Chapter I: The Ideal Home

After the close of the war, Colonel Payne, like all other good soldiers, metaphorically beat his sword into a plough-share. Literally, and in fact, he hung up his sword and bought a farm. In selecting a country home he took no note of its human conditions—of men, women and society; he looked to the land for itself—for its use, its beauty, and its restful solitude. The saddle and the camp had taught him where to go, and there he went. His purchase was the Brookdale farm, an old Southern plantation, in the Fairview valley, among the Ozark [M]ountains. Thither he removed his family, with the first suggestions of spring thrown out in bursting leaf-buds, and in the merry whistle of the cardinal grossbeak.

From the railway station, a hundred miles south of the city, they—the colonel and his family—drove over the “big road,” turned down a narrow lane, and followed a wild and serpentine track towards the plantation house. Glimpses of an open space and a habitation beyond slipped through the glades of timber, until by a sudden turn in their course, a full view of Brookdale was disclosed, sleeping like a babe in the lap of nursing mountains. Skirted by primitive woods, and environed by circling hills, this dale embraced a diversity of rolling surface and of tree-clusters, and a winding, playful brook, all of which contributed to a landscape of uncommon beauty. In the distance rose the iron cone of a mountain1 whose slopes had been swept by the noise of battles2 in which the colonel had acted an important part.

The old plantation house, resting on a green wooded knoll, presented a fair specimen of Southern architecture, which, like that of the Goths, is a spontaneous expression of nature and circumstance. There was something intensely picturesque about this old farm house, standing in the midst of a group of “ancestral trees,” with its double crib of heavy hewn timber, its two great chimneys of rock rising aginst the two gable ends, and its long, broad, benevolent porch. This was the retreat that welcomed the gallant and studious colonel, from the dust and strife of the city, to the clean and peaceful repose of the country.

Among the objects which the new occupants surveyed from the spacious porch of the old mansion, was a small log cabin coddled in a recess of the nearest mountain,3 and peeking out through a surrounding group of leafless saplings. From the mouth of its low chimney, made of sticks and mud, ascended a rolling column of blue smoke that rested in translucent clouds on the sides of the hill, and announced the presence of human life.

“I wonder who can live there?” was the frequent inquiry of the curious household.

“We shall find out before long,” answered Col. Payne, patiently.

Meanwhile, at various intervals, there passed and repassed through the lane a team of “clay-bank”4 mules attached to a rough, country wagon, that jolted and clattered over the rocks. It was driven sometimes by flaxen-haired boys, and sometimes by an elderly man who, with diligent scrutiny, scanned the new comers, and gazed, with curious interest, at the Newfoundland dog that stood as a sentinel at the lower gate, opening into the lane, directly in front of the house. Several times during the day, a girl, whose face was hidden in the dark cavern of a sun-bonnet, came to the spring that issued from outcropping rocks, midway between the house and the gate. Here she removed her sun-bonnet, and tied the strings about her waist; then filled a wooden bucket which she adroitly raised, carefully balanced on her head, and safely transported to the cabin. At the edge of night the tall, bony figure of a man, with a long stride and a rocking step, moved by on the road to the hut, followed by a small, shaggy dog. Aside from these harmless interruptions, the family was left to divide the solitude of the vale with its flocks and herds, and with the joyous songsters of the air.

A week had passed, and the colonel’s family, having settled down into the smooth current of their rural life, were seated at supper, when a sharp, shrill voice, proceeding from the lower gate, rent the air without:

“Hullo! hullo thar! Whar’s the doge at?”

This shout produced a commotion. Ears that had grown deaf to the jangle of city noises were now, by a curious revival of instinct, keenly sensitive to the slightest vibrations of the vacant country air. There was a simultaneous uprising from the table, and a rush for the doors and windows, accompanied by a chorus of exclamations and interrogations.

“What is the matter? Do see, colonel,” said Mrs. Payne, anxiously.

“It’s a peddler!” “It’s a rag man!” “It’s an old rebel, come to git even with papa!” exclaimed the juvenile members of the family in quick succession.

“Be quiet, be quiet; I’ll find out what’s the matter,” said the colonel dispassionately, as he hastily stepped out on the porch.

“Well, sir, come in; the dog will not hurt you,” he continued; and the obedient quadruped was ordered to a recumbent position on the porch.

The stranger deliberately opened, passed through and closed the gate, and with slow, dignified step, approached the house, giving ample time for a careful inspection of his personal appearance.

He was a man apparently past fifty years of age, of medium height, with a square, bony, skinny frame, and legs slightly bandied. His chest was full, and his broad shoulders supported, through the intervention of a short neck, a large round head. His features were sharp, and presented a long prominent nose that reached down to make friendship with a bold and slightly ascending chin. His eyebrows projected so as to cover, in deep recesses, two small blue eyes that looked out upon the world through a pair of large spectacles. His capillary development exhausted itself in a thin growth of bleached unshaven beard, and a few long straight hairs that depended from the lower edge of his bald crown, and disported in the air as he moved along. He wore a checked woolen shirt, and jean pantaloons of butternut hue. A hat of drab-colored felt, with a low crown, a broad brim, and closely resembling the sombrero of a Texas cow-boy, rested loosely on his head.

Having posed in front of the steps leading up to the porch, he measured the colonel for a moment, and then in a high-keyed and nasal voice broke the suspense:

“Wal, I see yo’ve arriv’ at laist; how’s all?”

“In excellent health and spirits, thank you,” replied the colonel, “come up, sir, and sit on the porch.”

The stranger, placing his feet with measured care, ascended the steps and walked toward a waiting chair, while the colonel shook his small weather-beaten hand. Uncovering his bald head, the stranger continued: “Pritty day, sah. I’m proud I’ve saw ye. Bein’ so pow’ful nigh one anothah, I ‘lowed we’d orter be ecquainted. I mout ez well be bold with ye, an’ tell ye who I be, fur I reckin yo’ nivah heerd o’ me. My name is Brooks, sah; Pa’son Brooks, sah. Sometimes they call me Ha’d-shell Brooks, sah. Yo’ see”—and here he placed the fore-finger of his right hand, terminating in a sharp overgrown nail, against the palm of his left hand, and worked it as if to drill a hole—”Yo’ see, I’m one o’ them thet believes thet Jesus Christ wint down hintew the watah tew be baptized. Fur ef he hedn’t a’ drapped down hintew the watah, how cud he ha’ came up aout o’ the watah? An’ furthermo’ sah, mebbe yo’ all is of them I’m referrin’ tew—if so, I ax yo’re pa’don, sah—but nivahtheliss, nivah-the-liss, sah—I’m boun’ tew shell down all thar is in me, while I’m ’bout it—I don’t keep no comp’ny with then tindah, saft-skinned baptists yo’ all hev in the city—thet’s afeered o’ the trewth, sah,—afeered o’ the deep runnin’ watah, sah, an’ skeered o’ freezin’ weathah, sah.’

The speaker would doubtless have continued his earnest homily, had not Col. Payne found it necessary to excuse himself to repress a juvenile audience that had assembled in the hall, and whose levity had at this point become painfully audible.

Resuming his chair, the colonel replied:

“I’m happy to know you, Mr. Brooks, and it will be a pleasure to feel that we have one near us who can assist our spiritual life. You live in the little house at the foot of the hill, I take it?”

