CHAPTER VIII.

Two more years, years without especial incident to the people who

lived up Terrapin River, passed away. Everyone knew of John and Eva's

betrothal, and as no one had any objections to offer, there came not

a jar, not a harsh sound to disturb the smoothly flowing current of

their affection. One evening, as Potter and John sat in the old house

awaiting the return of Alf, who had gone to Sunset to make some small

purchases, the young man, after many minutes of deep meditation, looked

up and remarked:

"I have worked harder of late in the hope that I might make money

enough to place my approaching marriage upon a sensible footing, but it

seems----"

"There, my boy," Potter broke in, "there now, don't worry. Of

course every man should look to the future, but not to brood in

dark foreboding. We are getting along very well, and I think you may

safely--there's Alf."

The old man came in bringing several bundles. "Fetchtaked fellers ober

yander," said he, "put er brick under my saddle when I had my hoss

hitched, an' when I got on ter come home w'y de old critter flung me in

de road. Huh, when I hit de groun' I thought de whole face o' de yeth

dun struck loose. Suthin' gwine obertake dem boys one deze days. Da's

dun forgot erbout dem she bears dat grabbed up dem mean white chillun

when da made fun o' er old servant. Suthin' gwine ter obertake 'em, I

tell you. Oh, you neenter laugh, genermen, fur suthin' gwine ter slip

up behin' 'em an' grab 'em, sho."

They had eaten supper, and Potter, in his favorite position, was

leaning back against the wall, when a newspaper in which one of the

bundles had been wrapped, attracted his attention.

"Alf, hand me that paper," said he. "I would subscribe for some paper

if we lived nearer a post office. Ah! a country sheet from Kentucky.

Let me see if Uncle Billie Jackson was in town yesterday, or if Aunt

Nancy Phelps has the thanks of the editor for a choice lot of radishes.

I see that Uncle Bob Redmond has sold a fine colt to Anthony Boyle, and

here is also the startling information that Abe Stallcup has purchased

the old Adams place. I suppose----" He started. The paper shook. He

sprang from the chair, pressed his hands to his head, sank upon his

knees, clasped his hands and exclaimed:

"Thank God! Thank God! Oh, merciful heaven, it has come at last!"

He bowed his head and wept. John and Alf stood looking on in speechless

amazement.

"Thank God, it has come at last. Oh, my friends--you--you----"

"What is the matter?" John cried.

"Wait. I--I will tell you. Here," he added, "read this. Read it out

for I have only seen its aim."

John took the paper and read the following:

"A number of years ago, our readers will remember, Hon. Sam Bradwell,

who lived near Lexington, this State, was convicted of the murder of

Colonel Joe Moore, and was sentenced to be hanged, but made his escape

the night before the execution was to take place. Now comes a sequel.

About two weeks ago a man named Zack Fry, supposing that he was on his

death-bed, confessed that he was the murderer of Moore. But instead of

dying, he soon recovered. He was then brought to trial, and, instead

of attempting to make a defense, reiterated his confession. He was

sentenced to be hanged, and his execution took place last Friday. The

Governor has issued a proclamation declaring Bradwell innocent, and

offers a reward for intelligence of his whereabouts. Bradwell was one

of the most prominent men in the State. He was a bachelor and owns

one of the largest and finest farms in the famous Blue Grass region.

He had served three terms in the Legislature, and but for the Moore

trouble would doubtless have been sent to Congress. He and Moore were

not on friendly terms--in fact, they were opposed to each other in

the House of Representatives, of which body Moore was also a member.

Nothing has been heard of Bradwell since his escape from jail. He has

no very near relatives, and his farm, we understand, is looked after

by a number of his friends. There is great rejoicing, we hear, over

the proof of his innocence, for he was exceedingly popular with all

classes, and especially so with the more refined element. Nearly every

paper throughout the country has either published or referred to the

Governor's proclamation, and we sincerely trust that the wanderer may

soon return home."

Potter, or Bradwell, stood complacently smiling upon John as he neared

the end of the article. His excitement had passed away, leaving not

the slightest trace of its sudden bursting forth. John sat in a sort of

dazed silence, gazing at his friends, and Alf, whose half-open mouth

bespoke a mystified state of mind, stood leaning against the wall.

"Now, my friends," said Bradwell, "you know why Sam Potter lived in

this out-of-the-way place. Let us all be perfectly easy now. Alf, sit

down. You look as though you were about to be hanged. I will walk

up and down the room, as it would be almost impossible for me to

keep still, and will tell you the story of my trouble in Kentucky.

As the newspaper article states, Moore and I were members of the

Legislature. One day he introduced a bill, the passage of which I did

not think would be of benefit to the State. In fact, it was full of

what we called buncombe, and was, I thought, intended to play upon an

unthoughtful constituency and insure the re-election of its author.

I opposed the measure, and was somewhat instrumental in its defeat.

This inflamed Moore's anger. He denounced me in most violent terms,

and swore that he would hold me to an account which might prove

painful to one of us. The Legislature adjourned the next day, and, as

I did not make it my business to look for Moore, I left the capital

without seeing him. He lived near Lexington, to the east; I lived

west. One day, several weeks later, while riding horseback to town, I

saw, sitting on a fence, a hawk that had just caught a quail. I drew

my pistol and fired at the hawk, but missed it. I went on into town,

and, as I was going to remain but a very short time, did not put up my

horse at a livery stable, but tied him to a rack in a lot in the rear

of several stores. I had transacted my business, and was going through

an alley leading to the lot, when I heard the report of a pistol. I

hurried onward, and, upon turning into the lot, came upon the dead body

of Moore. A bullet had passed through his head. Before I had recovered

from the shock of so ghastly a discovery, several men ran to the

place, and it was not long until a large crowd had gathered in the lot.

I did not think of my position, and surely had no idea that I should be

suspected. You may therefore well imagine my surprise when the sheriff

arrested me. I was searched. One chamber of my revolver was empty, and,

still worse, the bullet which had passed through Moore's head, and

which was extracted from a cedar post, corresponded in size with the

bore of my pistol. I was taken to jail. The next day bail was refused.

This was annoying, but aside from being suspected of so grave a charge,

I did not regard the affair as serious. I had not counted upon the men

whom I had to fight. I had not thought of Moore's enraged relatives.

The trial came on. There was great excitement. I had many friends, but

it seemed that they were afraid of the Moores. The jury was cowed.

A verdict of guilty was brought in. A motion for a new trial was

overruled. My lawyers, prominent and able men, appealed to the supreme

court. The decision of the court below was sustained. The date of

execution was fixed. I could not realize it. One day I saw through my

grated window that men were putting up a scaffold in the jail yard. My

blood ran cold. Far into the night they carried their labors. Lanterns,

like the red eyes of vultures, shed a lurid--I thought bloody--light

upon the scene. I heard the hammers and saws. A nail glanced under

the blow of a hammer and struck my window. It fell inside the cell.

The hammers and saws hushed their awful noises. 'All done, Dave?' I

heard someone ask. 'Yes,' came the reply; 'everything's ready.' The

workmen went away. The red eyes disappeared, and all was dark. I got

down from the window and found the nail. It was a large one. The window

through which I had been looking was some distance from the floor. The

Sheriff's officer in the yard rarely glanced at it. I heard the 'death

watch' whistling in the corridor. I climbed up to the window. The ends

of the bars, where they fitted into the stones on each side of the

window, were made more secure with lead that had been melted and poured

about them. With the nail I soon gouged away the lead from one of the

bars, but the bar could not be moved. I attempted to gouge out more

lead. I dropped the nail. It fell outside. In despair I seized the bar

and fell backward. It broke. A thrill shot through me. Had anyone heard

me? No. The 'death watch' continued to whistle. The broken bar was a

powerful lever. Another bar and another one was forced out, until not

one remained. I looked out. No sounds--all darkness. I went through the

window, feet foremost, and dropped to the ground. Heavens, I could not

scale the outer wall! I thought of the scaffold. It was near the wall.

I mounted it. A rope dangled from a beam overhead. I seized the rope,

swung out, turned loose and caught the top of the wall. In a moment

more I was on the ground--free. I sank upon my knees and thanked God.

I was afraid to go home, so, without a cent of money, I set out on

my journey. I will not speak of my privations, of the weary miles I

walked--of how I worked on a new railroad, and how I managed to get a

few books. But I will say this, my dear boy, your face was the first to

beam upon the outcast a true and generous welcome. There, there now. I

am sorry that my simple recital has moved you to tears. Alf, what are

you blubbering about?"

"Sorter got suthin' in dis eye jes' now, an' got suthin' in my throat,

too, I b'l'ebe. Neber seed de like. Man kaint stan' erbout yere widout

gittin' all used up, things flyin' roun' so."

John caught Bradwell's hand and pressed it to his breast. "My dear

boy," said the giant, "your approaching marriage is now placed upon a

sensible footing. You and your wife shall go with me to Kentucky. The

farm is not mine, but yours and mine. The house is large, is built of

stone, and in it there are many rare books. I have all the time trusted

that the light of truth would fall upon that crime, and now--but we

will not talk about it. John, we will go over to-morrow and tell Mrs.

Forest and Eva. Alf, you shall go to Kentucky with us."

John went to bed in a whirl of happiness. He could not sleep long at

a time. Joy, as well as sorrow, puts sleep to flight. Would morning

never come? What can come with such slowness as a wished-for day-break?

Another doze. Sunlight streamed in upon the bed.

When Bradwell had shown Mrs. Forest the newspaper article, he told his

story. The ladies were much affected, and Mrs. Forest, as she wiped her

eyes, said:

"Well, I called you Bradshaw, you remember. I just knew it was Brad

something, for I do think that I saw you in Kentucky years ago."

Eva and John walked along the road whose edges were fringed with

flowers.

"There is nothing in our way now, precious."

"No," she replied, "nothing has been in the way, nothing, dear, but

your groundless concern. Our life, I know, will almost be an ideal one."

"It shall be if love and faithfulness can make it so," he replied.

They sat down on a log and talked until the horn summoned them to

dinner. That afternoon, as Bradwell and John were walking toward home,

the young man remarked:

"Eva has only one trouble now."

"What is that?"

"Leaving her mother."

"Is she going to leave her?"

"Of course. Are we not going to Kentucky?"

"Yes; but Mrs. Forest, or rather Mrs. Bradwell, is going with us. Oh,

you young fellows don't know everything."

They shook hands and walked on in happy silence.

* * * * *

The day was beautiful. It was autumn, and streaks of gray could be seen

in the crab-grass. Age and infirmity had given to the "chatter jack's"

song a harsher sound, and the toad, avoiding the grass where the dew

was chilly, stretched himself in the dusty road.

The neighbors for miles around had gathered at Mrs. Forest's house. The

bashful boy in brown homespun cast a wistful eye at the dining-table,

and the half-grown girl in her linsey frock longed to see the marriage

ceremonies performed.

"Where is Alf?" Bradwell asked.

