Riggers stuck his head in at the door and hollered "fire" loud as he could yell. We all rushed out, a-thinkin' it was the meetin'-house; but he hollered it was the mill; and shore enough, away off to the southards we could see the light acrost the woods, and see the blaze a-lickin' up above the trees. I seed old Ezry as he come a-scufflin' through the crowd; and we put out together far it. Well, it was two mild to the mill, but by the time we'd half way got there, we could tell it wasn't the mill a-burnin', 'at the fire was furder to the left, and that was Ezry's house; and by the time we got there it wasn't much use. We pitched into the household goods, and got out the beddin', and the furnitur' and cheers and the like o' that; saved the clock and a bedstid, and got the bureau purt' nigh out when they hollered to us 'at the roof was a cavin' in, and we had to leave it; well, we'd tuck the drawers out, all but the big one, and that was locked; and it and all in it went with the buildin', and that was a big loss: All the money 'at Ezry was a-layin' by was in that-air drawer, and a lot o' keepsakes and trinkets 'at Ezry's woman said she wouldn't a-parted with far the world and all.

I never seed a troubleder fambly than they was. It jist 'peared like old Ezry give clean down, and the women and childern a-cryin' and a-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' nigh midnight, and a fambly, jist a little while ago all so happy, and now with no home to go to ner nothin'!

It was arranged far Ezry's to move in with Bills—that was about the on'y chance—on'y one room and a loft; but Bills said they could manage some way, far a while anyhow.

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

It was too late in the Fall then to think o' buildin' even the onryest kind o' shanty, and so Ezry moved in with Bills. And Bills used to say ef it had n't a-be'n far Ezry he'd a-never a-had no house, ner nuthin' to put in it, nuther. You see, all the household goods 'at Bills had in the world he'd got of Ezry, and he 'lowed he'd be a triflin' whelp ef he didn't do all in his power to make Ezry perfeckly at home 's long as he wanted to stay there. And together they managed to make room far 'em all, by a-buildin' a kind o' shed-like to the main house, intendin' to build when Spring come. And ever'thing went along 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 talk about his trouble much, and didn't 'tend meetin' much, like he used to; said it made him think 'bout his house burnin', and he didn't feel safe to lose sight o' the mill. And the meetin's kind o' broke up altogether that winter. Almost broke up religious doin's, it did. 'S long as I've lived here I never seed jist sich a slack in religion as ther' 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 have preachin' er prayer-meetin' o' some kind a-goin' on. W'y, I ricollect one night in p'ticular—the coldest night, whooh! And somebody had stold the meetin'-house door, and they was obleeged to preach 'thout it. And the wind blowed in so they had to hold the'r hats afore the candles, and then one't-in-a-while they'd git sluffed out. And the snow drifted in so it was jist like settin' out doors; and they had to stand up when they prayed—yessir! stood up to pray. I noticed that night 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 with his ears froze like they was whittled out o' bone; and he said 'at Mary Madaline Wells's feet was froze, and she had two pair o' socks on over her shoes. Oh, it was cold, now I tell you!

They run the mill part o' that winter—part they couldn't. And they didn't work to say stiddy tel along in Aprile, and then ther' was snow on the ground yit—in the shadders—and the ground froze, so you couldn'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 tickled when things was a-stirrin', and then he was a-gittin' ready far buildin', you know, wanted a house of his own, he said—and of course it wasn't adzackly like home, all cluttered up as they was there at Bills's. They got along mighty well, though, together; and the women-folks and childern got along the best in the world. Ezry's woman used to say she never laid eyes on jist sich another woman as Annie was. Said it was jist as good as a winter's schoolin' far the childern; said her two little girls had learnt to read, and didn't know the'r a-b abs afore Annie learnt 'em; well, the oldest one, Mary Patience, she did know her letters, I guess—fourteen year old, she was; but Mandy, the youngest, had never seed inside a book afore that winter; and the way she learnt was jist su'prisin'. She was puny-like and 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 more sense 'n all the rest o' the childern put together, 'bout books and cipherin' and arethmetic, and the like; and John Wesley, the oldest of 'em, he got to teachin' at last, when he growed up,—but, la! he couldn't write his own name so 's you could read it. I allus thought ther was a good 'eal of old Ezry in John Wesley. Liked to romance 'round with the youngsters 'most too well.—Spiled him far teachin', I allus thought; far instance, ef a scholard said somepin' funny in school, 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 and sich. I ricollect he give a' exhibition onc't, one winter, and I'll never fergit it, I reckon.

The school-house would on'y hold 'bout forty, comfortable, and that night 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 flatform they'd built to make the'r speeches and dialogues on; and fellers a-settin' up on them back seats, the'r heads was clean aginst the j'ist. It was a low ceilin', anyhow, and o' course them 'at tuck a part in the doin's was way up, too. Janey Thompson had to give up her part in a dialogue, 'cause she looked so tall she was afeard the congergation would laugh at her; and they couldn't git her to come out and sing in the openin' song 'thout lettin' her set down first and git ready 'fore they pulled the curtain. You see, they had sheets sewed together, and fixed on a string some way, to slide back'ards and for'ards, don't you know. But they was a big bother to 'em—couldn't git 'em to work like. Ever' time they'd git 'em slid 'bout half way acrost, 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 the time. It was a pore affair, and spiled purt nigh ever' piece; but the scholards all wanted it fixed thataway, the teacher said, in a few appropert remarks he made when the thing was over. Well, I was a settin' in the back part o' the house on them high benches, and my head 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 looked like the p'formers was strung on it. And when Lige Boyer's boy was a-speakin'—kind o' mumbled it, you know, and you couldn't half hear—it looked far the world like he was a-chawin' on that-air string; and some devilish feller 'lowed ef he'd chaw it clean in two it'd be a good thing far the balance. After that they all sung a sleigh-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, and it sounded purty—shore!