“In yon cabin, sah. But, ez I wuz aimin’ tew say, sah, I’m no great man: I’m not larn’d, thet is, not overly; I’ve always fit shy o’ skewls, an’ colliges, an’ ez nigh ez I cud, all the works o’ the divil. I don’t work no meracles, nuther, sah; the Word an’ the Sperit is my ammonition, sah.”

The parson raised his spectacles, and with his red bandanna wiped the moisture from his eyes; then drew from his pocket a plug of tobacco, the end of which he inserted between his teeth. A strong grip and many vibrations and twisting disengaged a sufficient quantity of the weed to relieve a temporary abstinence.

“You have an excellent equipment,” said the colonel, “and that which many men of great learning lack. By the way, parson, I think you may have seen me before. I encamped with my regiment, not far from here, for a few weeks during the war.”

“Oh, no,” said the parson, leaning forward toward the colonel, and speaking in an undertone, “thet cudn’t be. Hit was this a-way. Afo’ the waw, I was in Eas’ Tennessee; an’ whin I heerd the Fid’ral gover’ment was raisin’ of trewps, an’ I seed the Confid’rits gethrin aroun’, I was sho’ they was inorgeratin’ the big battle of Amrygiddin’; an’ thet the No’th wud git whupped; an’ thet the aberlishernists an’ niggah-stealahs wud all be swipt down tew posterity. An’ futhermo’, sah,” continued the parson, raising his body and his voice simultaneously, and hurling his exhausted “quid” with great force into the grass, “they tuk my prop’ty from me—the Fid’rals did—an’ I was obleeged tew skip aout ‘twixt tew days, an’ I come tew the rivah. No, sah, I was disappinted a heap, sah, ’bout the whull affar. The big battle didn’t come; but hit’ll come yit, sah, sho’ ez yo’re bawn.”

“Well,” said the colonel, calmly, after he had made an authoritative gesture to the youthful audience that had reassembled in the hall, “we will not discuss these matters; they’re all over with now. But what sort of property did you lose?”

“My sarvint, sah; an’ whin I left the rivah tew come aout heah, I run agin him, an’ he was a’ kivortin’ aroun’ bigger ‘n his ole maister, sah.”

“You farm a little, Mr. Brooks?”

“Not in pertic’lar, only in a gin’ral way. The boys raises a leetle garding stuff, an’ we always makes a crap o’ cawn of a summah. I ‘lowed yo’ all mout let me hev the forty-acre paitch over agin me. I tuk hit laist yeah, an’ I wudn’t mine havin’ of hit agin this yeah.”

“What use would you make of the field, parson?”

“Wal, I aim to put the biggest po’tion in cawn, an’ the rist in pertaters; which must go in right sune, ez the da’k o’ the mewn ‘ll be heah directly.”

“In what way do you want to rent the land?”

“On sheers, as a mattah of coase, sah; yo’ all takes a third, delivered in the ben, an’ I gits tew-thirds.”

“And how long do you keep the land?”

“From spring to spring, Aprile tew Aprile, sah, hit’s always that a’ way.”

“Well, parson, I am disposed to let you have the field. I’ll draw up a lease, and be over to see you in the morning.”

“Don’t put yo’self tew no trouble more ‘n ‘s nicissary, sah; we won’t quar’l ’bout it. Pa’son Brooks hez the repetation o’ bein’ a squar man.”

With this self-conscious remark the visitor rose to take his departure, adding:

“Be neighborly, kunnel; we shell be right pleased tew hev yo’ come ovah an’ break bread with us in the cabin. I’m proud I’ve saw ye. Good evenin’, sah.”

The parson bowed gracefully and retraced his steps to the gate, and the colonel retired to his jubilant family.

A flood of comments burst upon him as he walked into the house to escape the chilly night air.

“Wasn’t it splendid,’ said the girls. “Better ‘n a hand organ,” shouted the boys. “A very queer community, if this is a specimen, and little hope of pleasant companionship,” added Mrs. Payne, sadly.

“No cause for alarm yet. The parson is an odd, an exceptional character, and he may open to us a field of usefulness and pleasure,” said the colonel, cheerfully.

While these, and comments of a similar, humorous and philosophical character, were exchanged, the interrupted meal was finished, and the colonel retired to his library to prepare the lease.

Chapter II: “From ignorance our comfort flows; The only wretched are the wise.”

The morning revealed a bright and inviting landscape. Col. Payne and his wife stepped out on the porch to view the scene under the soft touch of the rising sun. Followed by his little shaggy dog, the tall, awkward man passed up the lane, and the girl, with her water-bucket, entered the gate and came to the spring.

“Have you observed this girl, colonel?” said Mrs. Payne. “Just notice her when she puts off her bonnet and lifts the pail to her head. She has an unusually fine figure, a very pretty face and the most delicate little hands, with tapering fingers. Is it possible that she’s the parson’s daughter?”

“Unquestionably she’s the parson’s daughter,” answered the colonel, as now with particular interest he studied the girl with her bonnet off. “She is pretty, very pretty. I shall have an opportunity to observe her more carefully when I visit the parson’s after a little.”

Breakfast and the usual orders of the day having been disposed of, the colonel took from his desk the lease, slipped a pen and pocket inkstand into his vest pocket, and walked briskly to the parson’s cabin. Opening a gate that turned on a wooden pivot, he was saluted by three lazy hounds that were baking in the warm sun before the cabin door. Two boys who were working in the garden, rested on their hoes and looked. And the instant when the hounds broke the silence with their hideous howl, the boys shouted at them repressively, and human life started from all sides of the hut. A matronly woman protruded her head from the door. Children, too numerous to be counted in such a crisis, emerged from behind, from the sides, and from the doors of the cabin.

Surely, thought the colonel, here is a community in itself.

The door was set wide open, and the form of the parson appeared through the opening, with uncovered head.

“Good mawnin’, kunnel; yo’ haint lost eh? The doges is sassy. How’s all? Come in: take a cheer.”

As the parson threw off these utterances of rude hospitality, in too rapid succession for individual reply, one of the two visible chairs was moved in front of the fire-place, and the colonel was seated. Mrs. Brooks, having gained time to adorn herself with a clean frock, and to sooth her grayish hair, was presented, and greeted the visitor with the usual formalities—”It’s a pritty day,” and “I’m proud I’ve saw ye.” With a rapid and penetrating glance the colonel surveyed the objects about him.

The cabin was an ordinary, rough, log hut, about fifteen feet square, with an oaken floor, a door in each side, a large fire-place in one end, and without windows. A bed stood in a remote corner, a shot-gun and a navy revolver rested on pegs over the fire-place, and a large bible reposed on a rude shelf. A coarse cupboard draped by a long curtain, and a small table in the middle of the floor, completed the furniture of the room. From a “lean to,” reached through the outside, the rattling of a busy shuttle was heard. The exquisite neatness that pervaded everything his eyes fell upon, filled the visitor with surprise and delight.

The parson, having with his thumb pulverized a bit of plug tobacco in the palm of his left hand, filled and lighted his cob pipe, and through the ascending rings of odorous smoke, beamed with complaisance on the colonel.

“You have a numerous family, I observe,” said the latter.

“Wal, not overly; we was blessed with fourteen chillern altegither; we laid one in the ground, and thirteen is lift, an’ at home. The oldest gaerl was married, but was ableeged tew git shet of her ole man, an’ her an’ her tew chillern is with us.”

“That foots up a household of seventeen; I should think it would be difficult to dispose of that number in so small a house.”