No one knew. Old Jeff Lucas "'lowed" that he must be prowling around

looking for something to eat, and "Aunt Liz," with a violent wrinkling

of her nose, declared that if he wanted anything to eat he should get

it at once, for she knew he would starve to death away off there in

Kentucky.

"Mandy," said Mrs. Forest, addressing a colored woman who had come to

assist in waiting on the guests, "do you know where Alf is?"

"How I know whar he is?" the woman replied. "Ef he got bizness ober

yere I reckon he be yere airter while."

The ceremonies were performed, and while congratulations were still

being extended Alf stepped up on the gallery. "Yere," he cried, waving

a piece of paper, "somebody else got tet git married yere. Come on,

Mandy." He and Mandy were married. "Oh!" the old negro exclaimed, with

a pretense of great surprise, "I neber did see de like o' marryin'

dat's gwine on dese days. Man kaint walk roun' yere widout bumpin'

ergin somebody dat's dun married."

Bradwell and Mrs. Bradwell, John and Eva, were to go to the railway

station, thirty miles away, in a wagon. Alf and his wife would ride

a mule. After many farewells had been exchanged, and after John had

affectionately kissed his aunt, old Jeff's wife remarked:

"I jest know you air all goin' to starve ter death, but don't think I

want ter keep you here, fur goodness knows I don't."

She watched the wagon until it had turned a bend in the road, and then,

clasping her hands over old Jeff's shoulder, bowed her head and sobbed.

The bridal party stood on the railway platform. "Eva," said John, "are

you happy?"

"Yes, my soul is filled with a quiet joy."

The train came within sight. "It is the vehicle," said John, gazing up

the road, "that is to convey us to a new and happy life."

"Yes."

Bradwell lifted his hand to point out something. John seized it and

pressed it to his breast.

BEHIND A BUGLER.

The conversation had turned upon the war and the old soldiers' fondness

for reminiscence had been freely indulged, when someone, addressing Alf

Billingsly, asked if he had served during the war.

"No," Billingsly replied. "I was not in the army, but I was in one

engagement. I was a boy and was living in Gallatin, Tenn., when John

Morgan dashed in and captured Colonel Boon. Some time had elapsed since

the Confederate forces were driven away, and the villagers, especially

the boys, were almost wild with joy at the sight of gray uniform.

A season of feasting followed, and then there came the report that

Colonel Johnson, a dashing Federal officer, was, with a thousand picked

cavalrymen, advancing upon the town. My mother gathered her children

about her and took refuge in a cellar, but, feeling that my pride had

been trampled upon, I escaped and mingled with the soldiers that were

preparing for battle. Old wine, and whisky of less venerable age, had

flowed during the feast, and many of the men and officers were drunk.

Some were singing songs of more implied patriotism than of actual tune;

others, with the rising fervor of tipsyness, declared that they would

not go home till morning. Ah, before the next morning came many of

them had gone home. I importuned a bugler to let me get on his horse

behind him and ride out to the battle. He said that if I would take

his canteen over to the house of a well-known old negro and bring it

back full of peach brandy, I might go home with him. I did so, having

left with the negro my hat and jacket as pawned evidences of good

faith, and took my place behind the bugler. An officer ordered me to

get down, but I begged so hard that his reckless good humor overcame

his soberer sense of discipline. With shouts and songs of discordant

loudness we marched out to battle. The morning was beautiful. The

ironweed was in bloom, and sitting on its purple top the dryfly sang

the song of midsummer. Mockingbirds flitted in the apple trees, and the

bee-martin flew round and round, waiting for a sight of the honey-laden

laborer that had just gone over into a field of clover. The troops

dashed out upon a blue-grass plane, jeweled here and there with the

rich setting of a long-cared-for and magnificent tree. Over the brow

of a green slope--the phrenological bump of perception on the face of

the landscape--the enemy was seen advancing. It was to be a cavalry

fight. It was to be a shock of horse and a clash of sabre. I looked to

the right and saw that our men were stretched out in a long line, and

looking ahead, I saw that the enemy was in similar form. My friend blew

his bugle. Every horse dashed forward. A line of blue dashed to meet

us. I felt a keen sense of delight. My friend blew his bugle. Clash!

The two lines had met with drawn sabres. It was a beautiful sight. Not

a shot had been fired. There was no dust. Clash! Far to the right, as

the sabres flashed, there were two long lines of brightness, broken

into whirling glints of sun-ray-catching silver. I may not have had

the spirit of a poet, but the beauty and not the horror impressed me.

I lost not an adjunct--I failed not to catch a single shading. I saw a

bee-martin catch a bee; I saw an ironweed bend its purple head beneath

the touch of a lark; I saw a man, with his skull split open fall to

the ground. My friend blew his bugle. The horses leaped forward. The

line of blue began to grow ragged. Wild shouts arose. Gunshots with,

it seemed to me, intruding noise like the yap, yap, yap of a stray

dog, rang out here and there. The enemy was retreating. My friend,

standing in his stirrups, waved his bugle high in the air and then

blew upon it a triumphant blast. The enemy made a stand, and again the

sabres flashed, but the old wine and new whisky made the Confederates

impetuous. My friend blew his bugle. The opposing line broke, and then

there came gunshots with, it seemed to me, a sort of revengful bark.

My friend lifted his bugle, but did not blow it. I thought that he had

taken pity upon the vanquished line. We bounded forward. My friend

began to lean back against me. He was laughing, I could plainly see. He

leaned back farther. 'Don't lean back so far,' I said. 'Stop; don't you

see you are about to shove me off?' He leaned back farther. I moved to

one side--reached around and took hold of the horn of the saddle. Blood

spurted from the bugler's breast. I looked up and saw that death had

thrown its film into his eyes. I reached down with my foot and kicked

the stirrup away. The bugler leaned over and fell to the ground. I got

into the saddle, rode up to a fence, threw the bridle rein over a

stake, climbed down off the horse and ran away. I went back over the

grassy slope. I saw a martin catch a bee; I saw the purple head of the

ironweed bend beneath the touch of the lark."

IN THE CUMBERLAND MOUNTAINS.

A physician told Tom Blake that he not only needed a change of scene,

but that to regain his health he required absolute freedom from

business cares. "I would advise you," said the doctor, "to get on a

horse and ride away, no matter whither. Go to the mountains--shun the

merest suggestions of civilization; in short, sleep out like a bear."

Blake attempted to act upon this advice. He stuffed a few shirts into

a pair of saddlebags, mounted a jolting horse, and rode up into the

grandeur of rugged mountain gorges. But to him the scenery imparted no

thrill of admiration. His heart beat low, and his pulse quivered with

a weakening flutter. The fox that in sudden alarm sprang across the

pathway, the raccoon that, with awkward scramble, climbed a leaning

tree, called not for a momentary quickening of his blood. He was

passing through one of the most distressing of human trials. He had no

disease; every muscle was sound. What, then, was the trouble? You shall

know.

He lay at night in a bank of leaves. Now everything startled him. He

trembled violently when the sun went down. Once he sprang, with a cry

of alarm, from his bed of leaves. Then he lay down again, ashamed. The

horse had snorted.

Farther and farther he went into the wildness of the mountains.

One evening he came upon a narrow road, and, following it for some

distance, saw a house. It was an old inn, with a suggestion of the

brigand about it. He tied his horse to a fence made of poles and went

into the house. There he found a man with a parchment face and small,

evil eyes, and a woman who, on the stage, could have appropriately

taken the _rôle_ of hag.

"Why, come in, sir, come in," said the man, getting up and placing a

chair for Blake. "Wife and I have been so lonesome for the last day or

so that we have been wishing somebody would come. Haven't we, Moll?"

The woman removed a cob pipe from her mouth, drew the back of a skinny

hand across her blue-looking lips, made a noise like the guttural croak

of an old hen with the roup, and said, "Yes."

"You'll of course stay all night with us," the man remarked. "We can't

possibly allow you to go on, especially as we are going to have falling

weather. Oh, when it comes to hospitality, why, you'll find it right

here. I'll go out and put up your horse."

Blake entered no objections. His deplorable condition would have forced

him into a compliance with almost any sort of proposition. The man

went out, put up the horse, and soon returned with a log of wood. "The

more fire we have the more cheerful it will be," he explained. "Out

prospecting?" he asked.

"No," Blake answered.

"Don't live nowhere near here, I reckon?"

"No."

"How long do you expect to remain in this part of the country?"

"I don't know."

The old woman mumbled and then, with a grating croak, said:

"He don't 'pear willin' ter tell much about hisse'f. Some folks is

mighty curi's thater way."

"Never mind, Moll," the host quickly responded. "It ain't quite time

for you to put in, except in the way of getting us a bite to eat."

She arose, without replying, and began preparations for supper.

"It is a dull time of the year with us," said the host. "It has been

about two weeks since our last boarder left. But I reckon business will

pearten up a little when the fishing season opens."

Blake paid no attention, except when some sharp and unexpected note in

the old man's voice produced a tingling of the nerves.

Shortly after supper, Blake declared his readiness to go to bed. He was

shown into a sort of shed room, separated by a thin partition from the

room which he had just quitted. The old man placed a spluttering candle

on the hearth, and, expressing the hope that his guest would pass a

quiet and peaceful night, withdrew.

Blake lay unable to sleep. Once the spluttering candle caused him to

spring up in bed. Suddenly his ears, extremely sensitive with his

nervousness, caught the sounds of a whispered conversation.

"It won't do to shed blood," said the old man. "It won't do, for we

made a mighty narrow escape the last time. It's impossible to get blood

stains out of the house.

"I b'l'eve them saddlebags air full uv money," the hag replied.

"I don't doubt that, and we've got to have it."

"How air you goin' ter git it?"

"Poison him. I wasn't a sort of doctor all these years for nothing."

"You never was no doctor ter hurt."

"But I'll be a doctor to-night to hurt."

"How air you goin' ter pizen him? Thar ain't a speck uv pizen on the

place."

"Where is that morphine?"

"Up thar in the bottle, but will that fix him?"

"Yes, and in such a way that nobody will suspect anything."

"How air you goin' ter do? Hold it under his nose?"

"Hold it under his foot!" the man contemptuously replied. "I am going

to make him take it."

"How?"

"I'll fix it."

Then there occurred a whispering of which Blake caught the following:

"Think that's ernuff?" the woman asked.

"It's nearly half a teaspoonful. Enough to make five men sleep

throughout eternity."

A moment later the host entered Blake's room. His manner was free from

embarrassment. In one hand he held a glass containing water.

"Stranger, I don't want to disturb you, but it occurred to me just now

that you looked as if you might be going to have a spell of sickness,

so I thought I would bring you some medicine. I am willing to help a

man, but I don't want him to be sick on my hands. I am a doctor, but I

don't propose to keep a hospital."

"Suppose I refuse to take the medicine?"

"Then you'll put me to the trouble of pouring it down you, that's all.

