As it's give' me to percieve,
 I most certin'y believe
 When a man's jest glad plum through,
 God's pleased with him, same as you.

TOWN AND COUNTRY

They's a predjudice allus 'twixt country and town
 Which I wisht in my hart wasent so.
 You take city people, jest square up and down,
 And they're mighty good people to know:
 And whare's better people a-livin', to-day,
 Than us in the country?—Yit good
 As both of us is, we're divorsed, you might say,
 And won't compermise when we could!
Now as nigh into town fer yer Pap, ef you please,
 Is the what's called the sooburbs.—Fer thare
 You'll at least ketch a whiff of the breeze and a sniff
 Of the breth of wild-flowrs ev'rywhare.
 They's room fer the childern to play, and grow, too—
 And to roll in the grass, er to climb
 Up a tree and rob nests, like they ortent to do,
 But they'll do anyhow ev'ry time!
My Son-in-law said, when he lived in the town,
 He jest natchurly pined, night and day,
 Fer a sight of the woods, er a acre of ground
 Whare the trees wasent all cleared away!
And he says to me onc't, whilse a-visitin' us
 On the farm, "It's not strange, I declare,
 That we can't coax you folks, without raisin' a fuss,
 To come to town, visitin' thare!"
And says I, "Then git back whare you sorto' belong—
 And Madaline, too,—and yer three
 Little childern," says I, "that don't know a birdsong,
 Ner a hawk from a chicky-dee-dee!
 Git back," I-says-I, "to the blue of the sky
 And the green of the fields, and the shine
 Of the sun, with a laugh in yer voice and yer eye
 As harty as Mother's and mine!"
Well—long-and-short of it,—he's compermised some—
 He's moved in the sooburbs.—And now
 They don't haf to coax, when they want us to come,
 'Cause we turn in and go anyhow!
 Fer thare—well, they's room fer the songs and purfume
 Of the grove and the old orchurd-ground,
 And they's room fer the childern out thare, and they's room
 Fer theyr Gran'pap to waller 'em round!

LINES FER ISAAC BRADWELL, OF INDANOPLIS, IND.,
COUNTY-SEAT OF MARION

[Writ on the flyleaf of a volume of the author's poems that come in one of gittin' burnt up in the great Bowen-Merrill's fire of March 17, 1890.]

Through fire and flood this book has passed.—
 Fer what?—I hardly dare to ast—
 Less'n it's still to pamper me
 With extry food fer vanity;—
 Fer, sence it's fell in hands as true
 As yourn is—and a Hoosier too,—
 I'm prouder of the book, I jing!
 Than 'fore they tried to burn the thing!

DECORATION DAY ON THE PLACE

It's lonesome—sorto' lonesome,—it's a Sund'y-day, to me,
 It 'pears-like—more'n any day I nearly ever see!—
 Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a-flutterin' in the air,
 On ev'ry Soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lilly thare.
They say, though, Decoration Days is giner'ly observed
 'Most ev'rywhares—espeshally by soldier-boys that's served.—
 But me and Mother's never went—we seldom git away,—
 In p'int o' fact, we're allus home on Decoration Day.
They say the old boys marches through the streets in colum's grand,
 A-follerin' the old war-tunes they're playin' on the band—
 And citizuns all jinin' in—and little childern, too—
 All marchin', under shelter of the old Red White and Blue.—
With roses! roses! roses!—everybody in the town!—
 And crowds o' little girls in white, jest fairly loaded down!—
 Oh! don't The Boys know it, from theyr camp acrost the hill?—
 Don't they see theyr com'ards comin' and the old flag wavin' still?
Oh! can't they hear the bugul and the rattle of the drum?—
 Ain't they no way under heavens they can rickollect us some?
 Ain't they no way we can coax 'em, through the roses, jest to say
 They know that ev'ry day on earth's theyr Decoration Day?
We've tried that—me and Mother,—whare Elias takes his rest,
 In the orchurd—in his uniform, and hands acrost his brest,
 And the flag he died fer, smilin' and a-ripplin' in the breeze
 Above his grave—and over that,—the robin in the trees!
And yit it's lonesome—lonesome!—It's a Sund'y-day, to me,
 It 'pears-like—more'n any day I nearly ever see!—
 Still, with the Stars and Stripes above, a-flutterin' in the air,
 On ev'ry Soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lilly thare.

THE TREE-TOAD

"'S cur'ous-like," said the tree-toad,
 "I've twittered fer rain all day;
 And I got up soon,
 And hollered tel noon—
 But the sun, hit blazed away,
 Tell I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole,
 Weary at hart, and sick at soul!
"Dozed away fer an hour,
 And I tackled the thing agin:
 And I sung, and sung,
 Tel I knowed my lung
 Was jest about give in;
 And then, thinks I, ef hit don't rain now,
 They's nothin' in singin', anyhow!
"Onc't in a while some farmer
 Would come a-drivin' past;
 And he'd hear my cry,
 And stop and sigh—
 Tel I jest laid back, at last,
 And I hollered rain tel I thought my th'oat
 Would bust wide open at ever' note!
"But I fetched her!—O I fetched her!—
 'Cause a little while ago,
 As I kindo' set,
 With one eye shet,
 And a-singin' soft and low,
 A voice drapped down on my fevered brain,
 A-sayin',—'Ef you'll jest hush I'll rain!'"

THE ROSSVILLE LECTUR' COURSE

[Set down from the real facts of the case that come under notice of the author whilse visitun far distunt relatives who wuz then residin' at Rossville, Mich.]