Then Hunicut's girl, Marindy, read a letter 'bout winter, and what fun the youngsters allus had in winter-time, a-sleighin' and the like, and spellin'-matches, and huskin'-bees, and all. Purty good, it was, and made a feller think o' old times. Well, that was about the best thing ther' was done that night; but ever'body said the teacher wrote it far her; and I wouldn't be su'prised much, far they was married not long afterwards. 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 was all fixed up—had on his pap's old bell-crowned hat, the one he was married in. Well, I jist thought die I would when I seed that old hat and called to mind the night his pap was married, and we all got him a little 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 kin ricollect now jist how he looked in that hat, when it was all new, you know, 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 danced all night that night, and would a-be'n a-dancin' yit, I reckon, ef the fiddler hadn't a-give out. Wash Lowry was a-fiddlin' far us; and along to'rds three or four in the mornin' Wash was purty well fagged out. You see, Wash could never play far a dance er nothin' 'thout a-drinkin' more er less, and when he got to a certain pitch you couldn't git nothin' out o' him but "Barbary Allan;" so at last he struck up on that, and jist kep' it up and kep' it up, and nobody couldn't git nothin' else out of him!

Now, anybody 'at ever danced knows 'at "Barbary Allan" hain't no tune to dance by, no way you can fix it; and, o' course, the boys seed at onc't the'r fun was gone ef they could n't git him on another tune.—And they 'd coax and beg and plead with him, and maybe git him started on "The Wind Blows over the Barley," and 'bout the time they'd git 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't set there and play hisse'f sound asleep on "Barbary Allan," and we had to wake him up afore he'd quit! Now, that's jes' a plum' facts. And ther' wasn't a better fiddler nowheres than Wash Lowry, when he was at hisse'f. I've heerd a good many fiddlers in my day, and I never heerd one yit 'at could play my style o' fiddlin' ekal to Wash Lowry. You see, Wash didn't play none o' this-here newfangled music—nothin' but the old tunes, you understand, "The Forkd Deer," and "Old Fat Gal," and "Gray Eagle," and the like. Now, them's music! Used to like to hear Wash play "Gray Eagle." He could come as nigh a-makin' that old tune talk as ever you heerd! Used to think a heap o' his fiddle—and he had a good one, shore. I've heard him say, time and time agin, 'at a five-dollar gold-piece wouldn't buy it, and I knowed him my-se'f to refuse a calf far it onc't—yessir, a yearland calf—and the feller offered him a double-bar'l'd pistol to boot, and blame ef he'd take it; said he'd ruther part with anything else he owned than his fiddle.—But here I am, clean out o' the furry agin. Oh, yes; I was a-tellin' about little Bob, with that old hat; and he had on a swaller-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 you wouldn't a-knowed him ef it wasn't far his voice. Well, he was a-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 it was, 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 to consult him about it, and tells him ef a little p'int o' law was left out he thought he could git the land far him. And then John-Wes bribes 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 you see. 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' to manage it thataway so 's to git the case mixed so's he could git it far him shore; and posts him to sue far change of venue er somepin',—anyway, Wiles gits a new trial, and then the 'squire decides in his favor, and tells John-Wes another trial will fix it in his favor, and so on.—And so it goes on tel, anyway, he gits holt o' the land hisse'f and all ther money besides, and leaves them to hold the bag! Wellsir, it was purty well got up; and they said it was John-Wes's doin's, and I 'low it was—he was a good hand at anything o' that sort, and knowed how to make fun.—But I've be'n a tellin' you purty much ever'thing but what I started out with, and I'll try and hurry through, 'cause I know you're tired.

'Long 'bout the beginin' o' summer, things had got back to purty much the 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 had jined meetin' 'long in the winter, had all backslid, and was a-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 his mind to do right, he liked to see him do it, and not go back on his word; and even went so far as to tell Ezry ef they didn't put a stop to it he'd quit the neighberhood and go some'rs else. And Bills was Ezry's head man then, and he couldn't a-got along 'thout him; and I b'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 Carter was turned off far somepin', and nobody ever knowed what. Bills and him 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 to drinkin' and in trouble, o' course. I'd knowed Ben well enough to know he wouldn't do nothin' onry ef he wasn't agged on, and ef he ever was mixed up in anything o' the kind Wes Morris and John Coke was at the bottom 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.—Sence he'd be'n turned off he'd be'n a-drinkin',—and I never blamed him much; he was so good-hearted like and easy led off, and I allus b'lieved it wasn't his own doin's.