I am a mighty gentle sort of a fellow as long as everything goes on all

right, but if a hitch occurs, why I am as rough as a swamp oak."

"Are you sure the medicine will not hurt me?"

"Hurt you! Why, it will do you good. Here, swallow it down."

Blake drank the contents of the glass. The host smiled, bowed, and

withdrew. Then there followed another whispered conversation.

"Tuck it all right, did he?"

"Like a lamb. He'll be all right in a half-hour from now."

During fifteen or twenty minutes Blake lay quietly in bed. Then he got

up, dressed himself noiselessly, arranged the bed covers to resemble

the form of a man, took his saddlebags, stepped out at a back door,

went to the stable, saddled his horse, mounted and rode up to a window

and looked into the room which he had occupied. Cattle were tramping

about the yard, and the noise made by the horse attracted no attention.

He took a position so that he could, unobserved, see all that passed

within the room. The "doctor" and the old woman soon entered. They made

no attempt to speak in low tones.

"Whar is his saddlebags?" the woman asked.

"Under his head, I reckon. Snatch off the covers. He won't wake up."

The old woman pulled off the covers and uttered a cry of surprise.

Blake tapped on the window glass.

"Say, Doc," he called, "bring me the rest of that morphine. You see,

I have been a morphine eater for a number of years, but am trying to

quit. Your dose came in pretty handy, for I was in a bad fix. I am all

right now, and am much obliged to you. Good-night."

Less than a week from that time the "doctor" and his wife were in jail,

charged with the murder of a traveler. They were hanged at Greenville

last September.

A COMMERCIAL RIP-SNORTER.

Several years ago I was the editor and proprietor of the New Ebeneezer

_Plow Point_. It was a weekly publication, and, with its name as well

as with its class of matter, appealed to the farmers, and danced a

pandering jig to the shrill whistle of their prejudices. One day E. Sim

Nolan, a prominent man in the community, came into my office and said:

"I have been thinking of you for the past day or two, and I think that

with my keen business instincts I have unearthed the stone with which

you may pave your way to fortune. Writing is a very fine accomplishment

and plays its little part in journalism, but it is not the main thing.

Now, the main thing in the newspaper business is to achieve success.

'How can this be done?' you naturally ask. Not by advising the county

to repair the bridge over Cypress Bayou; not the editorial advising the

party to organize, but by getting business. One line in a thoroughly

thrifty paper is worth more and has more weight than a thousand lines

in a dragging publication that has to apologize every other week for

its inability to get out on time. You want a partner, not to help

you write, but a commercial rip-snorter, who can run business into a

corner, choke it into submission, and then drag it into the office.

That's the kind of a man you need. 'Where can I find him?' you are

about to ask. You have found him, or rather he has found you. I am that

man. I am that commercial rip-snorter. I can go out and in two days

load the _Plow Point_ so full of advertisements that you'll have to put

up side-boards. What do you think of it?"

"I have no doubt of your ability," I replied, "but I can not afford to

pay you."

"You don't have to pay me. The work will pay for itself. Now here;

say that you are making seventy-five dollars per month. Very well. The

commercial rip-snorter comes in. You get one hundred and fifty dollars

per month and the commercial rip-snorter gets one fifty. W'y, it's as

plain and simple and guileless as the soft laughter of a child. It

shall not be for one month but for all time. In short, take me in as

a partner. What is the greatest business stimulant? Salary? No, sir.

Proprietary interest. Give me a half interest in your paper, and it

will fly higher than the kite of Franklin. It will roar louder than a

cyclone, and scatter dollars where we can easily gather them up. As a

rule, I am not an enthusiast. Ordinarily I am a quiet man. The soldier

is quiet until his grand occasion comes."

I told him that I would think about it and give him an answer on the

following day. That afternoon I consulted with several friends. The

county judge declared that when Nolan put his shoulder to the wheel

the wagon moved. The county attorney said that I could well afford

to pay Nolan to take a half interest. That night I went to bed in a

highly agreeable state of mind. The clouds were breaking away, and I

could see the sun shining. The business cares of the office would be

lifted off my mind, and I could devote myself to writing and to study.

With nothing to do but to digest my subjects, I could write editorials

that would establish me as a party leader. I dreamed of web perfecting

presses, and of being consulted by great politicians. I hummed a tune

before breakfast. The trade was soon consummated; and, delivering the

books to Nolan, I seated myself in my inner sanctum, warmed by a stove

pipe which came through from an adjoining shed occupied by a shoemaker,

and gave myself up to deep thought. At last my time had come. At last

the people must acknowledge my leader-writing ability. The next day

Nolan brought in a few advertisements. Ah, the ripened fruit had

already begun to fall.

"By the way," said Nolan, as he seated himself on a corner of my table,

"I have got a great scheme on hand."

"Glad of it," I rapturously replied. "What is it?"

"A number of our most prominent men have boned me to run for sheriff."

"But will it not take up too much of your time?"

"Why, no. You see, I can be elected as easily as falling off a log, and

then, as sheriff, I can flood our paper with legal advertisements."

"Nolan, you are a remarkable man."

"You just wait."

I wrote editorials in his behalf, and even left my sanctum and made

speeches for him. He was elected. He turned over his newspaper books

to his son, and took charge of the sheriff's office. The boy sat in

the office, and, during the forenoon, whistled a circus tune. In the

afternoon he got drunk. A few days after Nolan was installed, I went

over to get an armful of legal advertisements. There were none on hand

just at that time, Nolan told me. "In fact," said he "it has been

decided not to print the delinquent-tax list this year."

I was disappointed. The boy whistled his circus tune and then went out

and got drunk. The next day, when I wanted to draw five dollars, the

boy gave me thirty-five cents. Bills began to come in, and my deep

thought was much disturbed by them. One morning Nolan came in, and,

after whistling in imitation of his son, said:

"It's pretty tough."

"What is?"

"Why, as sheriff, I've got to take charge of this office. Paper bill."

I was staggered.

"Can't we pay our bill?" I exclaimed.

"Haven't any money at present, I am sorry to say. I regret now that

I ran for sheriff, for it's devilish uncomfortable to close out a

partner."

I did not exactly understand it, but when he served an execution on

me I went out. As sheriff, he took charge of the office, discharged

his son, and took charge of the business and editorial departments. I

consulted several lawyers. They said that I was out. I knew that. They

didn't know how I could get in again. The law was very peculiar. I

knew that, too. I found out afterward that Nolan had called on all the

lawyers, and had told them that if they interfered with his affairs, he

would bear down on their clients, and as most of their clients were in

jail, they did not interfere. Nolan, as sheriff--and he is now serving

his fourth term--is still editor and proprietor of the New Ebeneezer

_Plow Point_.

HIS FRIEND FLANDERS.

When the hum in the court-room had settled into an occasional whisper,

the judge asked the prisoner if he would like to make a statement. The

prisoner, a slender man, with hair holding a slight intention to curl,

and with eyes large and willful, arose and made this statement:

John Flanders and I were the best of friends, though we were not drawn

toward each other by any common ties of vocation. In the early part

of my life I turned to literature, not that I expected to realize

a fortune in such a pursuit, but because I could do nothing else.

Flanders was a sort of general speculator. It seemed to me that every

time he stepped out in the street he saw a dollar, chased it, overtook

it, and put it in his pocket. My work was difficult and uncertain;

and the pigeon-holes of my desk were often stuffed with rejected

manuscripts. Gradually I discovered that I could not write if I knew

that Flanders was in the same building in which I had a room. At first

I regarded this feeling as a nervous freak, and tried to put it aside,

but then, finding that every literary thought had flown away from me, I

would discover that Flanders was in the building. One day when I heard

his footsteps in the hall I called him into my room. "Flanders," said

I, "you know that I have to make my living by literary work?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Well, but do you know that you contribute largely to my failure?"

"No," he replied; "how can that be?"

"It is in this way, Flanders: I can not write while you are in this

building. Just so soon as you step into the elevator downstairs, my

ideas droop and my pen splutters."

"I am sorry," he rejoined.

"I know you are," said I, "for there is not in the world a more

sympathetic man than you are."

"If I am so sympathetic, then why should I disturb you so?"

"I don't know, Flanders, but you do disturb me. Now, I have a favor to

ask of you."

"It shall be granted."

"It is this: please do not come into this building again."

"I will stay away," he said.

He did not come into the building again, and for a time I wrote with

ease; but one day my ideas flew away and my pen cut through the paper.

I knew that Flanders was not in the building, but I knew that he was

in town. I strove to write, but this fact weighed upon me. I went out

to look for Flanders. I found him in the Open Board of Trade, busily

engaged in driving a bargain. I drew him to one side.

"Flanders," said I, "you have again put my ideas to flight."

"How so?" he asked. "I have not been in your building since you

requested me to keep away."

"I know that; but you are in Chicago, and I have discovered that I

can not write if we are in the same town. Now, it really makes no

difference to you where you are."

"No," he replied.

"You can make a living anywhere."

"Yes."

"Well, then, leave this city."

"I will do so," said he. "I will go to New York."

I bade him an affectionate good-by, and he left on the next

eastern-bound train. I returned to my work with a feeling of

refreshment. My pen tripped over the paper with graceful airiness, and

my thoughts, arrayed in gay apparel, sported joyously. Thus several

weeks went by, but one day my pen stopped. I urged it, as a farmer

urges a balky horse, but it refused to move forward. It was because

Flanders was in this country. I wrote to him: "Flanders," said I, "you

must leave New York--must leave the United States. I can not write

if we are both under the same flag. I have a great piece of work to

perform and I know that you will not seek to deprive me of the fame

which its accomplishment will bring. Please leave this country."

A few days later I received the following reply: "I leave to-day for

London."

Again I went to work with a thrill of pleasure. The rosebuds of thought

opened with each passing breeze of inspiration. A month passed. One day

my pen fell. Instantly my thoughts flew to Flanders, and I sadly shook

my head. I could not write if Flanders and I lived in English-speaking

countries. I wrote to him. He was still generous, for in his reply he

said: "I appreciate your feelings. To-morrow I shall sail for Asia."

Again I experienced the usual relief, and the rosebuds which had so

long been covered with dust, opened with blooming freshness. Flanders

wrote to me from Pekin. Then my pen fell again. I could not write if

he and I were in the same world. I replied to his letter: "Flanders,"

said I, "come home at once."

I waited two weary months. One night, just as I had lighted my lamp and

sat down to dream with De Quincy, Flanders shoved open the door and

entered the room. I threw my arms about him and pressed him to me for I

loved him.

"Are you glad to see me, Flanders?" I asked, shoving him into an easy

seat.

"Delighted," he replied. "What is it you would have me do?"

"Nothing but sit where you are."