“Oh, ho! thet’s no trick at all,” answered the parson with a pervasive laugh. “Why, sah, ‘pon my word, hit’s been tew weeks ago, haint it, Betsey, we took in a family thet was movin’ tew Centerville.5 Thar was five in the family, an’ thet made”—

“Just twenty-two,” interrupted the colonel, “and you slept them all?”

“We did, for a fact, sah, an’ all come out agin sun-up, happy as blue-birds.” And to this assertion Betsy gave an approving nod.

The statement, however, did not relieve the economic problem that wrestled with the colonel’s mind, and he sank into a momentary study.

“Yo’ see,” continued the parson, boring his palm with his forefinger, “thar is some nuts thet yo’ rich folks caint crack; and futhermo’, hit’s jist as a person thinks, whithah or no he’s continted. We ‘uns is happy on leetle, and yo’ ‘uns is happy on a heap. Anyhow, I reckin yo’ be.”

“Very true, parson, but as my time is limited, we must proceed to business. I’ve brought the lease with me—here it is—please look it over,” said the colonel, producing the paper.

“Wal, now, I don’t keer to read the papah, kunnel; I’ve broke one of the glaises in the specs—let alone m’ eyes haint right peart nohow. Futhermo’, sah, writins is no ‘count.”

“I will read it then, with your pleasure,” replied the colonel, smiling. And he read the form setting out the main features of the agreement for the lease of the forty acres; convenanting the shares and the manner of tillage, and providing that in case of neglect, the party of the first part shall be permitted to enter upon immediate possession of the land, and carry through the crop.

While the hasty reading of the document was in progress, the parson drew heavily on his pipe, and showed, through the cloud of smoke, a smile of disdain. When the last word was pronounced, and the colonel raised his eyes from the paper, the parson, starting to his feet and knocking the ashes from his pipe, squared himself in front of the reader, and addressed him in a tone of pompous assurance:

“Kunneel ah”—

“Payne,” supplied the colonel.

“Kunnel Payne, hit ‘pears like yo’ all haint awar o’ the individooal yo’re aimin’ to hev dealin’s with. This yere dokiment soun’s like yo’ reckined yo’ was dealin’ with a thief or some city feller. Now, sah, Pa’son Brooks is a man o’ honah; a man of honah, sah; an’ whin he’s give his word thet he’ll dew what’s right,—thin, sah, writin’s is no ‘count.”

“You object to the terms of the lease then?”

“The which?”

“The terms do not suit you,” explained the colonel.

“The terms is a leetle grain hefty on one side, sah; but I don’t nivah sign writins’ nohow.”

The parson resuming his chair sought consolation in his recharged and relighted pipe.

“If you don’t care to sign this lengthy document, I have a short memorandum”—

“A short which?” interrupted the parson in astonishment.

“I have a letter addressed to you,” resumed the colonel, “stating the terms on which you can take the field, together with a simple acceptance written underneath it, which you can sign.” And the colonel read the letter.

“No objection to that, I hope, parson?”

“Wal, I don’t run agin no pertic’ler snag in this yere,” said the parson with a smile of scorn as he reluctautly took the letter from the colonel’s hand, “but hit’s agin my principles to sign writin’s. I was n’t raised thet a-way. Furthermo’, sah, I reckin thar’s nary pen nur ink about: is thar, Betsey?” And Betsy vibrated a negative answer.

“But I have a pen and ink with me,” continued the colonel, quickly relieving his pocket of these articles and extending them to the parson.

“Them is moighty nice leetle tricks, sho’; but I don’t keer tew voiolate m’ principles, sah.”

“But writings help us to remember our obligations, parson; you surely keep some memorandum of your transactions?”

“My which?”

“You keep accounts of what you owe, and what is owing to you?” explained the colonel, growing a little nervous.

“As a mattah o’ coase, I dew,” rejoined the parson, as with a triumphant air, he stepped across the hearth and swung the door to—displaying on its unfinished surface a long series of scores inscribed with charcoal—marks in clusters of fives, and isolated marks: long marks and short marks.

“Thar’s my ‘counts,” exclaimed the parson, placing his bony finger on the door.

“Those look like the tally marks of bushels of corn or potatoes. I don’t see how they tell of particular dealings. There are no names nor dates,” said the colonel, disinterestedly.

“Yo’ see,” said the parson, passing his finger over the inscriptions, “the long ‘uns is the dollars an’ the short ‘uns is the cints.”

“But how do you know which belongs to one man, and which to another? How can you distinguish your debts from your credits?”

“Hit’s all clar, kunnel, when yo’ git the idee. Thar’s what Lyin’ Bill owes me for the mewl I sol’ ‘im. Thar’s what Joe Fitzgeral owes fur breakin’ o’ his medder. Thar’s a leetle scrap I’m owin’ to the sto’ at Hog-Eye fur terbacky. All the rist is plum squar’d up. Dew yo’ ketch on tew hit, kunnel?”

The parson reviewed his system of accounts with the rare relish of an earnest instructor unfolding treasures of knowledge.

“You system is very interesting,” remarked the colonel; “but I should think you would forget the dates when these accounts are due.”

“Moighty easy tew hold on to them, sah. One is jew in the full of the next mewn; t’other is the da’k of the mewn; an’ some o’ them leetle fellers Betsey holds on tew. She cal’lates by the chillern’s birth-days thet comes along moighty nigh ivery month. As a mattah o’ coa’se; sah, I sometimes furgits; but yo’ see,”—and here the speaker cast an affectionate look upon his companion,—”whin my sack leaks, Betsy picks up the cawn.”

“I think I understand it,” said the colonel, rising to take his depature. “You will not sign either of these papers, then, parson? I should like your autograph.”

“My which?” asked the parson, in amazement.

“I should like your name written with your own hand.”

“Wal, kunnel, I’d go a heap aout o’ my way to eccommodate a gintelman like yo’ all, but I don’t keer to voiolate my principles,” concluded the parson, benignantly.

As Col. Payne stooped to pass out of the door, he met a bevy of children, sparsely but neatly clad with patched garments, among whom the girl he saw at the spring was the most engaging object.

“Ah,” said the colonel, “I believe I have seen this young lady at the spring, haven’t I?”

“Likely ‘nuf,” answered the parson. “This yere’s my darter Missouri; she packs watah from the spring.”

The colonel took the small hand to which Mrs. Payne had so admiringly alluded, and invited Missouri to call at the house. Turning again to her father, he inquired: “And who is the very large, tall young man who so frequently passes through the lane?”

“Oh, thet’s Mistah Landis—Long Jim, they calls him. He’s a plumb pow’ful boy. He fit in the waw. He’s ginewine. Yo’ all needn’t tew be afeered o’ him.

“Your children attend school, I suppose?” added the colonel.

“No, sah! thank the lo’d,” retorted the parson, with great emphasis. “Thar’s no good in skewl. Hit brings a heap o’ trouble. Ef they knows leetle, they wants leetle. Give ’em knowledge, an’ they’s no ‘count; they gits shet o’ work ef they kin, an’ runs aftah crockery, an’ calico, an’ ribbins, an’ railroads. They’s kentented ez they be, an’ I wudn’t keer tew run ’em hintew a bumble bee’s nist.”

They walked slowly to the gate, the colonel minutely surveying the premisies, and plying many questions, in answer to which he obtained a budget of interesting facts.