Folks up here at Rossville got up a Lectur' Course:—
 All the leadin' citizens they wuz out in force;
 Met and talked at Williamses', and 'greed to meet ag'in;
 And helt another corkus when the next reports wuz in:
 Met ag'in at Samuelses'; and met ag'in at Moore's,
 And Johnts putt the shutters up and jest barr'd the door!—
 And yit, I'll jest be dagg-don'd! ef't didn't take a week
 'Fore we'd settled whare to write to git a man to speak!
Found out whare the "Bureau" wuz; and then and thare agreed
 To strike whilse the iron's hot and foller up the lead.—
 Simp wuz Secatary; so he tuk his pen in hand,
 And ast 'em what they'd tax us fer the one on "Holy Land"—
"One of Colonel J. De-Koombs's Abelust and Best
 Lectur's," the circ'lar stated, "Give East er West!"
 Wanted fifty dollars and his kyar-fare to and from,
 And Simp wuz hence instructed fer to write him not to come.
Then we talked and jawed around another week er so,
 And writ the "Bureau" 'bout the town a-bein' sorto' slow—
 Old-fogey-like, and pore as dirt, and lackin' interprise,
 And ignornter'n any other, 'cordin' to its size:
 Tel finully the "Bureau" said they'd send a cheaper man
 Fer forty dollars, who would give "A Talk About Japan"—
 "A reg'lar Japanee hise'f," the pamphlet claimed; and so,
 Nobody knowed his languige, and of course we let him go!
Kindo' then let up a spell—but rallied onc't ag'in,
 And writ to price a feller on what's called the "violin"—
 A Swede, er Pole, er somepin'—but no matter what he wuz,
 Doc Cooper said he'd heerd him, and he wuzn't wuth a kuss!
 And then we ast fer Swingse's terms; and Cook, and Ingersoll—
 And blame! ef forty dollars looked like anything at all!
 And then Burdette, we tried fer him; and Bob he writ to say
 He wuz busy writin' ortographts and couldn't git away.
At last—along in Aprile—we signed to take this-here
 Bill Nye of Californy, 'at wuz posted to appear
 "The Comicalest Funny Man 'at Ever Jammed a Hall!"
 So we made big preperations, and swep' out the church and all!
 And night he wuz to lectur', and the neghbors all wuz thare,
 And strangers packed along the aisles 'at come from ev'rywhare,
 Committee got a telegrapht the preacher read, 'at run—
 "Got off at Rossville, Indiany, 'stid of Michigun."

WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES

In Spring, when the green gits back in the trees,
 And the sun comes out and stays,
 And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,
 And you think of yer bare-foot days;
 When you ort to work and you want to not,
 And you and yer wife agrees
 It's time to spade up the garden-lot,
 When the green gits back in the trees—
 Well! work is the least o' my idees
 When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
When the green gits back in the trees, and bees
 Is a-buzzin' aroun' ag'in
 In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please
 Old gait they bum roun' in;
 When the groun's all bald whare the hay-rick stood,
 And the crick's riz, and the breeze
 Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,
 And the green gits back in the trees,—
 I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,
 The time when the green gits back in the trees!
When the whole tail-fethers o' Wintertime
 Is all pulled out and gone!
 And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,
 And the swet it starts out on
 A feller's forred, a-gittin' down
 At the old spring on his knees—
 I kindo' like jest a-loaferin' roun'
 When the green gits back in the trees—
 Jest a-potterin' roun' as I—durn—please—
 When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

HOW IT HAPPENED

I got to thinkin' of her—both her parunts dead and gone—
 And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John
 A-livin' all alone thare in that lonesome sorto' way,
 And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev'ry day!
 I'd knowed 'em all, from childern, and theyr daddy from the time
 He settled in the neghborhood, and hadn't ary a dime
 Er dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on!—
 So I got to thinkin' of her—both her parunts dead and gone!
I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she done
 That all her sisters kep' a-gittin' married, one by one,
 And her without no chances—and the best girl of the pack—
 A' old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back!
 And Mother, too, afore she died,—she ust to jest take on,
 When none of 'em wuz left, you know, but Evaline and John,
 And jest declare to goodness 'at the young men must be bline
 To not see what a wife they'd git ef they got Evaline!
I got to thinkin' of her: In my great affliction she
 Wuz sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neghborly,—
 She'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out little Jane,
 And talk of her own mother 'at she'd never see again—
 They'd sometimes cry together—though, fer the most part, she
 Would have the child so rickonciled and happy-like 'at we
 Felt lonesomer'n ever when she'd putt her bonnet on
 And say she'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John!
I got to thinkin' of her, as I say,—and more and more
 I'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,—
 Her parunts both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone
 And married off, and her a-livin' thare alone with John—
 You might say jest a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life
 Fer a man 'at hadn't pride enugh to git hisse'f a wife—
 'Less some one married Evaline and packed her off some day!—
 So I got to thinkin' of her—and—It happened thataway.

A DOS'T O' BLUES

I' got no patience with blues at all!
 And I ust to kindo' talk
 Aginst 'em, and claim, tel along last Fall,
 They wuz none in the fambly stock;
 But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy,
 That visitud us last year,
 He kindo' convinct me differunt
 Whilse he wuz a-stayin' here.
From ev'ry-which-way that blues is from,
 They'd pester him ev'ry-ways;
 They'd come to him in the night, and come
 On Sundys, and rainy days;
 They'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time,
 And in harvest, and airly Fall,—
 But a dos't o' blues in the Wintertime,
 He 'lowed, wuz the worst of all!
Said "All diseases that ever he had—
 The mumps, er the rhumatiz—
 Er ev'ry-other-day-aigger—bad
 As ever the blame thing is!—
 Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck,
 Er a felon on his thumb,—
 But you keep the blues away from him,
 And all o' the rest could come!"
And he'd moan, "They's nary a leaf below!
 Ner a spear o' grass in sight!
 And the whole woodpile's clean under snow!
 And the days is dark as night!
 You can't go out—ner you can't stay in—
 Lay down—stand up—ner set!"
 And a tetch o' regular tyfoid-blues
 Would double him jest clean shet!
I writ his parunts a postal-kyard
 He could stay tel Springtime come;
 And Aprile—first, as I rickollect—
 Wuz the day we shipped him home!
 Most o' his relatives, sence then,
 Has eether give up, er quit,
 Er jest died off; but I understand
 He's the same old color yit!

THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL

This is "The old Home by the Mill"—fer we still call it so,
 Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago.
 The old home, though, and the old folks—the old spring, and a few
 Old cattails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!
Here, Marg'et!—fetch the man a tin to drink out of! Our spring
 Keeps kindo'-sorto' cavin' in, but don't "taste" anything!
 She's kindo' agein', Marg'et is—"the old process"—like me,
 All ham-stringed up with rhumatiz, and on in seventy-three.
Jest me and Marg'et lives alone here—like in long ago;
 The childern all putt off and gone, and married, don't you know?
 One's millin' 'way out West somewhare; two other miller-boys
 In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise.
 The oldest gyrl—the first that went—married and died right here;
 The next lives in Winn's Settlement—fer purt'-nigh thirty year!
 And youngest one—was allus fer the old home here—but no!—
 Her man turns in and he packs her 'way off to Idyho!
I don't miss them like Marg'et does—'cause I got her, you see;
 And when she pines for them—that's 'cause she's only jest got me!
 I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all.—But talkin' sense, I'll say,
 When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed then t'other way!
 I hain't so favor'ble impressed 'bout dyin'; but ef I
 Found I was only second-best when us two come to die,
 I'd 'dopt the "new process" in full, ef Marg'et died, you see,—
 I'd jest crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over me!

THE WAY IT WUZ

Las' July—and, I persume,
 'Bout as hot
 As the old Gran'-Jury room
 Whare they sot!—
 Fight 'twixt Mike and Dock McGreff....
 'Pears to me jest like as ef
 I'd a-dremp' the whole blame thing—
 Allus ha'nts me roun' the gizzard
 When they's nightmares on the wing
 And a feller's blood's jes' friz!
 Seed the row from A to Izzard—
 'Cause I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
 As me and you is!
Tell you the way it wuz—
 And I don't want to see,
 Like some fellers does,
 When they's goern to be
 Any kind o' fuss—
 On'y makes a rumpus wuss
 Fer to interfere
 When theyr dander's riz—
 Might as lif to cheer!
 But I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
 As me and you is!
I wuz kindo' strayin'
 Past the blame saloon—
 Heerd some fiddler playin'
 That old "Hee-cup tune!"
 I'd stopped-like, you know,
 Fer a minit er so,
 And wuz jest about
 Settin' down, when—Jeemses-whizz!—
 Whole durn winder-sash fell out!
 And thare laid Dock McGreff, and Mike
 A-straddlin' him, all bloody-like,
 And both a-gittin' down to biz!—
 And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
 As me and you is!
I wuz the on'y man aroun'—
 (Durn old-fogey town!
 'Peared more like, to me,
 Sund'y than Saturd'y!)
 Dog come 'crost the road
 And tuk a smell
 And putt right back:
 Mishler driv by 'ith a load
 O' cantalo'pes he couldn't sell—
 Too mad, 'i jack!
 To even ast
 What wuz up, as he went past!
 Weather most outrageous hot!—
 Fairly hear it sizz
 Roun' Dock and Mike—tel Dock he shot,—
 And Mike he slacked that grip o' his
 And fell, all spraddled out. Dock riz
 'Bout half up, a spittin' red,
 And shuck his head....
 And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
 As me and you is!
And Dock he says,
 A-whisperin'-like,—
 "It hain't no use
 A-tryin'!—Mike
 He's jest ripped my daylights loose!—
 Git that blame-don fiddler to
 Let up, and come out here—You
 Got some burryin' to do,—
 Mike makes one, and, I expects,
 'Bout ten seconds, I'll make two!"
 And he drapped back, whare he'd riz,
 'Crost Mike's body, black and blue,
 Like a great big letter X!—
 And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
 As me and you is!

PAP'S OLD SAYIN'

Pap had one old-fashioned sayin'
 That I'll never quite fergit—
 And they's seven growed-up childern
 Of us rickollects it yit!—
 Settin' round the dinner-table,
 Talkin' 'bout our friends, perhaps,
 Er abusin' of our neghbors,
 I kin hear them words o' Pap's—
 "Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"
Pap he'd never argy with us,
 Ner cut any subject short
 Whilse we all kep' clear o' gossip,
 And wuz actin' as we ort:
 But ef we'd git out o' order—
 Like sometimes a fambly is,—
 Faultin' folks, er one another,
 Then we'd hear that voice o' his—
 "Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"
Wuz no hand hisse'f at talkin'—
 Never hadn't much to say,—
 Only, as I said, pervidin'
 When we'd rile him thataway:
 Then he'd allus lose his temper
 Spite o' fate, and jerk his head
 And slam down his caseknife vicious'
 Whilse he glared around and said—
 "Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"
Mind last time 'at Pap was ailin'
 With a misery in his side,
 And had hobbled in the kitchen—
 Jest the day before he died,—
 Laury Jane she ups and tells him,
 "Pap, you're pale as pale kin be—
 Hain't ye 'feard them-air cowcumbers
 Hain't good fer ye?" And says he,
 "Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"
Well! I've saw a-many a sorrow,—
 Forty year', through thick and thin;
 I've got best,—and I've got wors'ted,
 Time and time and time ag'in!—
 But I've met a-many a trouble
 That I hain't run onto twice,
 Haltin'-like and thinkin' over
 Them-air words o' Pap's advice:
 "Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"

ROMANCIN'