He looked at me with affection. His eyes were soft and glowing. I

reached into my desk and took out a sharp paper-cutter, and, as

Flanders was beaming upon me, I stabbed him. He sprang to his feet and

threw his arms about me, but I stabbed him again and again. He sank to

the floor and I sat down to my work. Oh, how my thoughts flew. With

wings that were feathered with silvery down and tipped with gold, they

soared higher and higher. I----

"Hold on," said the judge. "I would not have permitted this statement

had I not from the first been interested in its very curiousness. You

are not charged with the murder of anyone named Flanders. You found a

little boy playing among the flowers in a park and slew him."

The prisoner pressed his hands to his head. "Oh," he cried, "if

Flanders be not dead I can not write. He would not deprive me of the

fame----"

An officer led him away.

HENDRICKS KNEW IT.

Jasper Hendricks, old man Blue, Abe Stallcup, and several other men,

farmers in the neighborhood, sat, one rainy day, about the fireplace

in a Tennessee crossroads store. Autumn had just begun to enforce its

principles--that is, a lingering mildness of atmosphere had just turned

cool enough to shiver a little when the sun had sunk behind the distant

timber line. The "evangelist" had made his annual fall visit to the

neighborhood, and, assisted by local talent, was holding a revival in

Round Pound meeting-house.

The party of men in the store had been discussing the main features of

the meeting, and in their crude way had been speculating upon religion

in general, when old man Blue, a deacon and an ultra-religionist,

remarked:

"Wall, gentle_men_, it's all right ter talk, but when the ho'n blows,

callin' us ter a final settle_ment_, w'y we jest nachully cave; that's

all. The bravest man in the world would a leetle ruther stay here, ef

he's in his right mind, than ter take the chances in a neighborhood

(as a feller named _Hamestring_ or _Hamlet_, I dunno which, once said)

frum which thar ain't nobody returned ter tell us the condition uv the

craps an' sich. Now I've a putty strong hope that my after-life will be

smooth an' easy, but I'll jest tell you whut's er fack, I'd ruther stay

here er leetle longer, even ef I hafter plow with er jumpin' coulter

an' break a yoke of calves urcasion'ly, than ter go thar."

"You air right!" Stallcup responded. "At times when we air sorter

shoutin' round the mourner's bench we feel like we wouldn't kere ef we

wuz called erway at wunst, but airter we git out an' see the sun shine

the next day, an' see the birds erhoppin' erround the straw-stack,

an' lissen ter the ole jaybird that's dun picked a quarrel with the

yallerhammer, w'y we feel sorter like stayin' here a while longer."

Then Jasper Hendricks spoke. Every one turned to pay him particular

attention. He was the one man in the neighborhood whom no one

understood. He was strikingly handsome--tall, with soft black hair that

seemed to worm itself into graceful curls. He was not saintly in his

deportment. Often at night, while a furious storm was raging, and while

the lightning painted in frightful colors a momentary picture on the

cliffs, Hendricks, half drunk and chanting a stirring tune, had been

seen to gallop at desperate speed through the crash and roar of the

weather's awful outbreak.

"Gentlemen," said Hendricks, "you air but pore proofs uv yo' faith. Ef

you really believe whut you say you do--believe that thar is er crown

that airter while will press with gentle soothin' on your troubled

brows, you would long fur the time when you mout leave this world.

The shinin' uv the sun an' the quarrel uv the jaybird an' yallerhammer

wouldn't have no influence ter hold you back frum er everlastin' joy."

"Hendricks," said old man Blue, "you air er sort uv er poet an' kain't

understan' the feelin's uv er common man."

"I'm not er poet only in feelin'," Hendricks replied, "but ef I was

I'd know mo' erbout you than I do, fur the poet, erbove all others,

understan's the feelin's uv the common man. It is his perfeck

understan'in' uv the heart uv the common man that makes him er poet."

"Have you got any hope in the next world, Hendricks?" old man Blue

asked.

"Have you?"

"Yas."

"Why?"

"Becaze, I've got er promise."

"Who made it?"

"W'y, the Lord, I think."

"Promised you that you would be perfectly happy in the next world?"

"Yas," the old man replied.

"Air you perfeckly happy in this here world?"

"No, I ain't."

"Do you believe that the Lord always keeps his promises?"

"Yas, I do."

"Then why don't you want ter go ter the next world at once? Why don't

you pray fur death?"

"I don't know, Hendricks."

"I do."

"Why, then?"

"Because you don't believe the Lord has made you any promise."

"Oh, yas, I do."

"Oh, no, you don't."

"Wall, I tell you whut it is, Hendricks, no sensible man hankers airter

dyin'."

"He does, if the Lord has made him a promise."

"Yas, but he wants ter wait the Lord's own time."

"A good excuse," Hendricks replied. "You want to wait the Lord's own

time, an' you hope that the Lord's time will be long."

"Hendricks, you kain't blame er man for wantin' to live."

"Yes, I can, if he believes that he would be better off in another

world."

"But he don't know that."

"Then he ain't got religion, an' don't b'l'eve what God says."

"Oh, yas, Hendricks. You know it would skeer you might'ly ef you knowed

you had ter die ter-day."

"I'm not religious, but ter know that I had ter die ter-day wouldn't

skeer me."

"I think it would, Hendricks."

"But I know it wouldn't; so now, fur the sake uv argyment, let us say

that I have got ter die ter-day."

"Yas," rejoined old Blue, "we ken say it fur argyment's sake, an' it

won't skeer you, but ef it was sho' 'nuff, it would."

"Wall, then, say it's sho' 'nuff."

"We ken say it, but that won't skeer you, fur you know it ain't true."

"But I know it is true."

"What, you know that you are goin' ter die ter-day?"

"Yes, sir."

"How do you know it?"

"By this fack," Hendricks replied. He drew a revolver, placed it

against his head, and fired. He fell from the chair, dead. The men

looked in horror upon the scene. A breeze through the open doorway

stirred Hendricks' hair into beautiful curls.

WEARING OUT THE CARPET.

Among the guests at a small summer hotel were a little boy and his

mother. The boy's fullness of life and richness of prankish resource

kept the timid, shrinking mother in a constant state of alarm; and the

servants, noticing that she was afraid that her son might give offense,

took pains to increase her anxiety by telling the child, in those soft

but forced tones of kindness which burn worse than harshness, not

to make so much noise and not to scatter bread crumbs on the steps.

The proprietor's wife, an old woman whom everyone said was motherly,

unconsciously took a cue from the servants, and, forgetting that her

own sons and daughters were once noisy children, began to oppress the

boy.

"Sh-sh--don't make a fuss," she said, meeting him in the hall. "Little

boys must be seen and not heard. Go and put that ball away. You might

break something. Never mind that cat. Get out of my way. I wonder what

your mother can be thinking about."

"Tommie," his mother called from a neighboring room.

"Maam."

"Come here."

"I ain't doin' nothin'."

"Oh, let him alone, I pray you," said the proprietor's wife, inclining

her head and smiling at the mother, who had appeared in the doorway. "I

was simply afraid that he might break something with his ball, but do

let him enjoy himself, I beseech you. Children will be children, you

know."

"I do hope he won't cause you any trouble," the mother replied. "I do

the very best I can with him, but--I--I--come here, son."

She reached out, took the boy by the hand, and drew him into the room.

"What makes you cry, mamma?"

"Because you are so bad, darling," she replied, taking him into her

arms.

"I didn't know I was bad."

"But you are. You seem to make everybody miserable."

"What's miserable?"

"Unhappy."

"What's unhappy?"

"Go, sit down over there."

He climbed up on a trunk, twisted himself around, tore his clothes, got

down, killed a fly on the window pane, picked up a feather which he

found in a corner, threw it up and blew his breath upon it, turned over

a work-basket, climbed upon the bed where his mother had lain down, put

his hands on her face, gazed with mischievous tenderness into her eyes,

and said:

"I love you."

She clasped him to her bosom. "You'll be a good boy, won't you?"

"Yessum, an' when that nigger makes a face at me, I won't say

anything."

"Well, you must not."

"An' musn't I grab holt of the calf's tail when he shoves it through

the fence?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Oh, because it will hurt him. Let mamma go to sleep now, but don't you

go out."

"Nome."

The woman sank to sleep. The boy got off the bed and went to the

window. He looked up at a fly that was buzzing at the top, went back

to the bed, gently kissed his mother, and stole out into the hall.

Exuberant with freedom, he began to gallop in imitation of a horse.

"Sh-sh!"

He was confronted by the proprietor's wife. "What are you racing around

here like a mule for--say? Don't you know you are wearing out the

carpet? Why don't you go somewhere and sit down and behave like a human

being? Think I bought this carpet to have it scuffed out this way?

Stop raking your foot on the floor that way."

He held up his hands as if, in begging for forgiveness, he would kiss

her. "Don't put your greasy hands on me. Go on, now, and don't rake

your feet on this carpet. I don't know what mothers these days can be

thinking about."

"Tommie," his mother called.

"Yessum."

"Come here."

"Oh, I don't know what to do with you," she said, when she had drawn

him into the room. "What makes you so bad?"

"I dunno; but it must be the bad man."

"Yes, and he'll get you, too, if you don't behave yourself."

"And will he hurt me?"

"Yes; he will."

"How?"

"Burn you."

"Ho! I'd shoot him."

"You couldn't."

"Why couldn't I?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Then how do you know he would burn me?"

"Oh, I don't know that he would."

"Then what made you say that he would?"

"For gracious sake, give me a little peace."

"A little piece of bread?" he asked, while his eyes twinkled with

mischief.

"Hush, sir; hush. Not another word out of you. Take your dirty hands

away from my face."

"I want to hug you."

"Well, hug me, then, and sit down."

"You love me, don't you?"

"Yes, little angel," she said, pressing him to her bosom.

"More than all the houses an' railroads an' steamboats put together?"

"Yes."

To the mother the days were dragged over the field of time like the

dead body of an animal. In misery lest her son should cause offense,

she watched him, and, at table, hushed him. The proprietor's wife

scolded him, and at last the little fellow's spirit was cowed. He

crept through the hall, and, on tiptoe, to keep from wearing out the

carpets, he moved through the house. He would shrink when he saw the

proprietor's wife, and in his sleep he muttered apologies and declared

that he would be good. One morning he awoke with a burning fever.

"I wish you would come in and see my little boy," said the mother,

addressing the proprietor's wife. She went in. The little fellow looked

at her, and, as a deeply-troubled expression crossed his face, said:

"I won't wear out the carpet."

"Why, no, you won't hurt the carpet. Get up and run on it all you want

to."

"I can't, now."

"But you can after awhile."

Days of suffering; nights of dread. Everything had been done and the

doctor had gone home. A heart-broken woman buried her face in the

bedclothes. The proprietor's wife, with tears streaming down her face,

stood looking upon a wasted face which had, only a short time before,

beamed with mischief.

"Little boy," she said, "dear little fellow, you are going to leave us.

You are going to heaven."

"No," he faintly replied, "I will be in the way, and they won't let me

laugh there."

A long silence followed, and then the old woman whispered:

"He is gone."

A man with heavy boots walked on the carpet in the hall.

A BRIDEGROOM.