The “garding patch,” in which the cabin stood, contained about two acres. It was in a high state of cultivation, even into the corners of the Virginia rail fence by which it was inclosed. It produced the annual stock of vegetables, and sweets that satisfied seventeen hungry mouths. A corn “crap” produced “on sheers” brought bread and meat. The sheep nibbling among the rocks on the side of Eagle Mountain, that raised a background of green and gray behind the cabin, and the few rows of cotton that were yearly planted and hoed and picked, yielded animal and vegetable fleeces sufficient to clothe the family. The spinning and weaving and sewing were all done in the cabin. What was there left to ask the world for, except a little “terbacky” and “ko-fee” and a few “store tricks”?

The colonel passed out through the gate. The rays of sun quietly smote the landscape at a larger angle. The opening leaf buds threw a drapery of delicate green around the vale, and through a narrow opening of the woods the distant Ozarks touched the bending sky like a vision of far-off lands. It was a time to dream. He slowly paced along the lane in silent meditation:

“What strangely colored medium is this through which we have been looking! Here is independence, thrift, and happiness, such as neither crowns nor gold have been able to secure, absolutely protected by a wall of ignorance. This restless, crazy civilization, that vexes and tortures and gives us no rest—how could one bear to let it break the enchantment of the picture I have just seen! Our boasted progress has urged us to strife and red war, and what booty has it brought, when it is sure to give turbulence for peace, and unrest for contentment? And now we must enter upon the friction of peace. The Yankee is progressive, but he is angular, nervous, radical, and irritative; a chronic disturber of rest, and unromantic. The Southerner is conservative, but he is affable, sedate, and remains quiet long enough to be picturesque. No wonder he dislikes the Yankee; and no wonder the Yankee is impatient of the Southerner. Neither is the true type upon which the other is to be molded. The future American will contain both, but will be better than either. The friction will go on, but we must soothe it with forbearance and amicable feeling.”

A chuckle of merry voices startled the student from his reverie, and he looked up to behold the gate open, and its space crowded with a half dozen living specimens of that very civilization over which his mind had dropped into so lugubrious a tone. All were “crazy” to hear the story of the returned explorer. And leading the way up the lawn to the porch, he unfolded a delightsome tale to an appreciative audience.

I have thought,” said Mrs. Payne, “that we might take in one of that family and make her useful to us, and at the same time do some good, and introduce some new ideas of life.”

“I thought of the same thing,” remarked the colonel, scarcely recovered from his dream, “and with this thought I invited the pretty girl that comes to the spring—Missouri, they call her—to drop in soon. But I shrink from breaking the heavenly sphere that incloses their little world.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Payne, “you must have discovered something very charming, to make you so sentimental over poor white trash.”

“The conundrum that puzzles me is whether, after all, they are not in an ideal condition of life,” answered the colonel. “But we shall see.”

Chapter III: A Solemn Afterthought

At break of the next day the colonel was wakened by the deep bark of the Newfoundland dog, followed by an audible conversation, of which one of the participants, so he concluded, was the foreman of the farm, and the other, as his voice gave evidence, was the parson. Hastily dressing, he left the house in time to catch the first crimson rays as they broke over the eastern hills.

Sitting on the lower step of the flight that led from the ground to the porch was the parson, wreathed in circles of smoke that issued from his cob pipe.

“Good morning, parson,” said the colonel. “I hope nothing is wrong with you, this morning.”

“I was afeared,” said the parson, after returning the salutation, “that I was a leetle grain aerly; I was heah right smart afo’ sunup. Yo’ see, the breakfast is ovah, the mewls has started the plough in the field (which I reckin is all right,) an’ I ‘lowed tew git ye tew dew a favor fur me. Mebbe I told ye one o’ the glaisses in m’ specs is broke plumb aout, an’ I ‘lowed tew see ef I cud git yo’ to cairy ’em tew the city an’ hev em fixed, ef yo’ was aimin’ tew go right sune.”

“Certainly,” the colonel said; “I will have then repaired for you, if you can do without them for a week.”

“I’m boun’ tew dew thet, kunnel, though I sets a heap o’ store by the leetle tricks, an’ I’m obleeged to ye fur doin’ of it.”

The colonel was anxious to retire, that he might complete his toilet, despatch his breakfast, and enter upon the business of the day. But his visitor prolonged his stay, and was not easily shaken off. He appeared to be laboring under some burden from which he still would seek relief, and the colonel in turn grew nervous. The parson fastened his eyes upon the ground, then raised his head as if about to speak, then knocked the ashes from his pipe, put in another charge of tobacco, applied to his landlord for a match, re-lighted, puffed vigorously, looked down to the ground again, and showed signs of unmistakable agitation.

“Can I assist you any further?” asked the colonel, determined to relieve the embarrassment.

“Wal, no; I caint say ez I want essistance in partic’lar,” said the parson, hesitatingly; “but I hev somethin’ thet troubles me right smart thet I mout ez well unload.”

“By all means, unload it,” said the colonel, with his apprehensions aroused and his sympathy excited.

“I was a-thinkin’,” resumed the parson, with slow, solemn speech, ” ez I riz in the night tew fix the faar, thet I hedn’t did m’ whull jewty whin I was declarin’ m’ principles tew ye, t’other day. I didn’t let it all down.”

“Well, let it all down,” said the colonel, with increased curiosity and emotion.

The parson rose from his seat, stepped forward a few paces, faced about, returned to the steps, threw back his head, withdrew the pipe stem from his teeth, raised his bare eyes to the colonel, opened his mouth, and began to unload.

“I tole ye I was a plumb pow’ful ha’d-shell baptist.”

“Yes; I could not mistake you on that point.”

“An’ now I’m gwine to tell ye I’m a plumb pow’ful dimokrat.”

“Yes; I concluded you were that, too.”

“Ha, ha! Wal, wal, thet’s moighty foine, shore. How did yo’ git it so straight, kunnel?”

“Oh, I gathered it from the history you gave of yourself.”

“I’m proud yo’ knowed hit without me tellin’ of ye, shore. Hit seems like my principles was a-burnin’ like a candle in me, an’ they shined aout without touchin’ a light to ’em. I’m proud hit’s so, shore. ‘Pon my word, kunnel, I cudn’t sleep aftah I lay down laist night, a-thinkin’ mebbe yo’ all reckined I was a republikin.”

“I had not the slightest suspicion in that direction, parson; and if I had, it would be nothing against you. I glory in being a republican myself.”

“Oh, you be, fur a fact, shore? Wal, like ‘nuf I was a leetle braish; ef so, I ax yore pa’don, sah. But afo’ the waw yo’ wasn’t no aberlishunist?”

“No.”

“Nur no niggah-stealah?”

“No.”

“Wal, wal, ‘pon my word and honah, I ‘lowed all republikins was aberlishunists and niggah-stealahs! An’ yo’ knowed I was a dimofrat without axin’ o’ me?”

“Certainly.”

“Thank the Lo’d!” continued the parson, with a tone of exultation that indicated an entire relief from the load that had weighed him down; “but thar’s a clar difference, kunnel, tew be made in politics, ez likewise in religion. Ez I am a ha’d-shell baptist, so I am a ha’d-shell dimokrat. A heap o’ dimokrats is no better ‘n a heap o’ baptists. Yo’ see, tew be a dimokrat thet yo’ kin depend on in the hour o’ trouble, a man must be bawn an’ raised a dimokrat.”

“Wouldn’t it do to be born again a democrat?” interrupted the colonel.

“No, no: thet wudn’t dew. Them kind is likely tew backslide an’ shift. But them thet’s bawn, nivah changes. Hit’s like the pusseverance o’ the saints—onc’t a baptist, always a baptist; onc’t a dimokrat, always a dimokrat—thet is, ef they’s bawn right. I was bawn thet a-way, an’ raised thet a-way, an’ yo’ cudn’t change me no mo’ ‘n yo’ cud change a niggah’s skin tew white. I’m plumb clar through a Jiffersonian dimokrat. Yo’ know Thomas Jifferson was a squar’ man?”