Well, this night they cut up awful, and ef ther was one fight ther was a dozend; and when all the devilment was done they could do, they started 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, that night the mill burnt clean to the ground. And the whole pack of 'em cologued together aginst Carter to saddle it onto him; claimed 'at they left Ben there at the mill 'bout twelve o'clock—which was a fact, far he was dead drunk and couldn't git away. Steve stumbled over him while the mill was a-burnin' and drug him out afore he knowed what was a-goin' on, and it was all plain enough to Steve 'at Ben didn't have no hand in the firm' of it. But I'll tell you he sobered up mighty suddent when he seed what was a-goin' on, and heerd the neighbors a-hollerin', and a-threatenin', and a-goin' on!—far it seemed to be the ginerl idee 'at the buildin' was fired a-purpose. And says Ben to Steve, says he, "I expect I'll have to say good-bye to you, far they've got me in a ticklish place! I kin see through it all now, 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 Steve was a-standin'; and Ben says, wild like, "Don't you two fellers ever think it was my doin's," and whispers "Good-bye," and started off, and when we turned, Wesley Morris was a-layin' flat of his back, and we heerd Carter yell to the crowd 'at "that man"—meanin' Morris—" needed lookin' after worse than he did," and another minute he plunged into the river and swum acrost; and we all stood and watched him in the flickerin' light tel he clum out on t'other bank; and 'at was last anybody ever seed o' Ben Carter!

It must a-be'n about three o'clock in the mornin' by this time, and the mill then was jist a-smoulderin' to ashes—far it was as dry as tinder 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 fergit ef 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 his clothes half on, come a-rushin' into the crowd and a-hollerin' fire and murder ever' jump. "My house is a-burnin', and my folks is all a-bein' murdered while you 're a-standin' here! And Bills done it! Bills done it!" he hollered, as he headed the crowd and started back far home. "Bills done it! I caught him at it; and he would a-murdered me in cold blood ef it had n't a-be'n far his woman. He knocked me down, 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 jist then we heerd Bills holler, and we looked, and he was a-standin' out in 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 fainted clean dead away. And I heerd the roof a-crackin', and grabbed her up and packed her out jist in time. And when I looked up, Bills hollered out agin, and says, 'Ezry,' he says, 'You kin begin to kind a' git an idee o' what a good feller I am! And ef you hadn't a-caught me you 'd a-never a-knowed it, and 'Brother Williams' wouldn't a-be'n called away to another app'intment like he is.' And says he, 'Now, ef you foller me I'll finish you shore!—You're safe now, far I hain't got time to waste on you furder.' And jist then his woman kind o' come to her senses agin and hollered far little Annie, and the child heerd her and 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'll pay you far that lick you struck me; and far you a-startin' reports when I first come 'at more 'n likely I'd done somepin' mean over east and 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 I wonder ef I ain't reformed enough to go back? Good-bye, Annie!' he hollered; 'and you needn't fret about your baby, I 'll be the same indulgent 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 he turned 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 another crowd o' men as was a-swarmin' there. Ain't it awful when sich a crowd gits 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 in makin' 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 at the 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 to the boat, and another to the ford. And Steve and me and Ezry was in the 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 we wasn't long a-gittin' to the p'int where the boat was allus tied; but ther' wasn't no boat there! Steve kind o' tuck the lead, and we all talked in whispers. And Steve said to kind o' lay low and maybe we could hear somepin', and some feller said he thought he heerd somepin' strange like, but the wind was kind o' raisin' and kep' up sich a moanin' through the trees along the bank 't we couldn't make out nothin'. "Listen!" says Steve, suddent like, "I hear somepin!" We was all still again—and we all heerd a moanin' 'at was sadder 'n the wind—sounded mournfuller to me 'cause I knowed it in a minute, and I whispered, "Little Annie." And 'way out acrost the river we could hear the little thing a-sobbin', and we all was still 's death; and we heerd a voice we knowd was Bills's say, "Dam ye! Keep still, or I'll drownd ye!" And the wind kind o' moaned agin and we could hear the trees 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' splash with the oars; and jist then Steve whispered far to lay low and be ready—he was a-goin' to riconnitre; and he tuck his coat and shoes off, 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 to us, "He's a-comin' back; the crowd below has sent scouts up, and they're on t' other side. Now watch clos't, and he's our meat." We could hear Bills, by the moanin' o' the baby, a-comin' nearder and nearder, tel suddently he made a sort o' miss-lick with the oar, I reckon, and must a splashed the baby, far she set up a loud cryin; and jist then old Ezry, who was a-leanin' over the bank, kind o' lost his grip some way o' nuther, and fell kersplash in the worter like a' old chunk. "Hello!" says Bills, through the dark, "you're there, too, air ye?" as old Ezry splashed up the bank agin. And "Cuss you!" he says then, to the baby—"ef it hadn't be'n far your infernal squawkin' I'd a-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 in on him, boys; I've got the baby!" And about a dozend of us bobbed off the 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. It was a mean place to git at him. We knowed he was despert, and far a minute we kind o' helt back. Fifteen foot o' worter 's a mighty onhandy place to git hit over the head in! And Bills says, "You hain't afeard, I reckon—twenty men agin one!" "You'd better give your se'f up!" 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 yit awhile," he says; "I see you kind o' 'pear to go in far babtism; guess you'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 afire and burn up while you're gone!" And jist then the boat give a suddent shove under him—some feller'd div under and tilted it—and far a minute it throwed him off his guard and the boys closed in. Still he had the advantage, bein' in the boat, and as fast as a feller would climb 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'd have 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 he didn'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 we left 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'prise waitin' 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 seed Steve when he fetched little Annie ashore, and she was all right on'y she was purt nigh past cryin'; and he said Steve had lapped his coat around her and give her to him to take charge of, and he got so excited over the fight he laid her down betwixt a couple o' logs and kind o' forget about her tel the thing was over, and he went to look far her, and she was gone. Couldn't a-be'n 'at she'd a-wundered off her-own-se'f; and it couldn't a-be'n 'at Steve'd take her, 'thout a-lettin us know it. It was a mighty aggervatin' conclusion to come to, but we had to do it, and that was, Bills must a got ashore unbeknownst to us and packed her off. Sich a thing wasn't hardly probable, yit it was a thing 'at might be; and after a-talkin' it over we 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 on track of her 'thout losin' time to stop and explain the thing. The next question was, what did Bills want with her agin? He'd tried to drownd her onc't. We could ast questions enough, but c'rect answers was mighty skearce, and we jist concluded 'at the best thing to do was to put out far the ford, far that was the nighdest place Bills could cross 'thout a boat, and ef it was him tuck the child he was still on our 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 the moanin' of the wind, it made 'bout as lonesome a prospect as a feller ever wants to go through agin.