One hot afternoon a tramp printer entered the office of the Franklin

(Ky.) _Patriot_. The regular corps of compositors were sufficient to do

all necessary work, but the boys were lazy and wanted to go fishing,

so the tramp was given temporary employment. When the boys returned

next day they were surprised, and not a little ashamed, to see that

the tramp had "set up" the entire paper--work which would have taken

the entire force several days to perform. When the proof-sheets were

brought in, they were found to be so clean that the editor of the

_Patriot_ sent for the tramp.

"What is your name?" the editor asked.

"Oscar Howell."

"Where are you from?"

Mr. Howell waived his hand around in a complete circle.

"What does that mean?"

"Means that I am from everywhere."

"Do you want work?"

"That's the reason I came here."

"I mean regular work."

"Yes; but I don't want to throw anybody out of a job."

"Glad you are so honorable; but those boys out there are my sons and I

am thinking of sending them to school."

"All right, then, I will take their place."

"Do you drink?"

"I wound up the ball of an extended spree the other day, but I am not

going to drink any more."

"I hope your resolution may hold out."

"I will give it many a half-soling."

"Well, you may begin regular work to-morrow morning."

"All right, sir."

Within two months from that time Mr. Howell was one of the best dressed

men in the town. People who had commented on his shabby appearance now

called him handsome. He joined the Good Templars' lodge and mingled

in the society of the tittering maidens of the village. Doctors and

lawyers sought his company. He had brought a literary freshness to the

town. His jokes were new; his courtesy marked. One year passed away.

Mr. Howell was engaged to marry the handsomest and most intelligent

young woman in the town. The girl's father and mother were delighted.

Howell was envied by all the young men. The day for the wedding drew

near. The "popular and enterprising tailor" had made Howell's wedding

suit.

One day another tramp entered the office. Howell dropped his "make-up

rule" and sprang forward to meet him.

"Why, Shorty, how are you?"

"Sorter slow," the tramp replied as he placed his elbows on the

imposing-stone. "How is it with you?"

"Oh, I am flying. Going to get married to-morrow night."

"Glad to hear it. When we separated that day with a carefully

divided quart, I didn't think your lines would so soon fall in such

appreciative places."

"Neither did I. It is all due, though, Shorty, to my sobriety. I tell

you there is no hope for the drunkard. I'll never drink any more."

"Glad. Expect to quit pretty soon myself. What sort of wedding-toggery

have you got?"

"Finest you ever saw."

"Would like to see 'em. Where's your room?"

"Just across the street."

"Suppose we go over."

"All right. You ought to see my girl."

They went to Howell's room.

"By George!" exclaimed Shorty. "You will be fixed up in style, won't

you?"

"I should say so. Well, it's time, for I have been a fool long enough."

"Say, put 'em on. I want to see how you will look as a bridegroom."

"I don't want to rumple 'em."

"Go ahead and put 'em on. You know that in my present plight I can't go

to see you step off."

"To please you, Shorty, I'll put 'em on, but you are the only person

that could cause me to yield in this matter."

He put on the clothes.

"By George, Oscar, you look like a French dancing master. Well, I'm

going to take a little nip."

He took a bottle out of his pocket and shook it. "Here's some old stuff

a fellow gave me at Hopkinsville. Fifteen years old. Remember the time

we struck that old negro for a pint of peach brandy? Well, here's to

you. Ah, hah, hah. Would you try a little?"

"No."

"Won't hurt you. Wouldn't hurt a flea. I tell you that when a fellow

feels bilious a little licker is a mighty good thing for him. Ever get

bilious?"

"Yes, bilious now. Haven't had any appetite for a week."

"I was 'way off the other day, but this stuff (again shaking the

bottle), has set me all right."

"You don't mean to say that you have had that licker for several days?"

"Yes. Tell you what's a fact, a man doesn't want but little of this

stuff, and the beauty of it is, it keeps him from drinking bad licker."

"Let me smell of it."

Howell held the bottle to his nose. Then, with a sudden impulse, his

lips closed over the neck. "Ah, that is good. What sort of a time have

you had since I saw you last?"

"Tough, I tell you. Take another pull and hand it over here. Recollect

that song old Patsy Bolivar used to sing--'When this old coat was new?'"

"Yes," Howell replied, "I was thinking about it the other night. Let me

taste your ware, as Simple Simon remarked. Getting pretty low, too."

"Yes, too low."

"That isn't bad. Say, can you sing Patsy's song?"

"Might if I had licker enough."

"Let's slip down the back stairs into that saloon."

"All right, but ain't you going to take off your wedding clothes?"

"No; we won't be down there but a few minutes."

* * * * *

The next day a battered bridegroom and a ragged tramp awoke in a cattle

car, seventy-five miles from Franklin.

"Say, Oscar!"

"Well."

"Give me your vest. You ain't got no use for so much toggery."

"All right, here she is."

"Where shall we strike for?"

"Reckon we'd better get off at the junction and strike out down the

Memphis road."

DAVE SUMMERS.

HIS OWN STORY OF A ROMANCE AND ITS ENDING.

Dar ain't no frolic in whut I'm gwine ter tell. I know dat some folks

thinks dat er nigger's life is made up o' laziniss an skylarkin', but

dat belief, 'specially in my case, ain't de truf. Oh, I had my fun w'en

I wuz er youngster. Bless you, dar wa'n't er pusson in de neighborhood

dat hankered atter mischief mo' den Dave Summers did, but 'stead o'

ole age bringin' dat peace an' rest, which, eben in de libely time

o' youth, sensible pussons looks forward ter, dar come trouble o' de

blackest sort.

W'en I wuz erbout fifty years ole, de notion got inter my head dat I

aughter preach. I doan know how it got dar--sholy not becaze I had been

thinkin' erbout it--fur de fust thing I know'd erbout it wuz wakin'

up one mawnin' wid de idee. I talked wid some o' my frien's an' da

said: "Dave, dat is er call, an' you better not be projickin' wid it.

De speret wants yer ter fling yer voice inter de gospul work an' you

better not make er Jonah o' yerse'f by tryin' ter run erway."

"But how's I gwine ter preach?" I axed. "It's 'bout ez much ez I ken do

ter read."

"De Lawd ain't axed you ter read," one o' my frien's says. "He axes yer

ter preach; ef you ken read er little, you ken l'arn how ter read mo'."

I went erway, mighty troubled in my mine. My wife had been dead fur

sebrel years, an' not habbin' any chillum I libed by myse'f in er cabin

on er big plan'ation. I shet myse'f up an' prayed. De naixt mawnin' my

load 'peared ter be heavier. Dar wa'n't nuthin' left fur me, so I says:

"I will preach. I will get somebody ter l'arn me how ter read mo' an' I

will preach de gospul de bes' I knows how." Den I thought o' my load,

but it wuz gone. It wa'n't long till I stood up in de pulpit. Dar wuz

sebrel smart men in de church, an' it 'peared ter 'muze 'em might'ly

ter yere ez ignunt er man ez I wuz talk erbout heaben an' de souls o'

men. Ah, Lawd! ignunce ken fling ez much light on some subjec's ez de

greates' 'arthly wisdom ken. I went at my work in earnes', not tryin'

ter git up er great 'citement, but 'deavorin' ter show de folks de

right way to live in dis worl' so da would be better prepared for de

life to come; an' ef dar eber wuz er man dat wuz hones' an' true ter

his callin' I b'l'ebes dat I wuz de pusson.

'Mong de members o' my flock wuz er mighty likely 'oman named Frances.

I wuz fust drawed toward her by her singin', an' one time when de

sweetness o' her music died away, I looked at her an' 'knowledge ter

myse'f dat I loved her. At fust she sung fur my soul an' I worshiped

wid her, but atter w'ile she sung ter my heart an' I worshiped her. I

tried ter think o' my ole wife lying' in de shade o' de sycamo' trees,

an, in my min' I could see de rail pen round her grave an' de trees

would be gone an' in dar place would stan' a likely 'oman smilin' at

me. I went ter my ole wife's grave an' drapped down on my knees an'

prayed. De broad sycamo' leaves waved and specks o' moonlight come

siftin' down like de flyin' chaff o' new oats dat ketches de light

o' de fresh-born day. Er makwin' bird sung in er tree close by, but,

way ober on er hill, er night hawk cried. I thought how me an' my ole

wife had wucked in the fiel', side by side, an' de bird seemed ter

sing sweeter, but den, twixt me an' de grave dar hung er bright smile.

I tried ter rub it out wid my han', but dar it hung, an' through its

brightness I seed de worm-eat head-boa'd o' de grave. "O, Lawd," I

prayed, "let dis tem'tation pass erway. Let dy sarvent in his ole age

hab de strenth ter turn fum de high-strung follies o' de young man."

I riz up, wid de damp, dead grass clingin' ter my knees. De lights

gunter shine fum de church close by, an' de sad an' swellin' song o'

de congregation peared ter lay er tremblin' han' on my heart. Why did

I on er sudden lean ergin er tree? Becaze I heard her voice. I went

inter de church an' ez I walked wid bowed head toward de pulpit I heard

somebody whisper "He's been in de woods ter pray." I did not look up

but I knowed who it wuz dat whispered, for my heart felt de tech o' de

tremblin' han'. I preached dat night de best I could, an' it seemed dat

I made my hearers feel some o' my own sadness, fur w'en I called fur de

stricken in heart ter come up ter de mou'ners' bench, mo' come forward

den had eber come befo' under de 'fluence o' my callin'. We stayed late

in de church dat night. Nearly all de mou'ners, habin' wuck ter do de

naixt day, had dun left de house w'en I noticed one po' feller whose

heart, it 'peared like, wuz almos' broke. He lay flat on de flo' an'

groaned like he suffered great pain. I went ter him, raised him up an'

hil' his head on my knee. De congregation thinned out, one by one. I

leaned over an' talked ter de po' man. Lookin' up I seed dat Frances

was kneelin' wid us.

"Lady--Sister Frances," I said, "it's time dat you wuz goin' home. De

can'les is all burned away an' de lamps is goin' out."

"I will stay an' he'p you poor de ba'm on dis po' sinner," she replied.

I didn' say no mo'; but w'en mo' den er hour afterwards de sinner got

up ter go, I says ter her:

"Sister Frances, if you ain't got no 'jections, I'll walk home wid you."

She smiled--de same smile dat I had seed twixt me an' de worm-eat

head-boa'd o' de grave--an' said dat she would be pleased for me ter

'company her. I doan know what I said ter her ez we walked erlong, but

I know dat w'en we got ter de little gate in front o' de cabin w'ar

her folks libed, she wuz leanin' on my arm. De moon had gone down, an'

de flutterin' in de trees in de yard told me dat de mawnin' birds wuz

fixin' ter begin dar twitterin'.

"Brudder Summers," said de lady, ez I wuz erbout ter bid her good-bye,

"dar 'pears ter be sunthin' on yo' mine."