“Yes; Jefferson was a good man.”

“An’ he was a bawn dimokrat. I’m no poet like, but I larns the boys a leetle scrap like this:

“But, parson, your political views place me in an awkward position. I was a democrat at the breaking out of the war, and I became convinced that I was wrong, and so changed by views.”

“Jist ez I said befo’, kuunel, though I’m right sorry tew be agin ye; but yo’ wasn’t bawn a dimokrat, I reckin?”

“No; I was first a whig.”

“Thar! thet’s hit ag’in. Them thet’s bawn right and raised right, they nivah goes wrong. But them thet’s kunvurted like, them’s no ‘count. They nivah hol’s studdy in the hour o’ trouble. Ef they hed, yo’ all wudn’t ‘a’ whupped us in the waw. Yo’ve got my sintiments, kunnel, in politics an’ religion: hit’s bawn an’ raised—thet’s what hol’s things studdy.”

“Of course, then,” concluded the colonel, “as we have no control over our birth and the circumstances of our childhood, discussion on these subjects can do no good, and we must agree to differ. On your principle, you have the advantage of me, as you have fifteen children in your house, and I have but six.”

“Kinder like thet, kunnel; thar’s a heap o’ powah in you leetle cabin smokin’ undah the hill. But I must be gwine. I’m proud I’ve saw ye.”

A smile of triumph played over the face of the parson as he took leave of the colonel, and left him to his reflections. These reflections were irksome and aggressive. They awakened a sense of disappointment and mistake as they invaded the deeper recesses of the colonel’s mind. “The parson has handed me a little key that unlocks the Southern situation,” he said to himself. “It is ‘born and raised’—heredity—and it strips this landscape of it charm, and leaves me with a farm to sell. The case is hopeless. No innovation, no agitation: therefore, no change, no progress. I regard this man, though kind and dispassionate, a scab on the body of society, and he regards me as a sliver or thorn in its flesh. I am conscientious, and so is he. He is victor, and I am vanquished. It will take the South fifty years to get over being ‘born and raised.'”

Chapter IV: The Flower of the Vale

Towards noon Missouri appeared, sitting on the stone curb of the spring, while her waterbucket rested on the broad, flat rock that partly covered the mouth of the spring.

She wore a neat calico frock, with a plain, short waist. The scanty skirt which yielded strict obedience to the law of gravitation, permitted a general impression of her delicate form. She was not tall. A luxuriant growth of light-brown hair was carefully parted, drawn back over her ears, and twisted into a knot on the back of her head. The regular contour of her face, the abundant eye-brows and lashes that shadowed her blue eyes, and the even row of white teeth which the parting of her thin lips displayed—were all in marked contrast with the coarse physiognomy of her class, and suggested the possible descent from finer blood in the remote past. A slight agitation of mind gave a tinge of color to her bronzed cheek, and she thoughtlessly swung her sun-bonnet back and forth, holding the long strings in her brown little hand.

Long did Mrs. Payne look and hesitate before she could bring her mind to spoil so charming a picture resting softly against the background of the hill. At length the girl seized her bucket, stooped over and filled it, and was evidently preparing to leave, when Mrs. Payne called to her and asked her to come to the house. So Missouri left her bucket by the spring, and with long, slow steps walked in the direction of the porch. Mrs. Payne anticipating her embarrassment approached and took her hand:

“I’m glad to see you, Missouri. It’s a beautiful day. You have such a pretty walk to the spring.”

“Yes, maam, hit’s a pritty walk, ‘ceptin when the brainch is high.”

“The brook isn’t high now, is it?”

“No, maam; but some times hit’s plum over the steppin’ rocks an’ then I hev tew take off my shoes.”

“Well, you don’t mind that, I suppose. I wanted to see you about coming to help us a little. Do you think you can be spared?”

“I wudn’t min’ comin’ ef maw’s willin’.”

“Oh, yes! I will see your mother then. Do you know how to cook, and do kitchen work?”

“I’ve niver did no cookin’ but I reckon I mout larn—I’ve always bin packin’ watah. The boys is hangin’ up for noon now, and I must be gwine. I’m proud I’ve saw ye.”

While she descended from the porch with a haste that sought to relieve her embarrassment as much as to hurry her water-bucket to the boys who were “hangin’ up,” Mrs. Payne added:

“I will see you mother about the matter.”

The sadness that sat on the girl’s countenance, and gave dignity to her pretty features, did not escape the notice of Mrs. Payne. Was this a constitutional habit, thought she, or was some special burden pressing on her heart and casting its shadow over her face? Mrs. Payne had yet to learn that the class to which this girl belonged is habitually sad. A gloomy religion and [a] hereditary ignorance have conspired to produce for them an atmosphere of solemnity. Their songs tell the story. Cast, invariably, in the minor key, they move in slow, lugubrious waves, and drop in mournful cadences. By these strains the babies are soothed, and rocked to sleep, and the boys whistle them at the plough, or, as they “hang up” at noon or night, sing them to the big ears of their mules.

The shadows had begun to grow long, and the sun was on the western slopes of the hills, when Mrs. Payne, anxious to terminate the negotiations with Missouri, carefully crossed on the stepping stones of the brook, and found her way to the cabin. Long Jim was just then leaving the habitation, and some word thrown back by him had heralded the coming, for the hounds were called to the back part of the hut, and the visitor passed to the door unobstructed.

A gentle rap on the casing of the door was responded to by the parson’s wife, who bore an open benevolent face, displaying the general lines of beauty that made her daughter so attractive, and who extended to the visitor a cordial but dignified welcome.

“Step in. Hev a cheer. I ‘lowed yo’re the kunnel’s wife. I wasn’t ‘specting yo’ all so sune, an’ yo’ see we ‘uns is not in very good fix.”

“Oh, I am sure you look very nicely here. You are very happy in your little home, I’m told.”

“We makes a leetle go ez fur ez we kin, an’ we always has a plenty.”

“I should think you would find your house rather small—especially for sleeping arrangements.”

“The sleepin’ maam, is easier ‘n the feedin’, a heap sight.” And with a glow of satisifaction, Mrs. Brooks drew aside the curtain that hung before the rough cupboard, displaying a half dozen shelves of quilts, and comforts, and coarse blankets—all in a condition that would satisfy the requirements of the most rigid house-keeper.

“Them is what does the sleepin’,” she added.

“They are very nice and very abundant, but where do you keep the beds to place them on?”

“We hevn’t got no beds, maam, ‘ceptin’ this yere one in yon cawner fur him an’ me. Whin hit comes time tew lay down, we spreads the kivers on the flo’; thin the chillern lays down an’ we draps the kivers ovah ’em.”

“Certainly, that is very easy, and saves a great deal of trouble. You make all the covers yourselves?”

“Sho’ we does. The paitch-work is the makin’ up of ole frocks thet we wants tew git shet of; the cotton we raises, an’ the blainkits we weaves from the wool the sheep fetches us. Mebbe yo’d like a look at the loom.”

So saying, Mrs. Brooks led the way out through the door, and conducted her visitor to the “lean-to,” in which her widowed daughter was plying the loom. The floor was the natural earth, but it was swept clean; and, besides the loom, there were the spinning and reeling wheels—simple, homely utensils, that recalled to the mind of Mrs. Payne her grandmother’s home in the far East.