I' b'en a-kindo' "musin'," as the feller says, and I'm
 About o' the conclusion that they hain't no better time,
 When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust to know
 When we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto' solum-like and low!
You git my idy, do you?—Little tads, you understand—
 Jest a-wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y wuz a man.—
 Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day,
 And fergettin' all that's in it, wishin' jest the other way!
I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrate
 Whare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate,—
 But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue,
 And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I do!—
I jest gee-haw the hosses, and onhook the swingle-tree,
 Whare the hazel-bushes tosses down theyr shadders over me;
 And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, and set
 Jest a-thinkin' here, i gravy! tel my eyes is wringin'-wet!
Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the presunt, I kin see—
 Kindo' like my sight wuz double—all the things that ust to be;
 And the flutter o' the robin and the teeter o' the wren
 Sets the willer-branches bobbin' "howdy-do" thum Now to Then!
The deadnin' and the thicket's jest a-bilin' full of June,
 Thum the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's tune;
 And the catbird in the bottom, and the sapsuck on the snag,
 Seems ef they can't—od-rot 'em!—jest do nothin' else but brag!
They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay,
 And that sassy little critter jest a-peckin' all the day;
 They's music in the "flicker," and they's music in the thrush,
 And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the brush!
They's music all around me!—And I go back, in a dream
 Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep,—and in the stream
 That ust to split the medder whare the dandylions growed,
 I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the road.
Then's when I' b'en a-fishin'!—And they's other fellers, too,
 With theyr hick'ry-poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and a few
 Little "shiners" on our stringers, with theyr tails tip-toein' bloom,
 As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy jurney home.
I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out,
 With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout"!—
 I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam,
 And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern o' the dam.
I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill,
 And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growlin' still;
 And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe,
 And jest git in and row it like the miller ust to do.
W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortul plane
 I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane;
 And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n "Money-musk"
 Fer the lightnin' bugs a-blinkin' and a-dancin' in the dusk.
And when I've kep' on "musin'," as the feller says, tel I'm
 Firm-fixed in the conclusion that they hain't no better time,
 When you come to cipher on it, than the old times,—I de-clare
 I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it!" jest as soft as any prayer!

AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY

AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY

William Williams his name was—er so he said;—Bill Williams they called him, and them 'at knowed him best called him Bill Bills.

The first I seed o' Bills was about two weeks after he got here. The Settlement wasn't nothin' but a baby in them days, fer I mind 'at old Ezry Sturgiss had jist got his saw and griss-mill a-goin', and Bills had come along and claimed to know all about millin', and got a job with him; and millers in them times was wanted worse'n congerssmen, and I reckon got better wages; fer afore Ezry built, there wasn't a dust o' meal er flour to be had short o' the White Water, better'n sixty mil'd from here, the way we had to fetch it. And they used to come to Ezry's fer their grindin' as fur as that; and one feller I knowed to come from what used to be the old South Fork, over eighty mil'd from here, and in the wettest, rainyest weather; and mud! Law!

Well, this-here Bills was a-workin' fer Ezry at the time—part the time a-grindin', and part the time a-lookin' after the sawin', and gittin' out timber and the like. Bills was a queer-lookin' feller, shore! About as tall a build man as Tom Carter—but of course you don't know nothin' o' Tom Carter. A great big hulk of a feller, Tom was; and as fur back as Fifty-eight used to make his brags that he could cut and putt up his seven cord a day.

Well, what give Bills this queer look, as I was a-goin' on to say, was a great big ugly scar a-runnin' from the corner o' one eye clean down his face and neck, and I don't know how fur down his breast—awful lookin'; and he never shaved, and there wasn't a hair a-growin' in that scar, and it looked like a—some kind o' pizen snake er somepin' a-crawlin' in the grass and weeds. I never seed sich a' out-and-out ornry-lookin' chap, and I'll never fergit the first time I set eyes on him.

Steve and me—Steve was my youngest brother; Steve's be'n in Californy now fer, le' me see,—well, anyways, I rickon, over thirty year.—Steve was a-drivin' the team at the time—I allus let Steve drive; 'peared like Steve was made a-purpose fer hosses. The beatin'est hand with hosses 'at ever you did see and-I-know! W'y, a hoss, after he got kindo' used to Steve a-handlin' of him, would do anything fer him! And I've knowed that boy to swap fer hosses 'at couldn't hardly make a shadder; and, afore you knowed it, Steve would have 'em a-cavortin' around a-lookin' as peert and fat and slick!

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

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

Well, on the way over I noticed Steve was mighty quiet-like, but I didn't think nothin' of it, tel at last he says, says he, "Ben, I want you to kindo' keep an eye out fer Ezry's new hand"—meanin' Bills. And then I kindo' suspicioned somepin' o' nother was up betwixt 'em; and shore enough there was, as I found out afore the day was over.

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

In the first place, he come in a suspicious sorto' way: Him and his wife, and a little baby on'y a few months old, come through in a kivvered wagon with a fambly a-goin' som'ers in The Illinoy; and they stopped at the mill, fer some meal er somepin', and Bills got to talkin' with Ezry 'bout millin', and one thing o' nother, and said he was expeerenced some 'bout a mill hisse'f, and told Ezry ef he'd give him work he'd stop; said his wife and baby wasn't strong enough to stand trav'lin', and ef Ezry'd give him work he was ready to lick into it then and there; said his woman could pay her board by sewin' and the like, tel they got ahead a little; and then, ef he liked the neighberhood, he said he'd as lif settle there as anywheres; he was huntin' a home, he said, and the outlook kindo' struck him, and his woman railly needed rest, and wasn't strong enough to go much furder. And old Ezry kindo' tuk pity on the feller; and havin' house-room to spare, and railly in need of a good hand at the mill, he said all right; and so the feller stopped and the wagon druv ahead and left 'em; and they didn't have no things ner nothin'—not even a cyarpet-satchel, ner a stitch o' clothes, on'y what they had on their backs. And I think it was the third er fourth day after Bills stopped 'at he whirped Tomps Burk, the bully o' here them days, tel you wouldn't a-knowed him!

Well, I'd heerd o' this, and the facts is I'd made up my mind 'at Bills was a bad stick, and the place wasn't none the better fer his bein' here. But, as I was a-goin' on to say,—as Steve and me driv up to the mill, I ketched sight o' Bills the first thing, a-lookin' out o' where some boards was knocked off, jist over the worter-wheel; and he knowed Steve—I could see that by his face; and he hollered somepin', too, but what it was I couldn't jist make out, fer the noise o' the wheel; but he looked to me as ef he'd hollered somepin' mean a-purpose so's Steve wouldn't hear it, and he'd have the consolation o' knowin' 'at he'd called Steve some ornry name 'thout givin' him a chance to take it up. Steve was allus quiet-like, but ef you raised his dander onc't—and you could do that 'thout much trouble, callin' him names er somepin', particular' anything 'bout his mother. Steve loved his mother—allus loved his mother, and would fight fer her at the drap o' the hat. And he was her favo-rite—allus a-talkin' o' "her boy, Steven," as she used to call him, and so proud of him, and so keerful of him allus, when he'd be sick or anything; nuss him like a baby, she would.