"Not only on my mine, Sister Frances, but dar is sunthin' on my heart."

I was goin' ter turn erway atter dis, but she put her han' on my

arm--de same tremblin' han' dat had teched my heart--an' said:

"Tell me 'bout yo' troubles. Tell me whut is lyin' on yo' heart."

"Er tremblin' han', lady."

"Does you know dat it is er han'?"

"Yas, fur I keen see it in de light o' 'er bright smile."

"Is de han' cold?"

"No, lady."

"Is it ez wa'm ez mine?" she said, ez she put her han' in my own

fever-like grasp. De naixt minit my arm wuz around her. De mawnin'

birds twittered in de trees, light gunter wink ercross de bottoms, an'

dar, ez de gold o' de day wuz chasin' de fleetin' silver o' de dawn, I

axed her ter be my wife.

CHAPTER II.

We wuz married. I tuck her ter my cabin an' bright light fell on my

hearth-stone. She wanted ter he'p me in my work o' 'swadin' folks ter

do right. "I know," she said, "dat folks all erround us will be makin'

mo' money den we is, but money doan water de flowers o' de heart, nur

broaden de 'joyment dat comes ter de soul." I lubbed her deeper atter

she said dat, fur I seed dat her natur wa'n't vain nur her heart set

upon de flesh-pots o' de world.

Two years passed erway--two o' de happies' years o' my life. One day

dar was some bills stuck up 'nouncin' dat Andrew Hennifen, er colored

politician dat libbed in town, would on de naixt Friday make er speech

ter de folks. Er campaign wuz on han' an' gre't intrus' wuz felt in de

outcome. W'en de day come de weather wuz so showery dat da couldn'

hol' de meetin' out do's, so some o' de men come ter me an' axed me ef

da mout meet in de church. I didn' much think dat it wuz de right sort

er meetin' ter be hel' in de house o' de Lawd, but seein' dat da wuz

all so anxious, I tole em dat da mout. Den da axed me ter go ober an'

lissen ter de gre't speech wut de generman wuz gwine ter make. I didn'

like de idee o' settin' in my own church and lissenin' ter de skussion

o' de erfairs o' de worl'. Den Frances spoke up:

"W'y, Dave," she said, "if we are gwine ter lib in de worl' we mus'

take some intrus' in de erfairs o' de worl'. Ef de man had got anything

wuth yearin', I doan see w'y we aughtenter go an' lissen ter him. Ef we

finds dat wut he says ain't fit fer us, w'y den we ken come erway."

"Wut you says is true, Frances," I replied, "an you mus' scuse me ef

I is holdin' you back in any way. Er ole man loves wid jes' es much

wa'mth ez er young man does, an' it is er pity dat he doan lub wid ez

much jedgment."

"You musn' talk dat way, Dave," she said, wid er laugh, "fur in lovin'

me yo' jedgment ain't made no mistake."

Hennifen wuz er tall, yaller man, an' much younger den I 'spected ter

fine him. In his speech he used a good deal o' strong talk, an' called

er lot o' folks dat wa'n't present, liars an' thieves. I didn' like

dis, but er man dat sat naixt ter me tole me dat it wuz all right, an'

dat ef de speaker didn' do dater way, de folks would think dat he wuz

erfeered ter 'nounce his principles. Atter de speakin' wuz over, de

speaker come up ter me, hil' out his han' an' said:

"Mr. Summers, I has often hearn o' you, sah, an' I takes dis 'tunity o'

shakin' han's wid you."

Wen I had shuck han's wid him, he said:

"Is dis yo' daughter wid you?"

"My wife, sah," said I.

"Ah, I's pleased ter meet de lady."

We walked on outen de house, an' Hennifen wuz so busy talkin' 'bout de

gre't principles o' his party dat he didn' seem ter notice dat he wuz

walkin' erway fum de crowd wid us. Atter w'ile he stopped an' said dat

he reckoned he better go back.

"Won't you walk on home wid us?" my wife said.

"I thanks you kindly; I b'l'ebe I will," he answered. "I would like

ter see de inside o' my 'stinguished 'quaintance's house," makin' er

sideways motion wid his head at me, "an' 'sides dat, I'se got er little

bizness ter talk ober wid him."

"You will see er lowly household," said I, "fur I ain't been gaged in

gederin' de shinin' goods o' de yeth, but at de do' you will see er

vine dat is watered wid truf an' dat blooms in contentment."

"Dar ain't no reason why dar shouldn' be some o' de shinin' goods o' de

yeth in yo' house," said he. "De fack dat da is o' de yeth doan meek

'em none de less de Lawd's, an' bein' shiny doan meck 'em de property

o' Satan."

I seed my wife look at him wid er quick glance, an' I knowed dat she

'proved o' wut he said. I seed mo' den dat--I seed wut until dat time

had 'scaped me--I seed dat de man wuz good lookin'. I felt er pang o'

oneasiness, an' I cleared my froat deep, ez ef I would rasp de pang

outen my bosom. W'en we got ter de house, he set down in er rockin'

cheer an' made hisse'f look freer an' easier den I had eber felt in

any house 'cep' my own. Frances went inter de little shed kitchin dat

j'ined de house an' cooked dinner. It struck me dat she tuk er heep o'

pains, specially w'en she fotch out er table clof dat I didn' know she

had. Atter dinner Mr. Hennifen said dat he would git down ter bizness.

"Mr. Summers, you is too smart er man ter be wastin' yo' substance,"

wuz de way he started out. I didn' say nothin'. He went on: "You hab

got de 'bility ter make yo'se'f mighty useful ter yo' country. De

'fluence dat you has 'stablished ober yo' fellerman ken be turned ter

rich ercount. De bes' people in dis county wants ter 'lect Hillson fur

sheriff. Dis ken only be done by good men puttin' dar shoulders ter de

wheel. I is Hillson's right han' man, an I's got de 'thority for sayin'

dat ef you'll turn in an' make speeches fur him dat he will pay you

well."

My wife looked at me. "Mr. Hennifen," said I, "wut you say may be de

truf, but I is makin' speeches fur de Lawd."

"Yes, but makin' speeches for de Lawd, Mr. Summers, needn' keep you

frum speakin' in fabor o' Hillson."

"Dave," said my wife, "Mr. Hennifen is sholy right, an', mo'n dat, ef

dar's er man in dis neighborhood dat needs money, you is de man. De

folks dat lissuns ter you preach neber seems ter know dat we needs

things in dis house."

"Frances," I replied, "Mr. Hillson ain't er man o' my choice. He has

been mixed up in ugly erfairs, an' I kain't make no speeches fur him;

so, let de subjeck drap right whar it is."

Hennifen 'sisted on sayin' mo', but I tole him it wa'n't no use. He

didn' stay long atter dis, but sayin' dat he would see me ergin, went

erway.

"Does you allus 'spect ter lib in poverty?" my wife axed.

"I doan 'spect ter meck speeches in fabor o' er dishones' man," I

answered.

Hennifen come back inter de neighborhood de naixt week an' called at my

house, but I wa'n't at home. When I axed Frances wut he had ter say,

she said dat he didn' stay but er few minits an' didn' say much o'

anythin'. Er few days atterwards I hearn dat he wuz in de neighborhood

ergin, workin' wid de voters, but he didn' come ter my house, an' I

didn' hunt him.

Nearly er munt must hab passed w'en one day I wuz called on ter preach

de funul o' er man ober in ernuder 'munity. I didn' git back till late

in de night. De house wuz dark, an' ez I went up ter de do' I tangled

my foot in de vine, stumbled an' tore it up by de roots. I went in an'

lit de candle. Frances wa'n't dar. I called her--stepped to de do' an'

called her till de echo o' my voice brought back wid it de cry o' er

night bird. I went ober ter er neighbor's house. De women folks 'gun

ter cry ez soon ez da seed me. I axed ef da had seen Frances.

"Oh, Brudder Summers, she's dun gone wid dat yaller raskil. He fotch er

buggy an' tuck her erway."

I went down ter de sycamo' trees w'ar my ole wife wuz buried, an' got

down on my knees. Dar wa'n't no bright smile 'twixt me an' de grave.

CHAPTER III.

De women folks fotch flowers nearly ever' day an' put 'em in my house,

an' de men folks tuck off dar hats w'en da come w'ar I wuz. I kep' on

makin' speeches fur de Lawd, an' men dat wuz once noisy in church wuz

now quiet.

De 'leckshun time come on, and I kotch up my old gray hoss an' rid up

ter town. I went ter all de votin' places, but didn' see nobody dat I

knowed. I heard one man say: "Wonder wut dat cuis-lookin' ole man is

er pokin' 'roun' yere fur?" Den somebody answered: "Dar's er yaller

man dodgin' 'round yere somewhar dat mout fling some light on dat

question." Ever' time I hearn o' any p'litical ter-do anywhar, I rid

dar, but didn' see nobody dat I knowed.

Winter time come, de col'est winter dat I eber felt. One Sunday dar

come er heavy snow, an' dat night it turned so col' dat I couldn'

hardly keep wa'm by de fire. De win' blowed hard. Suthin flapped ergin

de winder. I hil' de candle, an' dar seed de great starin' eyes o'

er night bird. I turned erway an' had jes' sot down by de fire w'en

I hearn er noise at de do'; I lissened, an' den I hearn er groan. My

heart felt de tech o' er col' hand, an' I knowed dat Frances had come

back. I opened de do'; she lay on de groun' wid her face turned up. I

tuck her in my arms an' laid her on de bed.

"Dave--Dave, won't you forgib me?"

I stood lookin' at her. "Oh, won't you forgib me? De Lawd has pardoned

me, an' I has come back ter ax you--you--"

"Yas," I said, "yas, po' child. Go ter sleep in peace."

She looked at me an' tried ter smile, but de light wuz gone, an' dar

wa'n't no smile 'twixt me and de grave.

We laid her under de sycamo' trees, but not w'ar my old wife wuz buried.

I kep' on goin' ter p'litical meetin's, an' some folks wondered why er

ole man dat neber voted tuck such intrus' in sich erfairs.

One day I wuz ridin' 'long er road near w'ar er number o' convicts wuz

at work. I seed er man dat I knowed 'cross de road in front o' me. I

turned toward him. He flung up er gun and cried out:

"Stop, er I'll kill you. Been er huntin' me long ernuff."

I didn' stop, an' he fired at me, an' den, flingin' down de gun, he

clim de fence an' 'gunter run ercross er fiel'. Er mighty yelpin' noise

made de a'r ring, an' lookin' erway ter de right, I seed er lot er

bloodhounds dat da kep' fur chasin' de convicts. Da wuz atter de man.

Somebody yelled ter 'em ter stop, but da didn'. I got offen my hoss,

an', wid seb'ral men, followed de dogs. We heard de man holler--we seed

him tryin' ter fight off de dogs. "Mussyful God!" I hearn him cry, an'

den his voice wuz swallowed up by de howlin' o' de dogs. W'en we come

up ter w'ar de dogs wuz, I seed er man tore all ter pieces, an' I seed

er dog, atter lookin' at me, bury his teeth in er yaller face.