It was jist a-gittin' a little gray-like in the mornin' by the time we reached the ford, but you couldn't hardly see two rods afore you far the mist and the fog 'at had settled along the river. We looked far tracks, but couldn't make out nuthin'. Thereckly old Ezry punched me and p'inted out acrost the river. "What's that?" he whispers. Jist 'bout half way acrost was somepin' white-like in the worter—couldn't make out what—perfeckly still it was. And I whispered back and told him 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, it was the same moanin' noise we'd heerd the baby makin' when we first got 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 it is—what in the name o' all that's good and bad's the feller a-standin' there far?" And a-creep-in' clos'ter, we could make him out plainer and plainer. It was him; and there he stood breast-high in the worter, a-holdin' the baby on his shoulder like, and a lookin' up stream, 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 seed somepin' a-movin' down the river, and a minute later I'd made out the old boat a-driftin' down stream; and then of course ever'thing was plain enough: He was waitin' far the boat, and ef he got that he'd have the same advantage on us he had afore.

"Boys," says I, "he mustn't git that boat agin! Foller me, and don't let him git to the shore alive." And in we plunged. He seed us, but he never budged, on'y to grab the baby by its little legs, and swing it out at arms-len'th. "Stop, there," he hollered. "Stop jist where you air! Move another inch and I'll drownd this dam young-un afore your eyes!" 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 and set the baby in it, never a-takin' his eye off o' us, though, far a minute. "Now," says he, with a sort o' snarlin' laugh, "I've on'y got a little while to stay with you, and I want to say a few words afore I go. 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 a little the worse far findin' it out so late in the day, you hain't none the worse far losin' me so soon—far I'm a-goin' away now, and any 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 in the notion. I expect it'll be a disapp'intment to some o' you that my name hain't 'Williams,' but it hain't. And maybe you won't think nigh as much o' me when I tell you furder 'at I was obleeged to 'dopt the name 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 kill a 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'd spotted 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, you fellers had to kick in the traces, and I've made up my mind to hunt out a more moraler community, where they don't make sich a fuss about trifles. And havin' nothin' more to say, on'y to send Annie word 'at I'll still be a father to her youngun here, I'll bid you all good-bye." And with that he turned and clum in the boat—or ruther fell in,—far somepin' black-like had riz up in it, with a' awful lick—my—God!—and, a minute later, boat and baggage was a-gratin' on the shore, and a crowd come thrashin' 'crost from tother side to jine us, and 'peared like wasn't a second longer tel a feller was a-swingin' by his neck to the limb of a scrub-oak, his feet clean off the 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 in while the rumpus was a-goin' on, and he'd on'y come to in time to hear Bills's farewell address to us there at the ford.

Steve tuck charge o' little Annie agin, and ef she'd a-be'n his own child he wouldn't a-went on more over her than he did; and said nobody but her mother would git her out o' his hands agin. And he was as good as his word; and ef you could a-seed him a half hour after that, when he did give her to her mother—all lapped up in his coat and as drippin'-wet as a little drownded angel—it would a-made you wish't you was him to see that little woman a caperin' round him, and a-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 Steve blushed like a girl to see her a-taking' on, and a-thankin' him, and a-cryin', and a-kissin' little Annie, and a-goin' on. And when she inquired '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'd crossed the river and got away. And he had!