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

They was jist a-stoppin' fer dinner. Most of 'em brought ther dinners—lived so fur away, you know. The two Smith boys lived on what used to be the old Warrick farm, five er six mild, anyhow, from where the mill stood. Great stout fellers, they was; and little Jake, the father of 'em, wasn't no man at all—not much bigger'n you, I rickon. Le' me see, now:—There was Tomps Burk, Wade Elwood, and Joe and Ben Carter; and Wesley Morris, John Coke—wiry little cuss, he was, afore he got his leg sawed off;—and Ezry, and—Well, I don't jist mind all the boys—'s a long time ago, and I never was much of a hand fer names.—Now, some folks'll hear a name and never fergit it, but I can't boast of a good rickollection, 'specially o' names; and fer the last thirty year my mem'ry's be'n a-failin' me, ever sence a spell o' fever 'at I brought on onc't—fever and rheumatiz together:—You see, I went a-sainin' with a passel o' the boys, fool-like, and let my clothes freeze on me a-comin' home. W'y, my breeches was like stove-pipes when I pulled 'em off. 'Ll, ef I didn't pay fer that spree! Rheumatiz got a holt o' me and helt me there flat o' my back fer eight weeks, and couldn't move hand er foot 'thout a-hollerin' like a' Injun. And I'd a-be'n there yit, I rickon, ef it hadn't a-be'n fer a' old hoss-doctor, name o' Jones; and he gits a lot o' sod and steeps it in hot whiskey and pops it on me,—and I'll be-switched-to-death ef it didn't cuore me up, fer all I laughed and told him I'd better take the whiskey in'ardly and let him keep the grass fer his doctor bill. But that's nuther here ner there!—As I was a-sayin' 'bout the mill: As I went in, the boys had stopped work and was a-gittin' down their dinners, and Bills amongst 'em, and old Ezry a-chattin' away—great hand, he was, fer his joke, and allus a-cuttin' up and a-gittin' off his odd-come-shorts on the boys. And that day he was in particular good humor. He'd brought some liquor down fer the boys, and he'd be'n drinkin' a little hisse'f, enough to feel it. He didn't drink much—that is to say, he didn't git drunk adzactly; but he tuk his dram, you understand. You see, they made their own whiskey in them days, and it wasn't nothin' like the bilin' stuff you git now. Old Ezry had a little still, and allus made his own whiskey, enough fer fambly use, and jist as puore as worter, and as harmless. But now-a-days the liquor you git's rank pizen. They say they putt tobacker in it, and strychnine, and the Lord knows what; ner I never knowed why, 'less it was to give it a richer-lookin' flavor, like. Well, Ezry he'd brought up a jug, and the boys had be'n a-takin' it purty free; I seed that as quick as I went in. And old Ezry called out to me to come and take some, the first thing. Told him I didn't b'lieve I keered about it; but nothin' would do but I must take a drink with the boys; and I was tired anyhow and I thought a little wouldn't hurt; so I takes a swig; and as I set the jug down Bills spoke up and says, "You're a stranger to me, and I'm a stranger to you, but I rickon we can drink to our better acquaintance,"—er somepin' to that amount, and poured out another snifter in a gourd he'd be'n a-drinkin' coffee in, and handed it to me. Well, I couldn't well refuse, of course; so I says "Here's to us," and drunk her down—mighty nigh a half pint, I rickon. Now, I railly didn't want it, but, as I tell you, I was obleeged to take it, and I downed her at a swaller and never batted an eye, fer, to tell the fact about it, I liked the taste o' liquor; and I do yit, on'y I know when I' got enough. Jist then I didn't want to drink on account o' Steve. Steve couldn't abide liquor in no shape ner form—fer medicine ner nothin', and I've allus thought it was his mother's doin's.

Now, a few months afore this I'd be'n to Vincennes, and I was jist a-tellin' Ezry what they was a-astin' fer their liquor there—fer I'd fetched a couple o' gallon home with me 'at I'd paid six bits fer, and pore liquor at that: And I was a-tellin' about it, and old Ezry was a-sayin' what an oudacious figger that was, and how he could make money a-sellin' it fer half that price, and was a-goin' on a-braggin' about his liquor—and it was a good article—fer new whiskey,—and jist then Steve comes in, jist as Bills was a-sayin' 'at a man 'at wouldn't drink that whiskey wasn't no man at all! So, of course, when they ast Steve to take some and he told 'em no, 'at he was much obleeged, Bills was kindo' tuk down, you understand, and had to say somepin'; and says he, "I reckon you ain't no better'n the rest of us, and we've be'n a-drinkin' of it." But Steve didn't let on like he noticed Bills at all, and retch and shuk hands with the other boys and ast how they was all a-comin' on.