Dat night ez I riz up frum my ole wife's grave, de dead, damp grass

clung ter my knees.

THE CAPTAIN'S ROMANCE.

Capt. Rilford is known as one of the bravest and most gallant officers

of the United States army. He is one of those old bachelors to whom the

passing years bring additional installments of romance. I have seen him

go into ecstatic spasms over a spout spring in the mountains, and have

known him to lie under a tree and shed tears over the misfortunes of a

heroine drawn by some fourth-class romancer; but in action he was so

fearless that his brother officers excused what they pleased to term

his soft qualities.

A short time ago the captain was granted a leave of absence. He had

long since grown tired of all the fashionable watering-places, and

no longer could find anything in the cities to interest him, so the

question of how he should spend that time, which was all his own,

began to perplex him.

"I am acquainted with both the wild and civilized life of our country,"

said he, addressing a friend. "I know the wild Indian and the Boston

swell; and, to tell you the truth, I don't know what to do."

"Yes, you are acquainted with the extremes," the friend rejoined, "but

do you know much of the intermediate? You have made a study of the

Indian in his wild state, but do you know anything of him as a citizen?

Why not go to the Indian Territory, the Cherokee Nation, for instance,

and amuse yourself by studying the habits of the Indian farmer?"

The captain was so impressed with the idea that, the next day, he set

out for the Indian Territory. He found the country to be beautiful,

with hills of charming contemplation and valleys of enrapturing

romance. Streams like moving silver thrilled him, and birds, whom it

seemed had just found new songs, made the leaves quiver with echoing

music. After several days of delightful roaming, the captain rented a

small cabin, and, having provided himself with a few cooking utensils,

settled down to housekeeping. With the rifle and the fishing rod he

provided ample food, and as he soon became acquainted with several

farmers he thought, over and over again, that his romantic craving

had never before approached so near to (in his own words) sublime

satisfaction. His nearest neighbor, four miles distant, was an Indian

farmer named Tom Patterson. His family consisted of a wife and one

daughter, a rather handsome girl. She had learned to read and write,

and, as she seemed to be romantic, the captain soon became much

interested in her.

Patterson was rather a kind-hearted old fellow, accommodating in

everything but answering questions concerning his family, but this was

not an eccentricity, for nearly all Indians are disposed to say as

little as possible with regard to themselves. Ansy, the girl, was fond

of fishing, and as no restraint was placed upon her actions, she and

the captain (his words again) had many a delightful stroll.

There was, I had forgotten to mention, another member of the Patterson

household, a negro named Alf. He was as dark as the musings of a

dyspeptic, but he was good-natured and obliging.

"Rather odd that a colored man, so fond of political life, should live

out here away from the States, isn't it, Alf?" the captain one day

asked.

"Wall, no, sah, kain't say dat it is. Dar's er right smart sprinklin'

o' us genermen out yare, an' dough we's mighty fur erpart we manages

ter keep up good 'sciety, sah. Yes, sah, an' ef it wa'n't fur de cullud

genermen in dis yare 'munity w'y de Territory would dun been gone ter

rack an' ruin. Caze why? I'll tell yo', sah. De Ingin is a mighty

han' ter furnish meat, but gittin' o' de bread is a different thing.

In udder words, sah, he kin kill er deer but he ain't er good han' to

raise co'n. Yes, sah, de nigger ken plow all roun' de Ingin, an' de

Ingin knowin' dis, ginally gins de niggah er good chance."

"You work with Mr. Patterson on shares, don't you?"

"Yes, sah; ha'f o' dis crap 'longs ter me. W'y, fo' I come yare dar

wa'n't hardly nuthin' raised on dis place but weeds an' grass. I

happened to meet Patterson in Fort Smif one time. He hearn me talk

erbout farmin' an' den he made a dead set at me ter come home wid him."

"Are the people throughout this neighborhood very peaceable?"

"Yas, sah, lessen da gits 'spicious o' er pusson, an' den look out.

Da looks cuis at ever' stranger, thinkin' dat he's spyin' 'roun' an'

tryin' ter talk de Injuns in faber o' openin' up this yare territory.

Dar's er passul o' fellers ober de creek dat calls darselves de Glicks.

Da is allus 'spicious, an' I tells you whut's er fack, I'd ruther hab

er team o' mules run ober me an' den be butted by a muley steer--an'

I does think way down in my cibilization dat er muley steer ken thump

harder den anything on de face o' de yeth--den ter hab dem Glicks git

atter me. Seed 'em hang er pusson once jes' fur nuthin' in de worl',

an' da didn' ax him no questions, nuther."

As the days passed the girl seemed to be more and more pleased with the

captain. One evening they sat on the bank of a stream, fishing. The sun

had sunk beyond a distant hill, but continued to pour over his light,

like a golden waterfall.

"Ansy," said the captain, "this is a beautiful and romantic country;

but do you not grow tired of living here all the time?"

"If we don't know any other life we do not grow tired of this one," she

replied.

"You are a little philosopher," the captain exclaimed.

"I don't know what that is, Captain, but if you want me to be one I

will try to be."

The captain smiled and regarded her with a look of affection.

"The great cities would delight you for a time, Ansy, and then you

could come back here with a heightened appreciation of the sublime

surroundings of your own home."

"The sun has blown out his candle," she said, pointing. "It is time for

us to go."

CHAPTER II.

The captain could not sleep. He had extinguished his lamp, but on the

wall there was a bright light. It grew brighter, and then he saw that

it was the face of Ansy. A rap came at the door.

"Who's there?"

"Captain, for God's sake run away. The Glicks are coming after you."

It was the voice of Ansy.

The captain dressed himself and opened the door. The girl was gone. The

moon was shining. The officer was not the man to run away. He closed

the door, took up a repeating rifle and opened a small window. He

waited. A few moments passed and he saw several men enter the clearing

in front of the cabin.

"What do you want here?" the captain shouted.

"We want you."

"What do you want with me?"

"Ask you some questions."

"You may ask questions, but don't come a step nearer."

"What did you come here for?"

"None of your business."

This reply created a commotion. The captain could hear the marauders

swearing. "We'll break down the door," one of them said as he stepped

forward. The next moment he had fallen to the ground. When the smoke

cleared away the captain saw that the rascals were gone, but there soon

came from the woods a shower of blazing arrows. It was time to get

away. The captain made a hole in the roof, crawled out, sprang to the

ground and hurried into the woods.

Early the next morning he went to Patterson's house. The family had

heard of the fight.

"You neenter be 'larmed now, dough, sah," said Alf, the negro, "caze da

foun' out dat you wuz er Newnited States ossifer, an' it skeered 'em

putty nigh ter def. You gin it ter one o' 'em putty hard, I ken tell

you. Shot him squar through, an' da doan think he gwine ter lib, da

doan, but dat ain't no matter, fur he wuz de wust one in de bunch. Ef

he dies, folks 'roun' yare will hol' er pra'r-meetin' thankin' de Lawd."

Patterson and his wife left the room, but the negro sat in the doorway.

"Ansy," said the captain, "I owe my life to you."

"Dat you does, sah," Alf replied.

The captain gave him a significant glance and again turned to the girl.

"Yes, you have saved my life, but that is not the cause of my

deep--deep (he glanced at the negro)--deep regard for you."

The girl made no reply. The captain could have killed the negro. "I

will ignore his black presence," the captain mused. He leaned over and

took the girl's hand.

"Ansy," said the negro, "w'en dis yare generman gits through wid yo'

han' I wants you ter sew er few buttons on dat ar hickory shirt o'

mine."

"You scoundrel," exclaimed the captain, springing to his feet, "how

dare you speak in such a manner to this young lady?"

"Why, boss," the negro replied, "what's de use'n makin' sich er great

'miration. Dat 'oman has been my wife fur putty nigh two years."

The captain's romance was ended.

OLD TILDY.

In nearly every neighborhood of the South, there comes, in the fall

of the year, a sort of religious wave. Men, who, during the summer

swore at their horses and stopped but little short of blasphemy, in

imprecatory remarks addressed to obdurate steers, turn reverently,

after fodder-pulling time, to Mt. Zion, Ebeneezer, New Hope and Round

Pond, to hear the enthusiastic pleadings of the circuit rider and the

begging injunctions of the strolling evangelist. Robert's Cove, in

East Tennessee, is a neighborhood typical of this peculiar religious

condition. Last autumn, when the katydid shivered on the damp oak leaf

and the raccoon cracked the shell of the pinching "crawfish," there

suddenly appeared at Ebeneezer meeting-house a young man of most

remarkable presence. He was handsome, tall, graceful, and with hair as

bright and waving as the locks of the vision that come to _Clarence_

in his awful dream. He said that his name was John Mayberry. He had

come to preach the gospel in a simple, child-like way, and hoped that

his hearers, for the good of their souls, would pay respectful heed to

his words. A materialist would have called him a fanatic, but as there

were no materialists in that neighborhood, he soon became known as a

devout Christian and a powerful worker in the harvest-field of faith.

He read hallowed books written by men who lived when the ungodly sword

and the godly pen were at war against each other, and in his fervor his

language bore a power which his rude hearers had never felt before.

One night, after a stormy time at the mourners' bench, and while women

whose spirits were distressed still stood sobbing about the altar,

Mayberry approached a well-known member of the church, and said:

"Who is that peculiar old woman, that wrinkled and strange-eyed dwarf

who sits so near the pulpit every night?"

"We call her old Tildy," Brother Hendricks replied. "She has been

a-livin' in this here neighborhood mighty nigh ever sense I kin

ricolleck. She's a mighty strange old woman, but I never hearn no harm

uv her."

"She may be a good woman," the preacher rejoined, "but she casts a

chill over me every time I look at her. Goodbye, Brother Hendricks.

Think of me to-night when you get down on your knees."

The preacher sought his temporary home. He lived about a mile from

the church, in an old log cabin with one room. Many of the people had

offered him a home, but, declining, he declared that he wanted to be

alone at night, so that, undisturbed, he could pursue his studies or

pray for inspiration.

The hour was late. The preacher had taken down "Fox's Book of Martyrs"

and was looking at its thrilling illustrations, when a knock at the

door startled him.

"Come in," he called.

Old Tildy stepped into the room, and, quickly closing the door,

stood with her back against it. She nodded her head and smiled--a

snaggle-tooth grin--and said:

"How air yer, Brother Mayberry?"

"I am very well, I thank you."

"Powerful glad ter know that folks air well."

"Thank you; but what business can you have with me at this time of

night?"

"Mighty 'portant bizness, Brother Mayberry, mighty 'portant."

"Does it concern your soul?"

"Not ez much ez it do yourn, Brother Mayberry; not nigh so much ez it

do yourn."

"I don't understand you!" the evangelist exclaimed.