As they returned to the cabin, and Mrs. Payne observed a few half-covered embers crackling on the hearth, she remarked:

“I see you have no stove. Is the cooking done in the fire-place?”

“Cook-stoves is pritty, ma’am, but we’ve always got along with the faar-place. An’ the faar yo’ heah singin’ thar, hit’s alive now hit’s been tew yeahs. Hits bin tew yeahs sense we lost faar, an’ we was obleeged to sind the boys tew the neighbors to borry some.”

“And you are willing that Missouri shall come and help me, I hope,” said Mrs. Payne, rising to go.

“Our darters has niver bin aout tew work. He’s pow’ful finicky ’bout that. But we always ‘lows to lind a helpin’ hend tew our neighbors. Ef Missouri goes, she’ll be home o’ nights. I reckin she’ll be ’round by sunup,” said Mrs. Brooks, hesitatingly. “She will, sho’, ef he’s willin’.”

The parson’s wife, followed by Missouri, led Mrs. Payne to the gate.

“Oh, the wages: what shall we pay Missouri?” said Mrs. Payne, as she passed out.

“We’ll not quar’l ’bout the price,” answered Mrs. Brooks. “Hit’s a pritty day. I’m proud I’ve saw ye.”

With these pleasant words, they parted; and Mrs. Payne, too intent upon the many objects of her thoughts to observe the soft light of the declining sun on the hill-side, made haste to reach her home.

As she sat in the library musing on the strange picture of domestic happiness that filled her imagination, she wondered whether, after all, it were not better to live like the Brookses, shut out from the “madding crowd,” and brooding fourteen children without care, than to live like the Paynes, trying to protect a family of six children, with the pickets of anxiety constantly thrown out to warn against a thousand surprises from that treacherous world they had chosen to inhabit. At this point the colonel entered, fresh from the exhilarating operations of the field. Waking from her reverie at the sound of his step, she said:

“Well, I have visited the enchanted home, and I have no doubt Missouri will come to-morrow.”

“And the battle of Armageddon will come to the enchanted home,” replied the colonel, as if a matured thought had found its opportunity for utterance.

“Why, my dear fellow, what do you mean? The earning of a little money, surely, can do them no harm.”

“No; it’s not so much the money that will disturb their peace, but the introduction of ideas. The parson knows what I mean, and he’s awake to the situation. He likes us, I believe; but he’s afraid of us. The drama of his little world moves along as smoothly as it has gone with his kind for a hundred years. But once admit our uneasy civilization,—as it will now enter through the person of Missouri,—and collision is sure to come, which will change the character of the little play, and end it with catastrophe. The parson is sharp enough to see all this—although I am satisfied he cannot even write his own name—and he is fencing against it. I have my doubts whether he will permit Missouri to come.”

“What in the world shall we do with this terrible civilization, then, if it brings so much unrest? Shall we put a stop to it?” said Mrs. Payne, excitedly.

“I do not think we can stop it now,” said the colonel, continuing his philosophical vein. “The current is too wide and too strong. It will carry everything before it—Parson Brooks with the rest. But I cannot help sympathizing with the parson. He wants to keep out of the current, if he can.”

Here the children interrupted their father by the announcement that the big, tall man was at the steps; and the colonel proceeded to the porch.

The tall man was the already familiar person of Long Jim, and, as soon as the colonel appeared, he lifted his six and a half feet of powerful framework from the grass, touched his hat, and said:

“Howdy, mister—er kunnel, I believe?”

“Either,” said the colonel; “but come up and take a seat.”

“Cain’t stop now, sah. Lyin’ Bill said fur me to come by an ax yo’ to come to the school-meetin’ to-morry.”

“I have seen the notice posted, and shall make a point to attend. By the way, you have had some military experience, I believe?”

“Wal, yes, sah, right smart. ‘Twas on t’other side from yo’ all, though. I fit under Gineral Price agin Ewing in this yere valley, an’ got scraped a leetle, an’ thin the parson tuk keer o’ me.”

“Perhaps we have met before, then?”

“Like ez anyways. But hit’s all ovah now; blue or gray, erry one’s all the same tew me now.”

“I shall be glad to see you, Mr. — ”

“Long Jim, ef yo’ please, sah,” interrupted Jim.

“All right, sir; you are entitled to your modest name. Come and see us when you’re not in haste,” said the colonel. And Jim started for the cabin.

Chapter V: “Agin Skewls an’ Edication”

The next morning—it might have been “sunup,” or later, as a cloud rested on the eastern horizon—Missouri, sure enough, made her appearance, and was kindly introduced by Mrs. Payne to light household duty. It was arranged that her association should be, as her work naturally demanded, with other helpers or servants in the house; but that at night, when the children gathered to hear the story read before going to bed, Missouri should join them. This arrangement, Mrs. Payne assured her, would allow her to go home before it was really dark.

As the hour of two approached, Col. Payne put on his broad-rimmed hat and started for the school house.

When he drew near to this seat of learning, he surveyed with curious interest a line of saddled horses and mules fastened to the fence, and an assemblage of plain-looking citizens engaged in earnest conversation under a group of trees near the door. A short distance beyond, he discovered Parson Brooks waging a spirited argument with two other members of the district—a fact made evident by the vigor with which he operated his peculiar gesture. Not recognizing a single acquaintance aside from his clerical friend, the colonel sat under an isolated tree, and, taking his knife from his pocket, picked up a stick, and indulged in the provincial pastime that betrayed his origin.

A half-hour passed away before any one entered the house. Some leading spirit suggested that it was time for business, and the sovereign citizens marched within—every man scrambling for the seat nearest the door. Another half-hour slipped by, during which plugs of tobacco were kindly handed around, pipes were charged and lighted, and a multitude of artistic designs were left on the floor. Finally a break occurred. William Carhart, or “Lyin’ Bill,” as he was called, was elected chairman, and called the meeting to order. Another long pause followed, when Joe Fitzgerald stated that, according to notice, they were to decide upon the length of the next school term; and he moved that it be six months. Then there was much whispering and subdued talking, and shaking of heads. The chair announced the presence of a distinguished stranger from who remarks would be gladly heard; but the stranger politely declined. Then a voice called for Parson Brooks; but he moved not. Another voice, and still another, until the whole assembly becoming vociferous, importuned the preacher; but he remained fastened to his seat.

“Git up and shell down, parson,” shouted a bold yeoman; “don’t be afeered.”

The parson with dignified sloth rose, posed, opened his mouth and spake:

“I wudn’t hev riz, Mister Cheerman, ef the gintleman hedn’t tuk tew devilin’ me with bein’ afeered. Parson Brooks is afeered o’ no man—not even the divil hisself. I reckin’ Mr. Cheerman, yo’ all knows how I stand on this yere subjick. I’m agin skewls an’ edication. Afo’ the waw, we hed peace an’ plenty, an’ a thousan’ cattle on a hill. We worked a leetle, an’ some hed niggahs tew work fur ’em. Hit was a beyewtiful pictur’. But hit’s done spiled now. The niggahs is gone, an’ ivery man must work fur hisself. An’ what fur does a man work? What fur does yo’ all throw the geahs ontew the mewls agin sunup an’ foller ’em ‘twixt the plough helves all day threw the hot sun till agin sundown? Hit’s to make a crap, hain’t it? Thin the cawn an’ the side meat an’ the shoulders thet yo’ don’t want fur yoreselves tew eat, yo’ sells tew them thet has money to buy and maouths tew feed. Hit’s maouths tew chaw thet we want. Thet’s all, gintlemen. Now, sah, skewls is agin maouths. The chillern gits new idees in the skewls, an’ they don’t want no more cawn nor bacon. They wants geyewgaws, gintlemen, geyegaws, and them’s not raised in the field; they comes from the city, an’ I reckin’ the divil makes ’em. Skewls ruins yore ma’ket, an’ makes the po’ farmer po’rer. They makes the chillern hanker ofter noice tricks; turns thar fingers white, an’ they don’t want tew work no mo’. Ef I had my way, I’d blow the skewls all up hintew the a’r, tew the prince o’ the powah o’ the a’r thet they belongs tew. But ez the law compills fo’ months, I’m fur gittin’ shet of all I kin, an’ I’ll amind by makin’ hit fo’ months.”