I seed Bills was riled, and more'n likely wanted trouble; and shore enough, he went on to say, kindo snarlin'-like, 'at "he'd knowed o' men in his day 'at had be'n licked fer refusin' to drink when their betters ast em"; and said furder 'at "a lickin' wasn't none too good fer anybody 'at would refuse liquor like that o' Ezry's, and in his own house too"—er buildin', ruther. Ezry shuk his head at him, but I seed 'at Bills was bound fer a quarrel, and I winks at Steve, as much as to say, "Don't you let him bully you; you'll find your brother here to see you have fair play!" I was a-feelin' my oats some about then, and Steve seed I was, and looked so sorry-like, and like his mother, 'at I jist thought, "I kin fight fer you, and die fer you, 'cause you're wuth it!"—And I didn't someway feel like it would amount to much ef I did die er git killed er somepin' on his account. I seed Steve was mighty white around the mouth, and his eyes was a-glitterin' like a snake's; yit Bills didn't seem to take warnin', but went on to say 'at "he'd knowed boys 'at loved their mothers so well they couldn't drink nothin' stronger'n milk."—And then you'd ort o' seed Steve's coat fly off, jist like it wanted to git out of his way and give the boy room accordin' to his stren'th. I seed Bills grab a piece o' scantlin' jist in time to ketch his arm as he struck at Steve,—for Steve was a-comin' fer him dangerss. But they'd ketched Steve from behind jist then; and Bills turned fer me. I seed him draw back, and I seed Steve a-scufflin' to ketch his arm; but he didn't reach it quite in time to do me no good. It must a-come awful suddent. The first I rickollect was a roarin' and a buzzin' in my ears, and when I kindo' come a little better to, and crawled up and peeked over the saw-log I was a-layin' the other side of, I seed a couple clinched and a-rollin' over and over and a-makin' the chips and saw-dust fly, now I tell you! Bills and Steve it was—head and tail, tooth and toe-nail, and a-bleedin' like good fellers! I seed a gash o' some kind in Bills's head, and Steve was purty well tuckered and a-pantin' like a lizard; and I made a rush in, and one o' the Carter boys grabbed me and told me to jist keep cool—'at Steve didn't need no he'p, and they might need me to keep Bills's friends off ef they made a rush. By this time Steve had whirlt Bills, and was a-jist a-gittin' in a fair way to finish him up in good style, when Wesley Morris run in—I seed him do it—run in, and afore we could ketch him he struck Steve a deadener in the butt o' the ear and knocked him as limber as a rag. And then Bills whirlt Steve and got him by the th'oat, and Ben Carter and me and old Ezry closed in.—Carter tackled Morris, and Ezry and me grabs Bills—and as old Ezry grabbed him to pull him off, Bills kindo' give him a side swipe o' some kind and knocked him—I don't know how fur! And jist then Carter and Morris come a-scufflin' back'ards right amongst us, and Carter th'owed him right acrost Bills and Steve. Well, it ain't fair, and I don't like to tell it, but I seed it was the last chance and I tuk advantage of it:—As Wesley and Ben fell it pulled Bills down in a kindo' twist, don't you understand, so's he couldn't he'p hisse'f, yit still a-clinchin' Steve by the th'oat, and him black in the face.—Well, as they fell I grabbed up a little hick'ry limb, not bigger'n my two thumbs, and I struck Bills a little tap kindo' over the back of his head like, and, blame me! ef he didn't keel over like a stuck pig—and not any too soon, nuther,—fer he had Steve's chunk as nigh putt out as you ever seed a man's, to come to agin. But he was up th'reckly and ready to a-went at it ef Bills could a-come to the scratch; but Mister Bills he wasn't in no fix to try it over! After a-waitin' a while fer him to come to, and him not a-comin' to, we concluded 'at we'd better he'p him, maybe. And we worked with him, and warshed him, and drenched him with whiskey, but it 'peared like it wasn't no use.—He jist laid there with his eyes about half shet, and a-breathin' like a hoss when he's bad sceart; and I'll be dad-limbed ef I don't believe he'd a-died on our hands ef it hadn't a-happened old Doc Zions come a-ridin' past on his way home from the Murdock neighberhood, where they was a-havin' sich a time with the milk-sick. And he examined Bills, and had him laid on a plank and carried down to the house—'bout a mil'd, I reckon, from the mill. Looked kindo' cur'ous to see Steve a-he'ppin' pack the feller, after his nearly chokin' him to death. Oh, it was a bloody fight, I tell you! W'y, they wasn't a man in the mill 'at didn't have a black eye er somepin'; and old Ezry, where Bills hit him, had his nose broke, and was as bloody as a butcher. And you'd ort a-seed the women-folks when our p'session come a-bringin' Bills in. I never seed anybody take on like Bills's woman.—It was distressin'; it was, indeed.—Went into hysterics, she did; and we thought fer a while she'd gone plum crazy, fer she cried so pitiful over him, and called him "Charley! Charley!" 'stid of his right name, and went on, clean out of her head, tel she finally jist fainted clean away.

Fer three weeks Bills laid betwixt life and death, and that woman set by him night and day, and tended him as patient as a' angel—and she was a' angel, too; and he'd a-never lived to bother nobody agin ef it hadn't a-be'n fer Annie, as he called her. Zions said there was a 'brazure of the—some kind o' p'tuber'nce, and ef he'd a-be'n struck jist a quarter of a' inch below—jist a quarter of a' inch—he'd a be'n a dead man. And I've sence wished—not 'at I want the life of a human bein' to account fer—on'y,—well, no odds—I've sence wished 'at I had a-hit him jist a quarter of a' inch below!

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

Mother tuk on awful about it. You see, she thought she'd be'n the whole blame of it, 'cause the Sunday afore that her and Steve had went to meetin', and they got there late, and the house was crowded, and Steve had ast Bills to give up his seat to Mother, and he wouldn't do it, and said somepin' 'at disturbed the prayin', and the preacher prayed 'at the feller 'at was a-makin' the disturbance might be forgive'; and that riled Bills so he got up and left, and hung around till it broke up, so's he could git a chance at Steve to pick a fight. And he did try it, and dared Steve and double-dared him fer a fight, but Mother begged so hard 'at she kep' him out of it. Steve said 'at he'd a-told me all about it on the way to Ezry's on'y he'd promised Mother, you know, not to say nothin' to me.