And now comes a part o' this thing 'at 'll more 'n like tax you to believe it: Williams and her wasn't man and wife—and you needn't look su'prised, nuther, and I'll tell you far why—They was own brother and sister; and that brings me to her part of the story, which you'll have 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 and sister, and the'r parents lived in Ohio some'ers. The'r mother had be'n dead five year' and better—grieved to death over her onnachurl brother's recklessness, which Annie hinted had broke her father up in some way, in tryin' to shield him from the law. And the secret of her bein' with him was this: She had married a man o' the name of Curtis or Custer, I don't mind which, adzackly—but no matter; she'd married a well-to-do young feller 'at her brother helt a' old grudge agin, she never knowed what; and sence her marriage her brother had went on from bad to worse tel finally her father jist give him up and told him to go it his own way—he'd killed his mother and ruined him, and he'd jist give up all hopes. But Annie—you know how a sister is—she still clung to him and done ever'thing far him, tel finally, one night about three years after she was married she got word some way that he was in trouble agin, and sent her husband to he'p him; and a half hour after he'd gone, her brother come in, all excited and bloody, and told her to git the baby and come with him, 'at her husband had got in a quarrel 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 tight as 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 and he was obleeged to leave the country, and far fear he hadn't made shore work o' him, he was a-takin' her along to make shore of his gittin' his revenge; and he swore he'd kill her and the baby too ef she dared to whimper. And so it was, through a hunderd hardships he'd made his way at last to our section o' the country, givin' out 'at they 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 man agin in case he hadn't killed him. And so it run on tel you'd a-cried to hear her tell it, and still see her sister's love far the feller a-breakin' out by a-declarin' how kind he was to her at times, and how 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' Steve and the rest of 'em, don't you understand.

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

And so things went far a month and better. Ever'thing had quieted down, and Ezry and a lot o' hands, and me and Steve amongst 'em, was a-workin' on the frame-work of another mill. It was purty weather, and we was all in good sperits, and it 'peared like the whole neighberhood was interested—and they -was, too—women-folks and ever'body. And that day Ezry's woman and amongst 'em was a-gittin' up a big dinner to fetch 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 was on the track of a feller o' the name o' 'Williams,' and wanted to know ef we could give him any infermation 'bout sich a man. Told him maybe,—'at a feller bearin' that name desappeared kind o' myster'ous from 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 his sister and her baby with him?" Jist then I ketched sight o' the women-folks a-comin' with the baskets, and Annie with 'em, with a jug o' worter in her hand; so I spoke up quick to the stranger, and says I, "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 then a-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, Annie had jist stooped to lift up one o' the little girls, when the feller turned, and the'r eyes met, "Annie! My wife!" he says; and Annie she kind o' give a little yelp like and come a-flutterin' down in his arms; and the jug o' worter rolled clean acrost the road, and turned a somerset and knocked the cob out of its mouth and jist laid back and hollered "Good—good—good—good—good!" like as ef it knowed what was up 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 <gazed down as a god from his throne. We stood there enchanted.—And O the delight of The sight of the stars and the moon and the sea, And the infinite skies of that opulent night of Purple and gold and ivory!

The lisp of the lip of the ripple just under— The half-awake nightingale's dream in the yews— Came up from the water, and down from the wonder Of shadowy foliage, drowsed with the dews,— Unsteady the firefly's taper—unsteady The poise of the stars, and their light in the tide, As it struggled and writhed in caress of the eddy, As love in the billowy breast of a bride.

The far-away lilt of the waltz rippled to us, And through us the exquisite thrill of the air: Like the scent of bruised bloom was her breath, and its dew was Not honier-sweet than her warm kisses were. We stood there enchanted.—And O the delight of The sight of the stars and the moon and the sea, And the infinite skies of that opulent night of Purple and gold and ivory!



LONG AFORE HE KNOWED WHO SANTY-CLAUS WUZ.



Jes' a little bit o' feller—I remember still,— Ust to almost cry far Christmas, like a youngster will. Fourth o' July's nothin' to it!—New-Year's ain't a smell: Easter-Sunday—Circus-day—jes' all dead in the shell! Lordy, though! at night, you know, to set around and hear The old folks work the story off about the sledge and deer, And "Santy" skootin' round the roof, all wrapped in fur and fuzz— Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!

Ust to wait, and set up late, a week er two ahead: Couldn't hardly keep awake, ner wouldn't go to bed: Kittle stewin' on the fire, and Mother settin' here Darnin' socks, and rockin' in the skreeky rockin'-cheer; Pap gap', and wunder where it wuz the money went, And quar'l with his frosted heels, and spill his liniment: And me a-dreamin' sleigh-bells when the clock 'ud whir and buzz, Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!

Size the fire-place up, and figger how "Old Santy" could Manage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would: Wisht that I could hide and see him—wundered what he 'd say Ef he ketched a feller layin' far him thataway! But I bet on him, and liked him, same as ef he had Turned to pat me on the back and say, "Look here, my lad, Here's my pack,—jes' he'p yourse'f, like all good boys does!" Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!

Wisht that yarn was true about him, as it 'peared to be— Truth made out o' lies like that-un's good enough far me!— Wisht I still wuz so confidin' I could jes' go wild Over hangin' up my stockin's, like the little child Climbin' in my lap to-night, and beggin' me to tell 'Bout them reindeers, and "Old Santy" that she loves so well I'm half sorry far this little-girl-sweetheart of his— Long afore She knows who "Santy-Claus" is!



DEAR HANDS.



The touches of her hands are like the fall Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall; The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night, The touches of her hands, and the delight— The touches of her hands! The touches of her hands are like the dew That falls so softly down no one e'er knew The touch thereof save lovers like to one Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.