Great applause followed this outburst of conservative eloquence, in which demonstration the colonel, to his subsequent chagrin, found himself joining with great gusto. The amendment prevailed by a unanimous vote, and the parson was still great.

The second day after Missouri had entered her new sphere of life, “sunup” came, but she failed to appear. The day grew old, the sun declined, and no tidings of her detention came. Mrs. Payne began to be worried, and suggested that the girl might be ill, and the cause of her absence should be inquired into. The colonel looking out toward the lane, saw the parson passing by, and hailed him. He stopped, laid his hands upon the top of the fence, and waited till the colonel reached the gate. There was a marked change in his manner. He was distant and demure.

“Where’s Missouri to-day, parson? I hope no trouble has visited you?”

“Not in partic’lar, only in the gin’ral way.”

“Well, what is the general cloud that hangs over you?”

“Why, yo’ see,” said the parson, twisting about, fixing his eyes on the ground, and scraping the earth with one of his feet,—”yo’ see, I was ruther agin lettin’ of the gaerl go; but I ‘lowed ef she cud essit a neighbor, I hedn’t ortew let my feelin’s stand in the way. But she’s right pert in her ways, an’ whin she come home she ‘peared like she was puttin’ on o’ a’rs. She gethered the chillern ‘roun’ an’ tole ’em some yarn she’d heerd about kings an’ princes, an’ gold an’ foine rocks, an’ city criticals; and the leetle ‘uns was gittin’ all roiled up, an’ I come nigh tew whuppin’ of ’em tew make ’em lay down. Thin agin—ez I’ve got my finger in the book, I mout ez well lay hit wide open—she says she wasn’t axed to break bread with yo’ all.”

“Why, parson, it isn’t possible she was here a whole day without food?”

“No; not igzactly thet a-way; but she was made tew eat with yore sarvints.’

“Oh, that’s the trouble, is it? Well, nothing of the kind you refer to was intended by the arrangement. She took her meals with the cook and Mr. Beal, the foreman—very nice people, they are—and her eating with them was a matter of convenience, not a matter of distinction. No; the girl’s all right, parson. You’ll look at these things with a different eye some day. How do your glasses work?”

“The glaisses is all right. But ’bout the breakin’ o’ bread, I mout a’ been a leetle grain braish. Yo’ see eatin’ is a testifyin’ o’ friends. The Maister, I reckon, was greater ‘n the whull of us put tegither, an’ he picked up some dirty fishermen an’ always broke bread with ’em. But I must be gwine. I’m pround I’ve saw ye.”

Evidently, with a soothed and somewhat disburdened soul, the parson resumed his journey up the lane, and the colonel returned to the house.

“And what did you find to be the matter with Missouri,” asked Mrs. Payne, anxiously.

“Oh, she’s suffering from a slight attack of ‘Armygidden’; that’s all. To this general and metaphorical reply the colonel added a detailed statement of the parson’s grievances.

After this, Missouri was constant in her daily visits. Mrs. Payne too care to include her with the rest of the family in the occasional enjoyment of ripening fruits; and when the colonel was absent, and the regular order of things was temporarily interrupted, the girl participated in the “breaking of bread.”

She continued to be an enraptured auditor at the vesper story readings, and was shrewd enough not to “roil” the “leetle uns” at home by a rehearsal of what she heard. Long Jim hovered about at intervals, and tried to throw himself in the way of Missouri. But the object of his real but rude affections fixed her mind on the glittering appearances of a new world into which Jim had not dreamed of entering; and she avoided him more and more. Indeed, the soul of the girl had broken through the shell of its limited conditions, and was moving in the direction of a higher and broader intellectual sphere.

Chapter VI: “What Shall the Harvest Be?”

The summer passed away without any conspicuous event. The parson “tended his crap” and “laid it by.” The garden, industriously worked, was patiently creating for the happy family its winter stores of sugar-corn, beans, cabbage, onions, herbs and cotton. The shotes6 were getting ready to grind the corn into bacon. The tinkling of the little sheep bell broke the melancholy stillness that lay upon the mountain slope behind the cabin. The parson kept his regular “appintments” at the Hog-Eye church, brooded over the evil signs of the times, and fought the new civilization, or the “divil,” as he called it, at every point; but the Paynes did not attend his ministrations, chiefly on account of distance from the church, and the heat of the summer season.

With the coming of September the corn blades grew sere, and the heavy ears began to droop under their own weight as if tired of life. The gathering of the crop commenced. At sunrise the parson and his boys were in the field, armed with corn cutters. Twelve long rows of corn were cut and stacked for the landlord; then twice twelve for the tenant—alternating thus, until the hold standing crop was secured.

The colonel kept an eye on the division and was satisfied that it was faithfully and honestly executed.

“By the way,” said the colonel, as he complimented his tenant, over the fence, on the success of the crop, “if it suits you as well, I would be glad to have my share husked out and delivered as soon as possible, as I want to haul the fodder and cover it before the fall rains.”

“Hit shall be thet a-way,” responded the parson in pleasant cadence, “yore’s shell come aout of the shucks fust, and be carried tew the ben. But the roughniss—hit all belongs tew me.”

“What! you don’t give me a third of the fodder? Did you not understand distinctly that I was to have a third of the crop? You see, parson, that writings, after all, help people to remember.”

“Not at all, not at all,” replied the parson in a calm, winning tone, “writin’s is no ‘count. I heered ivery word whin yo’ all was a readin,’ an’ hit plum statid thet a third of the crap should go to the pa’ty of the fust pa’t, delivered hin the bin.”

“Just so; that’s what I say, a third of the crop,” the colonel made haste to rejoin, gathering encouragement from the completeness of the parson’s statement.

“But yo’ see,” returned the parson, boring the statement, with his finger nail, into the palm of his hand, “the crap is one thing, an’ the roughniss—hit is another. I shucks the years an’ cairies ’em tew yore ben—one third o’ the whull crap. But how cud I drap a third o’ the roughniss hinto yore ben. Yore ben hain’t big ‘nuf tew hol’ three shocks er mo’. The contrac’ is plum clar, kunnel, a third of the crap hin the ben. But the roughniss—hit all goes tew the pa’son. Don’t yo’ see, hit’s a plum, clar pint, eh?”

“Well,” said the colonel, impatiently, and manifesting a consciousness of defeat, “I suppose it will have to be so; but I am disappointed.”

“I’m moighty sorry yo’re disapp’inted. Thar’s no intention tew be cuntrary, nur we won’t hev no jowerin’ ’bout it. The roughniss is fur sale, kunnel, and the pa’son won’t be ha’d on ye, nuther.”