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

Well, he said he wasn't jist easy, but maybe he'd come out all right; said he couldn't turn the feller off—he hadn't the heart to do that, with that-air pore, dilicate woman o' his, and the baby. And then he went on to tell what a smart sorto' woman Bills's wife was,—one of the nicest little women he'd ever laid eyes on, said she was; said she was the kindest thing, and the sweetest-tempered, and all—and the handiest woman 'bout the house, and 'bout sewin', and cookin', and the like, and all kinds o' housework; and so good to the childern, and all; and how they all got along so well; and how proud she was of her baby, and allus a-goin' on about it and a-cryin' over it and a-carryin' on, and wouldn't leave it out of her sight a minute. And Ezry said 'at she could write so purty, and made sich purty pictur's fer the childern; and how they all liked her better'n their own mother. And, sence she'd moved, he said it seemed so lonesome-like 'thout her about the house—like they'd lost one o' their own fambly; said they didn't git to see her much now, on'y sometimes, when her man would be at work, she'd run over fer a while, and kiss all the childern and women-folks about the place,—the greatest hand fer the childern, she was; tell 'em all sorts o' little stories, you know, and sing fer 'em; said 'at she could sing so sweet-like, 'at time and time agin she'd break clean down in some song o' nother, and her voice would trimble so mournful-like 'at you'd find yourse'f a-cryin' afore you knowed it. And she used to coax Ezry's woman to let her take the childern home with her; and they used to allus want to go, tel Bills come onc't while they was there, and they said he got to jawin' her fer a-makin' some to-do over the baby, and swore at her and tuk it away from her and whirped it fer cryin', and she cried and told him to whirp her and not little Annie, and he said that was jist what he was a-doin'. And the childern was allus afeard to go there any more after that—'feard he'd come home and whirp little Annie agin. Ezry said he jist done that to skeer 'em away—'cause he didn't want a passel o' childern a-whoopin' and a-howlin' and a-trackin' round the house all the time.

But, shore enough, Bills, after the fight, 'peared like he'd settled down, and went 'bout his business so stiddy-like, and worked so well, the neighbers begin to think he was all right after all, and railly some got to likin' him. But fer me,—well, I was a leetle slow to argy 'at the feller wasn't "a-possumin'." But the next time I went over to the mill—and Steve went with me—old Ezry come and met us, and said 'at Bills didn't have no hard feelin's ef we didn't and 'at he wanted us to fergive him; said 'at Bills wanted him to tell us 'at he was sorry the way he'd acted, and wanted us to fergive him. Well, I looked at Ezry, and we both looked at him, jist perfectly tuk back—the idee o' Bills a-wantin' anybody to fergive him! And says I, "Ezry, what in the name o' common sense do you mean?" And says he, "I mean jist what I say; Bills jined meetin' last night and had 'em all a-prayin' fer him; and we all had a glorious time," says old Ezry; "and his woman was there and jined, too, and prayed and shouted and tuk on to beat all; and Bills got up and spoke and give in his experience, and said he'd be'n a bad man, but, glory to God, them times was past and gone; said 'at he wanted all of 'em to pray fer him, and he wanted to prove faithful, and wanted all his inemies to fergive him; and prayed 'at you and Steve and your folks would fergive him, and ever'body 'at he ever wronged anyway." And old Ezry was a-goin' on, and his eyes a-sparklin', and a-rubbin' his hands, he was so excited and tickled over it, 'at Steve and me we jist stood there a-gawkin' like, tel Bills hisse'f come up and retch out one hand to Steve and one to me; and Steve shuk with him kindo' oneasy-like, and I—well, sir, I never felt cur'oser in my born days than I did that minute. The cold chills crep' over me, and I shuk as ef I had the agur, and I folded my hands behind me and I looked that feller square in the eye, and I tried to speak three or four times afore I could make it, and when I did, my voice wasn't natchurl—sounded like a feller a-whisperin' through a tin horn er somepin'.—And I says, says I, "You're a liar," slow and delibert. That was all. His eyes blazed a minute, and drapped; and he turned, 'thout a word, and walked off. And Ezry says, "He's in airnest; I know he's in airnest, er he'd a-never a-tuk that!" And so he went on, tel finally Steve jined in, and betwixt 'em they p'suaded me 'at I was in the wrong and the best thing to do was to make it all up, which I finally did. And Bills said 'at he'd a-never a-felt jist right 'thout my friendship, fer he'd wronged me, he said, and he'd wronged Steve and Mother, too, and he wanted a chance, he said, o' makin' things straight agin.

Well, a-goin' home, I don't think Steve and me talked o' nothin' else but Bills—how airnest the feller acted 'bout it, and how, ef he wasn't in airnest, he'd a-never a-swallered that "lie," you see. That's what walked my log, fer he could a-jist as easy a-knocked me higher'n Kilgore's kite as he could to walk away 'thout a-doin' of it.

Mother was awful tickled when she heerd about it, fer she'd had an idee 'at we'd have trouble afore we got back, and a-gitten home safe, and a-bringin' the news 'bout Bills a-jinin' church and all, tickled her so 'at she mighty nigh shouted fer joy. You see, Mother was a' old church-member all her life; and I don't think she ever missed a sermont er a prayer-meetin' 'at she could possibly git to—rain er shine, wet er dry. When they was a meetin' of any kind a-goin' on, go she would, and nothin' short o' sickness in the fambly, er knowin' nothin' of it, would stop her! And clean up to her dyin' day she was a God-fearin' and consistent Christian ef they ever was one. I mind now when she was tuk with her last spell and laid bedfast fer eighteen months, she used to tell the preacher, when he'd come to see her and pray and go on, 'at she could die happy ef she could on'y be with 'em all agin in their love-feasts and revivals. She was purty low then, and had be'n a-failin' fast fer a day er two; and that day they'd be'n a-holdin' service at the house. It was her request, you know, and the neighbers had congergated and was a-prayin' and a-singin' her favorite hymns—one in p'tickler, "God moves in a myster'ous way his wunders to p'form," and 'bout his "Walkin' on the sea and a-ridin' of the storm."—Well, anyway, they'd be'n a-singin' that hymn fer her—she used to sing that'n so much, I rickollect as fur back as I kin remember; and I mind how it used to make me feel so lonesome-like and solemn, don't you know,—when I'd be a-knockin' round the place along o' evenings, and she'd be a-milkin', and I'd hear her, at my feedin', way off by myse'f, and it allus somehow made me feel like a feller'd ort 'o try and live as nigh right as the law allows, and that's about my doctern yit. Well, as I was a-goin' on to say, they'd jist finished that old hymn, and Granny Lowry was jist a-goin' to lead in prayer, when I noticed Mother kindo' tried to turn herse'f in bed, and smiled so weak and faint-like, and looked at me, with her lips a-kindo' movin'; and I thought maybe she wanted another dos't of her syrup 'at Ezry's woman had fixed up fer her, and I kindo' stooped down over her and ast her ef she wanted anything. "Yes," she says, and nodded, and her voice sounded so low and solemn and so fur-away-like 'at I knowed she'd never take no more medicine on this airth. And I tried to ast her what it was she wanted, but I couldn't say nothin'; my throat hurt me, and I felt the warm tears a-boolgin' up, and her kind old face a-glimmerin' away so pale-like afore my eyes, and still a-smilin' up so lovin' and forgivin' and so good 'at it made me think so fur back in the past I seemed to be a little boy agin; and seemed like her thin gray hair was brown and a-shinin' in the sun as it used to do when she helt me on her shoulder in the open door, when Father was a-livin' and we used to go to meet him at the bars; seemed like her face was young agin, and a-smilin' like it allus used to be, and her eyes as full o' hope and happiness as afore they ever looked on grief er ever shed a tear. And I thought of all the trouble they had saw on my account, and of all the lovin' words her lips had said, and of all the thousand things her pore old hands had done fer me 'at I never even thanked her fer; and how I loved her better'n all the world besides, and would be so lonesome ef she went away.—Lord! I can't tell you what I didn't think and feel and see. And I knelt down by her, and she whispered then fer Steven, and he come, and we kissed her—and she died—a-smilin' like a child—jist like a child.