O rarely soft, the touches of her hands, As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands; Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs, Or—in between the midnight and the dawn, When long unrest and tears and fears are gone— Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.



THIS MAN JONES.



This man Jones was what you'd call A feller 'at had no sand at all; Kind o' consumpted, and undersize, And sailor-complected, with big sad eyes, And a kind-of-a sort-of-a hang-dog style, And a sneakin' sort-of-a half-way smile 'At kind o' give him away to us As a preacher, maybe, er somepin' wuss.

Didn't take with the gang—well, no— But still we managed to use him, though,— Coddin' the gilly along the rout', And drivin' the stakes 'at he pulled out— Far I was one of the bosses then, And of course stood in with the canvasmen; And the way we put up jobs, you know, On this man Jones jes' beat the show!

Ust to rattle him scandalous, And keep the feller a-dodgin' us, And a-shyin' round half skeered to death, And afeerd to whimper above his breath; Give him a cussin', and then a kick, And then a kind-of-a back-hand lick— Jes' far the fun of seem' him climb Around with a head on most the time.

But what was the curioust thing to me, Was along o' the party—let me see,— Who was our "Lion Queen" last year?— Mamzelle Zanty, or De La Pierre?— Well, no matter—a stunnin' mash, With a red-ripe lip, and a long eye-lash, And a figger sich as the angels owns— And one too many far this man Jones.

He'd allus wake in the afternoon, As the band waltzed in on the lion-tune, And there, from the time 'at she'd go in Till she'd back out of the cage agin, He'd stand, shaky and limber-kneed— 'Specially when she come to "feed The beasts raw meat with her naked hand"— And all that business, you understand.

And it was resky in that den— Far I think she juggled three cubs then, And a big "green" lion 'at used to smash Collar-bones far old Frank Nash; And I reckon now she hain't fergot The afternoon old "Nero" sot His paws on her!—but as far me, It's a sort-of-a mixed-up mystery:—

Kind o' remember an awful roar, And see her back far the bolted door— See the cage rock—heerd her call "God have mercy!" and that was all— Far they ain't no livin' man can tell What it's like when a thousand yell In female tones, and a thousand more Howl in bass till their throats is sore!

But the keeper said 'at dragged her out, They heerd some feller laugh and shout— "Save her! Quick! I've got the cuss!" And yit she waked and smiled on us! And we daren't flinch, far the doctor said, Seein' as this man Jones was dead, Better to jes' not let her know Nothin' o' that far a week er so.



TO MY GOOD MASTER.



In fancy, always, at thy desk, thrown wide, Thy most betreasured books ranged neighborly— The rarest rhymes of every land and sea And curious tongue—thine old face glorified,— Thou haltest thy glib quill, and, laughing-eyed, Givest hale welcome even unto me, Profaning thus thine attic's sanctity, To briefly visit, yet to still abide Enthralled there of thy sorcery of wit, And thy songs' most exceeding dear conceits. O lips, cleft to the ripe core of all sweets, With poems, like nectar, issuing therefrom, Thy gentle utterances do overcome My listening heart and all the love of it!



WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES.



In spring, when the green gits back in the trees, And the sun comes out and stays, And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze, And you think of yer barefoot days; When you ort to work and you want to not, And you and yer wife agrees It's time to spade up the garden lot, When the green gits back in the trees— Well! work is the least o' my idees When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

When the green gits back in the trees, and bees Is a-buzzin' aroun' agin, In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please Old gait they bum roun' in; When the groun's all bald where the hay-rick stood, And the crick 's riz, and the breeze Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood, And the green gits back in the trees,— I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these, The time when the green gits back in the trees!

When the whole tail-feathers o' wintertime Is all pulled out and gone! And the sap it thaws and begins to climb, And the sweat it starts out on A feller's forred, a-gittin' down At the old spring on his knees— I kind o' like jes' a-loaferin' roun' When the green gits back in the trees— Jes' a-potterin' roun' as I—durn—please— When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!



AT BROAD RIPPLE.



Ah, Luxury! Beyond the heat And dust of town, with dangling feet, Astride the rock below the dam, In the cool shadows where the calm Rests on the stream again, and all Is silent save the waterfall,— bait my hook and cast my line, And feel the best of life is mine.

No high ambition may I claim— angle not for lordly game Of trout, or bass, or wary bream— black perch reaches the extreme Of my desires; and "goggle-eyes" Are not a thing that I despise; A sunfish, or a "chub," or "cat"— A "silver-side"—yea, even that!

In eloquent tranquility The waters lisp and talk to me. Sometimes, far out, the surface breaks, As some proud bass an instant shakes His glittering armor in the sun, And romping ripples, one by one, Come dallying across the space Where undulates my smiling face.

The river's story flowing by, Forever sweet to ear and eye, Forever tenderly begun— Forever new and never done. Thus lulled and sheltered in a shade Where never feverish cares invade, I bait my hook and cast my line, And feel the best of life is mine.



WHEN OLD JACK DIED.



I.