"But I'll see that you do, Brother Mayberry. I reckon you've noticed me

at church, hai'nt you?"

"Yes."

"Well, whut you reckon I went thar fur?"

"To hear the gospel, I suppose."

"Not much, Brother Mayberry; not much. I went thar to see you."

"To see me! Why on earth, madam, do you care to see me?"

"Would ruther see you on earth, Brother Mayberry, than anywhar else. I

went to see you, Brother Mayberry, because I love you."

"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed the evangelist, throwing up his hands in

a gesture of horror.

"Yes, Brother Mayberry, I love you, and I want you to be my husband."

"Oh, God forbid!" the disgusted preacher groaned.

"Yes, Brother Mayberry, but the Lawd hain't forbid. Let me tell you one

thing: when old Tildy sets her head, w'y suthin' is goin' ter happen.

Does folks cross old Tildy? Yes, sometimes. Did old Patterson cross

Tildy? Yes, Patterson crossed po', old, harmless Tildy. Whut did Tildy

do? She grabbed Patterson's boy an' hil him under the water till he was

drounded. Did Martin cross old Tildy? Yes, Martin crossed old Tildy.

What did old Tildy do? She met old Martin in the woods an' killed him,

an' folks thought he killed hisse'f. Now, air you, in the bloom o' yo'

youth and beauty, goin' to cross po', old, harmless Tildy?"

The cold dew of horror gathered in beads on the preacher's brow.

"Madam," said he, "I cannot marry you. Your request is preposterous;

your presence is appalling. Go away."

"Not until I lead my husband with me, Brother Mayberry."

"Go, I tell you, or I will throw you out of the house."

"Throw po', old, harmless Tildy out of the house? Ha, ha! Brother

Mayberry!"

She took a horse-pistol from under her apron. "Buckshot in this,

Brother Mayberry; ha, buckshot."

The preacher sank down on a chair. He did not care to die. In life

there was such a bright promise of the good he could accomplish. He

could not marry the hag, but there she stood with her awful weapon.

Could he not rush upon her?

"No, you can't, Brother Mayberry," she said, lifting the pistol. She

was reading his thoughts. Could he not pretend that he would marry her,

and afterward make his escape?

"No, you can't, Brother Mayberry," she said. "The jestice uv the peace

is waitin' outside with the license. Oh, no, Brother Mayberry, I'll not

give you a chance ter run away. Wouldn't it be awful fur the people ter

come here ter-morrer an' find Brother Mayberry with a hole through his

beautiful head? Must I call the jestice uv the peace, ur shoot you?"

"Merciful heavens, what is to become of me? I cannot die this way."

"Yes you can, Brother Mayberry."

"Oh, I cannot marry this hag."

"Not this hag, but yo' own true love, Brother Mayberry. Come, whut do

you say?"

The preacher dropped upon his knees. The woman advanced a few steps.

The preacher heard some one at the door. Was it the justice of the

peace whom the woman had under her control? A man stepped into the room.

"What does this mean?" he asked

"This horrible creature is going to kill me if I don't marry her," the

preacher replied. "Are you the justice of the peace?"

The man laughed. "No, I'm no 'squire. Goin' ter kill you, eh? But what

with?"

"That awful horse-pistol."

"That's no pistol. It's simply a stick. W'y this is one of her favorite

games. Kill you! Why she never hurt a thing in her life."

"How about Patterson's boy?" the preacher asked.

"He's all right. I seed him this mawnin'."

"Yes, but she killed old Martin."

"Did she? I saw him not more than three hours ago. Come, Tildy, go on

away."

She put the crooked stick under her apron, and, without saying a word,

glided out into the darkness. The preacher lifted his hands and uttered

a fervent prayer.

NOTE.--Riders of MONARCH BICYCLES say they are the

very "Poetry of Motion" and a never-ending delight.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE "No. 9."

My dress is of fine polished oak,

As rich as the finest fur cloak,

And for handsome design

You just should see mine--

No. 9, No. 9.

I'm beloved by the poor and the rich,

For both I impartially stitch;

In the cabin I shine,

In the mansion I'm fine--

No. 9, No. 9.

I never get surly nor tired,

With zeal I always am fired;

To hard work I incline,

For rest I ne'er pine--

No. 9, No. 9.

I am easily purchased by all,

With installments that monthly do fall,

And when I am thine,

Then life is benign--

No. 9, No. 9.

To the Paris Exposition I went,

Upon getting the Grand Prize intent;

I left all behind,

The Grand Prize was mine--

No. 9, No. 9.

At the Universal Exposition of 1889, at Paris, France, the best sewing

machines of the world, including those of America, were in competition.

They were passed upon by a jury composed of the best foreign mechanical

experts, two of whom were the leading sewing machine manufacturers of

France. This jury, after exhaustive examination and tests, adjudged

that the Wheeler & Wilson machines were the best of all, and awarded

that company the highest prize offered--the GRAND PRIZE--giving other

companies only gold, silver, and bronze medals.

The French government, as a further recognition of superiority,

decorated Mr. Nathaniel Wheeler, president of the company, with the

Cross of the Legion of Honor--the most prized honor of France.

The No. 9, for family use, and the No. 12, for manufacturing uses, are

the best in the world to-day.

And now, when you want a sewing machine, if you do not get the best it

will be your own fault.

Ask your sewing machine dealer for the No. 9 Wheeler & Wilson machine.

If he doesn't keep them, write to us for descriptive catalogue and

terms. Agents wanted in all unoccupied territory.

WHEELER & WILSON MFG. CO., CHICAGO, ILL.

* * * * *

_SCOTCH ROLLED OATS_

ARE GOOD OATS

[Illustration]

Packed in

Two-pound packages

only.

ALL GROCERS

HANDLE THEM.

* * * * *

THE LATEST

ACKNOWLEDGED

STANDARD MANUAL

FOR

Presidents, Secretaries,

DIRECTORS, CHAIRMEN,

PRESIDING OFFICERS,

And everyone in anyway connected

with public life or corporate bodies

IS

Reed's Rules

BY

THE HON. THOMAS B. REED,

Speaker of the

House of Representatives.

"I commend the book most highly."

WILLIAM McKINLEY,

_President of the United States_.

"Reasonable, right, and rigid."

J. STERLING MORTON,

_Ex-Secretary of Agriculture_.

CLOTH, 75 CENTS,

LEATHER, $1.25.

RAND, McNALLY & CO., Publishers,

CHICAGO.

* * * * *

BUILT LIKE A WATCH

Round the World

The STERLING

Wins its Way

STERLING CYCLE WORKS CHICAGO SEND FOR CATALOGUE

_AGENCIES IN ALL CHIEF CITIES._

* * * * *

Ride a

MONARCH

and keep in front

MONARCH CYCLE MFG CO

CHICAGO·NEW YORK·LONDON·

* * * * *

_TAKE THE_

MONON ROUTE

LOUISVILLE, NEW ALBANY & CHICAGO RY. CO.

_BETWEEN_

Chicago,

Indianapolis,

Cincinnati,

Lafayette,

Louisville,

AND ALL POINTS SOUTH.

Through Sleeping Cars daily to

WASHINGTON and BALTIMORE

Pullman Sleeping Cars.

Parlor and Dining Cars.

ONLY LINE TO

French Lick and

West Baden Springs,

"THE CARLSBAD OF AMERICA."

W. H. McDOEL, CHAS. H. ROCKWELL, FRANK J. REED,

Vice-Pres. and Gen'l Mgr. Traffic Mgr. Gen'l Pass'r Agt.

* * * * *

CHEW

"Kis-Me"

Gum

[Illustration: IMPORTED KEY RING]

Send us 3 cents and 3 "Kis-Me" Gum wrappers, or 10 cents in stamps or

coin, and we will mail you an elegant imported steel key ring as shown

by above cut. Throw your old ring away and get a fine one.

KIS-ME GUM CO.,

Louisville, Ky.

* * * * *

READ

Sons and Fathers

BY HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS.

The Story that won the _$10,000 Prize_ in The Chicago Record's

Competition.

Bound in English Linen with Gold Back and Side Stamps. Price $1.25.

RAND, MCNALLY & CO., PUBLISHERS,

CHICAGO AND NEW YORK.

COPYRIGHT, 1881, BY OPIE P. READ.

* * * * *

MARAH ELLIS RYAN'S WORKS.

A FLOWER OF FRANCE.

A STORY OF OLD LOUISIANA.

The story is well told.--_Herald, New York._

A real romance--just the kind of romance one delights in.--_Times,

Boston._

Full of stirring incident and picturesque description.--_Press,

Philadelphia._

The interest holds the reader until the closing page.--_Inter Ocean,

Chicago._

Told with great fascination and brightness. * * * The general

impression delightful. * * * Many thrilling scenes.--_Herald, Chicago._

A thrilling story of passion and action.--_Commercial, Memphis._

A PAGAN OF THE ALLEGHANIES.

A genuine art work.--_Chicago Tribune._

A remarkable book, original and dramatic in conception, and pure and

noble in tone.--_Boston Literary World._

REV. DAVID SWING said:--The books of Marah Ellis Ryan give great

pleasure to all the best class of readers. "A Pagan of the Alleghanies"

is one of her best works; but all she writes is high and pure. Her

words are all true to nature, and, with her, nature is a great theme.

ROBERT G. INGERSOLL says:--Your description of scenery and seasons--of

the capture of the mountains by spring--of tree and fern, of laurel,

cloud and mist, and the woods of the forest, are true, poetic, and

beautiful. To say the least, the pagan saw and appreciated many of the

difficulties and contradictions that grow out of and belong to creeds.

He saw how hard it is to harmonize what we see and know with the idea

that over all is infinite power and goodness * * * the divine spark

called Genius is in your brain.

SQUAW ÉLOUISE.

Vigorous, natural, entertaining.--_Boston Times._

A notable performance.--_Chicago Tribune._

A very strong story, indeed.--_Chicago Times._

TOLD IN THE HILLS.

A book that is more than clever. It is healthy, brave, and

inspiring.--_St. Louis Post-Dispatch._

The character of Stuart is one of the finest which has been drawn by an

American woman in many a day, and it is depicted with an appreciation

hardly to be expected even from a man.--_Boston Herald._

IN LOVE'S DOMAINS.

There are imagination and poetical expressions in the stories, and

readers will find them interesting.--_New York Sun._

The longest story. "Galeed," is a strong, nervous story, covering a

wide range, and dealing in a masterly way with some intricate questions

of what might be termed amatory psychology.--_San Francisco Chronicle._

MERZE; THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS.

We can not doubt that the author is one of the best living orators of

her sex. The book will possess a strong attraction for women.--_Chicago

Herald._

This is the story of the life of an actress, told in the graphic style

of Mrs. Ryan. It is very interesting.--_New Orleans Picayune._

FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.

RAND, McNALLY & CO., Publishers, Chicago and New York.

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

The inconsistencies in this book are as in the original.

The advertisement pages were moved to the end of the book.