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

Where was I? Oh, yes, I rickollect;—about Bills a-jinin' church. Well, sir, they wasn't a better-actin' feller and more religious-like in all the neighberhood. Spoke in meetin's, he did, and tuk a' active part in all religious doin's, and, in fact, was jist as square a man, appearantly, as the preacher hisse'f. And about six er eight weeks after he'd jined, they got up another revival, and things run high. They was a big excitement, and ever'body was a'tendin' from fur and near. Bills and Ezry got the mill-hands to go, and didn't talk o' nothin' but religion. People thought awhile 'at old Ezry'd turn preacher, he got so interested 'bout church matters. He was easy excited 'bout anything; and when he went into a thing it was in dead airnest, shore!—"jist flew off the handle," as I heerd a comical feller git off onc't. And him and Bills was up and at it ever' night—prayin' and shoutin' at the top o' their voice. Them railly did seem like good times—when ever'body jined together, and prayed and shouted hosanner, and danced around together, and hugged each other like they was so full o' glory they jist couldn't he'p theirse'v's!—That's the reason I jined; it looked so kindo' whole-souled-like and good, you understand. But law! I didn't hold out—on'y fer a little while, and no wunder!

Well, about them times Bills was tuk down with the agur; first got to chillin' ever'-other-day, then ever' day, and harder and harder, tel sometimes he'd be obleeged to stay away from meetin' on account of it. And onc't I was at meetin' when he told about it, and how when he couldn't be with 'em he allus prayed at home, and he said 'at he believed his prayers was answered, fer onc't he'd prayed fer a new outpourin' of the Holy Sperit, and that very night they was three new jiners. And another time he said 'at he'd prayed 'at Wesley Morris would jine, and lo and behold you! he did jine, and the very night 'at he prayed he would.

Well, the night I'm a-speakin' of he'd had a chill the day afore and couldn't go that night, and was in bed when Ezry druv past fer him; said he'd like to go, but had a high fever and couldn't. And then Ezry's woman ast him ef he was too sick to spare Annie; and he said no, they could take her and the baby: and told her to fix his medicine so's he could reach it 'thout gittin' out o' bed, and he'd git along 'thout her. And so she tuk the baby and went along with Ezry and his folks.

I was at meetin' that night and rickollect 'em comin' in. Annie got a seat jist behind me—Steve give her his'n and stood up; and I rickollect a-astin' her how Bills was a-gittin' along with the agur; and little Annie, the baby, kep' a-pullin' my hair and a-crowin' tel finally she went to sleep; and Steve ast her mother to let him hold her—cutest little thing you ever laid eyes on, and the very pictur' of her mother.

Old Daddy Barker preached that night, and a mighty good sermont. His text, ef I rickollect right, was "workin' out your own salvation"; and when I listen to preachers nowadays in their big churches and their fine pulpits, I allus think o' Daddy Barker, and kindo' some way wisht the old times could come agin, with the old log meetin'-house with its puncheon-floor, and the chinkin' in the walls, and old Daddy Barker in the pulpit. He'd make you feel 'at the Lord could make Hisse'f at home there, and find jist as abundant comfort in the old log house as He could in any of your fine-furnished churches 'at you can't set down in 'thout payin' fer the privilege, like it was a theatre.

Ezry had his two little girls jine that night, and I rickollect the preacher made sich a purty prayer about the Saviour a-cotin' from the Bible 'bout "Suffer little childern to come unto Me"—and all; and talked so purty 'bout the jedgment day, and mothers a-meetin' their little ones there—and all; and went on tel they wasn't a dry eye in the house—And jist as he was a-windin' up, Abe Riggers stuck his head in at the door and hollered "Fire!" loud as he could yell. We all rushed out, a-thinkin' it was the meetin'-house; but he hollered it was the mill; and shore enough, away off to the south'ards we could see the light acrost the woods, and see the blaze a-lickin' up above the trees. I seed old Ezry as he come a-scufflin' through the crowd; and we putt out together fer it. Well, it was two mil'd to the mill, but by the time we'd half-way got there, we could tell it wasn't the mill a-burnin', 'at the fire was furder to the left, and that was Ezry's house; and by the time we got there it wasn't much use. We pitched into the household goods, and got out the beddin', and the furnitur' and cheers, and the like o' that; saved the clock and a bedstid, and got the bureau purt' nigh out when they hollered to us 'at the roof was a-cavin' in, and we had to leave it; well, we'd tuk the drawers out, all but the big one, and that was locked; and it and all in it went with the buildin'; and that was a big loss: All the money 'at Ezry was a-layin' by was in that-air drawer, and a lot o' keepsakes and trinkets 'at Ezry's woman said she wouldn't a-parted with fer the world and all.