When old Jack died, we staid from school (they said, At home, we needn't go that day), and none Of us ate any breakfast—only one, And that was Papa—and his eyes were red When he came round where we were, by the shed Where Jack was lying, half way in the sun And half way in the shade. When we begun To cry out loud, Pa turned and dropped his head And went away; and Mamma, she went back Into the kitchen. Then, for a long while, All to ourselves, like, we stood there and cried. We thought so many good things of Old Jack, And funny things—although we didn't smile—We couldn't only cry when Old Jack died.



II.

When Old Jack died, it seemed a human friend Had suddenly gone from us; that some face That we had loved to fondle and embrace From babyhood, no more would condescend To smile on us forever. We might bend With tearful eyes above him, interlace Our chubby fingers o'er him, romp and race, Plead with him, call and coax—aye, we might send The old halloo up for him, whistle, hist, (If sobs had let us) or, as wildly vain, Snapped thumbs, called "speak," and he had not replied; We might have gone down on our knees and kissed The tousled ears, and yet they must remain Deaf, motionless, we knew—when Old Jack died.



III.

When Old Jack died, it seemed to us, some way, That all the other dogs in town were pained With our bereavement, and some that were chained, Even, unslipped their collars on that day To visit Jack in state, as though to pay A last, sad tribute there, while neighbors craned Their heads above the high board fence, and deigned To sigh "Poor dog!" remembering how they Had cuffed him, when alive, perchance, because, For love of them he leaped to lick their hands— Now, that he could not, were they satisfied? We children thought that, as we crossed his paws, And o'er his grave, 'way down the bottom-lands, Wrote "Our First Love Lies Here," when Old Jack died.



DOC SIFERS.



Of all the doctors I could cite you to in this-'ere town Doc Sifers is my favorite, jes' take him up and down! Count in the Bethel Neighberhood, and Rollins, and Big Bear, And Sifers' standin's jes' as good as ary doctor's there!

There's old Doc Wick, and Glenn, and Hall, and Wurgler, and McVeigh, But I'll buck Sifers 'ginst 'em all and down 'em any day! Most old Wick ever knowed, I s'pose, was whisky! Wurgler—well, He et morphine—ef actions shows, and facts' reliable!

But Sifers—though he ain't no sot, he's got his faults; and yit When you git Sifers one't, you've got a doctor, don't fergit! He ain't much at his office, er his house, er anywhere You'd natchurly think certain far to ketch the feller there.—

But don't blame Doc: he's got all sorts o' cur'ous notions—as The feller says; his odd-come-shorts, like smart men mostly has. He'll more'n like be potter'n 'round the Blacksmith Shop; er in Some back lot, spadin' up the ground, er gradin' it agin.

Er at the workbench, planin' things; er buildin' little traps To ketch birds; galvenizin' rings; er graftin' plums, perhaps. Make anything! good as the best!—a gunstock—er a flute; He whittled out a set o' chesstmen one't o' laurel root,

Durin' the Army—got his trade o' surgeon there—I own To-day a finger-ring Doc made out of a Sesesh bone! An' glued a fiddle one't far me—jes' all so busted you 'D a throwed the thing away, but he fixed her as good as new!

And take Doc, now, in ager, say, er biles, er rheumatiz, And all afflictions thataway, and he's the best they is! Er janders—milksick—I don't keer—k-yore anything he tries— A abscess; getherin' in yer yeer; er granilated eyes!

There was the Widder Daubenspeck they all give up far dead; A blame cowbuncle on her neck, and clean out of her head! First had this doctor, what's-his-name, from "Puddlesburg," and then This little red-head, "Burnin' Shame" they call him—Dr. Glenn.

And they "consulted" on the case, and claimed she'd haf to die,— I jes' was joggin' by the place, and heerd her dorter cry, And stops and calls her to the fence; and I-says-I, "Let me Send Sifers—bet you fifteen cents he'll k-yore her!" "Well," says she,

"Light out!" she says: And, lipp-tee-cut! I loped in town, and rid 'Bout two hours more to find him, but I kussed him when I did! He was down at the Gunsmith Shop a-stuffin' birds! Says he, "My sulky's broke." Says I, "You hop right on and ride with me!"

I got him there.—"Well, Aunty, ten days k-yores you," Sifers said, "But what's yer idy livin' when yer jes' as good as dead?" And there's Dave Banks—jes' back from war without a scratch—one day Got ketched up in a sickle-bar, a reaper runaway.—

His shoulders, arms, and hands and legs jes' sawed in strips! And Jake Dunn starts far Sifers—feller begs to shoot him far God-sake. Doc, 'course, was gone, but he had penned the notice, "At Big Bear— Be back to-morry; Gone to 'tend the Bee Convention there."

But Jake, he tracked him—rid and rode the whole endurin' night! And 'bout the time the roosters crowed they both hove into sight. Doc had to ampitate, but 'greed to save Dave's arms, and swore He could a-saved his legs ef he'd ben there the day before.

Like when his wife's own mother died 'fore Sifers could be found, And all the neighbors far and wide a' all jes' chasin' round; Tel finally—I had to laugh—it's jes' like Doc, you know,— Was learnin' far to telegraph, down at the old deepo.

But all they're faultin' Sifers far, there's none of 'em kin say He's biggoty, er keerless, er not posted anyway; He ain't built on the common plan of doctors now-a-days, He's jes' a great, big, brainy man—that's where the trouble lays!



AT NOON—AND MIDNIGHT.



Far in the night, and yet no rest for him! The pillow next his own The wife's sweet face in slumber pressed—yet he awake—alone! alone! In vain he courted sleep;—one thought would ever in his heart arise,— The harsh words that at noon had brought the teardrops to her eyes.

Slowly on lifted arm he raised and listened. All was still as death; He touched her forehead as he gazed, and listened yet, with bated breath: Still silently, as though he prayed, his lips moved lightly as she slept— For God was with him, and he laid his face with hers and wept.



A WILD IRISHMAN.



Not very many years ago the writer was for some months stationed at South Bend, a thriving little city of northern Indiana, its main population on the one side of the St. Joseph river, but quite a respectable fraction thereof taking its industrial way to the opposite shore, and there gaining an audience and a hearing in the rather imposing growth and hurly-burly of its big manufactories, and the consequent rapid appearance of multitudinous neat cottages, tenement houses and business blocks. A stranger, entering South Bend proper on any ordinary day, will be at some loss to account for its prosperous appearance—its flagged and bowldered streets—its handsome mercantile blocks, banks, and business houses generally. Reasoning from cause to effect, and seeing but a meager sprinkling of people on the streets throughout the day, and these seeming, for the most part, merely idlers, and in no wise accessory to the evident thrift and opulence of their surroundings, the observant stranger will be puzzled at the situation. But when evening comes, and the outlying foundries, sewing-machine, wagon, plow, and other "works," together with the paper-mills and all the nameless industries—when the operations of all these are suspended for the day, and the workmen and workwomen loosed from labor—then, as this vast army suddenly invades and overflows bridge, roadway, street and lane, the startled stranger will fully comprehend the why and wherefore of the city's high prosperity. And, once acquainted with the people there, the fortunate sojourner will find no ordinary culture and intelligence, and, as certainly, he will meet with a social spirit and a wholesouled heartiness that will make the place a lasting memory. The town, too, is the home of many world-known notables, and a host of local celebrities, the chief of which latter class I found, during my stay there, in the person of Tommy Stafford, or "The Wild Irishman" as everybody called him.

"Talk of odd fellows and eccentric characters," said Major Blowney, my employer, one afternoon, "you must see our 'Wild Irishman' here before you say you've yet found the queerest, brightest, cleverest chap in all your travels. What d'ye say, Stockford?" And the Major paused in his work of charging cartridges for his new breech-loading shotgun and turned to await his partner's response.

Stockford, thus addressed, paused above the shield-sign he was lettering, slowly smiling as he dipped and trailed his pencil through the ivory black upon a bit of broken glass and said, in his deliberate, half-absent-minded way,—"Is it Tommy you're telling him about?" and then, with a gradual broadening of the smile, he went on, "Well, I should say so. Tommy! What's come of the fellow, anyway? I haven't seen him since his last bout with the mayor, on his trial for shakin' up that fast-horse man."

"The fast-horse man got just exactly what he needed, too," said the genial Major, laughing, and mopping his perspiring brow. "The fellow was barkin' up the wrong stump when he tackled Tommy! Got beat in the trade, at his own game, you know, and wound up by an insult that no Irishman would take; and Tommy just naturally wore out the hall carpet of the old hotel with him!"

"And then collared and led him to the mayor's office himself, they say!"

"Oh, he did!" said the Major, with a dash of pride in the confirmation; "that's Tommy all over!"

"Funny trial, wasn't it?" continued the ruminating Stockford.

"Wasn't it though?" laughed the Major.

"The porter's testimony: You see, he was for Tommy, of course, and on examination testified that the horse-man struck Tommy first. And there Tommy broke in with: 'He's a-meanin' well, yer Honor, but he's lyin' to ye—he's lyin' to ye. No livin' man iver struck me first—nor last, nayther, for the matter o' that!' And I thought—the—court—would—die!" concluded the Major, in a like imminent state of merriment.

"Yes, and he said if he struck him first," supplemented Stockford, "he'd like to know why the horseman was 'wearin' all the black eyes, and the blood, and the boomps on the head of um!' And it's that talk of his that got him off with so light a fine!"

"As it always does," said the Major, coming to himself abruptly and looking at his watch. "Stock', you say you're not going along with our duck-shooting party this time? The old Kankakee is just lousy with 'em this season!"

"Can't go possibly," said Stockford, "not on account of the work at all, but the folks at home ain't just as well as I'd like to see them, and I'll stay here till they're better. Next time I'll try and be ready for you. Going to take Tommy, of course?"

"Of course! Got to have 'The Wild Irishman' with us! I'm going around to find him now." Then turning to me the Major continued, "Suppose you get on your coat and hat and come along? It's the best chance you'll ever have to meet Tommy. It's late anyhow, and Stockford'll get along without you. Come on."

"Certainly," said Stockford; "go ahead. And you can take him ducking, too, if he wants to go."

"But he doesn't want to go—and won't go," replied the Major with a commiserative glance at me. "Says he doesn't know a duck from a poll-parrot—nor how to load a shotgun—and couldn't hit a house if he were inside of it and the door shut. Admits that he nearly killed his uncle once, on the other side of a tree, with a squirrel runnin' down it. Don't want him along!"