Fearing that he might give unpleasant utterance to his irritated thoughts, the colonel turned away and walked toward the house.

“Confound it!” said he to himself; “this is the second time the old chap has got the start of me. I wonder what’ll come next?” Thinking of a matter he had omitted to name to the parson, he turned back and called to him:

“Parson, as soon as the quail season opens, which will be in about two weeks, I expect some gentlemen down from the city for a hunt. I have allowed them the range of the whole farm.” And again he set his face homeward.

The parson made no reply, but muttered to himself, as he resumed his work:

“Mebbe he thinks them friends o’ his will ‘lope ’round’ on this yere forty acre paitch an’ cairy off right smart o’ the pattridges. He’ll foind aout they cain’t dew it. My possession, ‘cordin’ tew the contrac’, runs from Aprile to Aprile; an’ nary city criticals cain’t raise the divil on my premisies; no, not by a heap sight!”

Chapter VII: A Christian Falstaff

It was after sunset on a cool October evening, when Col. Payne, returning from the first meeting of the county agricultural fair association, opened the upper gate, and rode slowly along the serpentine track toward the house. Long Jim, who had evidently been looking for him about the premises, was making long strides toward the gate, and, as soon as the colonel passed out from the timber, confronted him.

“Howdy, mister—er kunnel! I was lookin’ fur ye. I was to the station this evenin’, an’ seen tew gintlemen that axed about ye.”

“What sort of looking gentlemen were they? Had they guns and hunting dogs?”

“No, sah; they hadn’t no huntin’ tricks. They looked like they was big railroad men er preachers, one. I told ’em how to git heah, and they said fur to tell yo’ they’d come ovah in the mawin’.”

The colonel thanked his informant, and rode to the house.

The next morning, while the colonel was writing in his library, he heard the latch of the upper gate rattle, and presently saw from his window, issuing from the wooded road, a pair of quick-stepping horses, driven at a brisk gait, and behind them two well-dressed gentlemen.

Before he had fairly risen from his chair, they were at the door, and he overheard one of them distributing orders like a commanding officer:

“Hitch my horses,”—to the foreman.

“Miss, please bring us a drink of cold water,”—to Missouri.

The colonel hesitated for a moment, and asked himself:

“Who can these gentlemen be? They are too brusque for preachers, and not polite enough for railroad officers. Their manner is quite like officers of the law. But, surely, there can be no execution out against me.”

He started for the porch, and arrived at the door just as Missouri had executed the order, and was cooling the visitors with a draught from the spring.

“Good morning, sir;—Colonel Payne, I believe!” said a stout gentleman in a black suit. “My name is Bascom, sir,—Reverend Bascom, sir—and this is my friend, Mr. Graves, who runs the largest Sunday-school in the city, and the third largest in the world. We are Sunday-school men, sir, and are out on an expedition to organize the southern part of the state; rather on the war-path, sir: and we have come over to take this valley for Christ.”

This announcement was so abrupt and rapid that it confused and astonished the colonel. When, in a moment, he regained his breath and self-possession, he mildly said:

“Walk in, gentlemen. I am glad to see you.”

“You have a delightful place here,” said Mr. Bascom, hurriedly.

“I enjoy it immensely,” said the colonel.

“Are you a Christian?” asked Mr. Bascom, authoritatively.

“I hope I am: I profess to be one,” said the colonel, somewhat startled. “Don’t you know you are?” asked Mr. Bascom, imperiously.

“The answer to that question might involve some discussion. You have been in the army, I take it, Mr. Bascom by the facility with which you move on the enemy,” said the colonel, slightly irritated.

“You’re right, sir; but not in your army. We do not take sides in politics, sir; we know nothing but Christ and him crucified. We’re for any man that’s for Christ—union man or rebel; high or low; black or white; drunk or sober. We wanted to see you, colonel, and others of your leading men. We have but a week to spend in the locality. Can you direct us to such as would help us about meetings, and to organize a Sunday-school?”

“Well, really,” answered the colonel, “I shall be happy to assist in making your visit pleasant and successful; but I am a comparative stranger here myself. From my observation, I conclude that nearly all the population about us is within the church. The parson is quite zealous, and baptizes large numbers at every meeting.”

“What parson is that, sir? A hard-shell, I suppose—opposed to railroads, and schools, and Sunday-schools, and progress generally—the very men that we have to fight the hardest.”

“Yes, he is a hard-shell, to be sure, and honestly opposes progress; but yet an honest man, and a sincere preacher in his way; and, from what I learn, he gives the people very lively preaching at times. His daughter is with us, and I can send her for him, if you like.”

“I wish you would, sir. Is that the girl that gave us water? Very pretty girl, sir, very pretty! I asked her if she was a Christian, but could get no answer. I suppose she’s a hard-shell church member; will make a good Sunday-school teacher, if she’s converted.”

Without answering the swift questions of his interlocutor, Col. Payne dispatched Missouri to say to her father that two gentlemen from the city were waiting to see him.

With fleet steps did Missouri descend the slope, glide along to the brook, trip across on the stepping-stones, and skip away to the field where her father was shucking corn.

Climbing to the top of the fence, she shouted with all her might:

“Ho, paw! ho, paw! come heah a minit, right quick.”

“What’s up? said her father, as he walked more briskly than usual to the fence.

“The kunnnel wants you tew come ovah right sune an’ see two gen’tlmen, thet’s a waitin’ fer yo’ from the city.”

“What gintlemen is they? Hev they got erry guns or doges with ’em?”

“Oh, no; they haint hunters, nur they haint no doges; they’re christian fighters!”

“Fighters, hey? Wal, did they do like they was goin to hurt the kunnel?”

“I don’t know; they mout. The follered him hintew the house; an’ I heerd ’em say they was in the army, an’ thet they was fightin’ hard-shells, an’ that they was gwyne to take the valley.”

“Oh, ho! they did, hey? It mout be thar’s trouble,” said the parson, fixing his eyes on the ground. “They didn’t hev no pistils did they?” looking anxiously up to Missouri.

“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t see no pistils. One of ’em asked me somethin’ that skeered me, an’ I cudn’t say nothin’. They mout have pistils; I reckin they did,—kivered under their coats. Yo’ must hurry up right quick, paw.”

“Wal, that is trouble, shore, ef they’s been insultin’ of yo’, an’ threatenin’ of the kunnel, an’ sayin’ they’s a gwyne tew fight the ha’d-shell!” said the parson, his excitement rising with every word till it thrilled through his whole frame. He laid his hands on the top rail and sprang over the fence with a bound, and made for the other side of the lane.

“Ho, Betsey: ho, Betsy;” he shouted with alarming force,—and his amiable spouse showed her head at the door.

“Fetch me the pistil an’ a few catridges right quick!”

The weapon was speedily handed to him at the gate, and he buckled the strap that held it about his waist.

“Now, Missouri, we’ll light aout.”—

“Betsy, leave me go! I gwyne tew pertect the kunnel agin some city criticals; some fighters thet’s a threat’nin’ of him,” said the parson, nervously, to his wife as she held his arm for an explanation. It was no time for extended remarks.

Away fled Missouri, and the parson behind her, up the lane. It was something extraordinary for the latter to increase his speed beyond a slow, measured walk; but this time he put distance behind him like a frightened mule. The longer the situation rested and worked in his mind, the more it disturbed and aroused him; and he accelerated his speed. Missouri kept in advance, and touched the stepping-stones across the brook with her little feet, like a robin. The parson was not so fortunate in passing the treacherous stream. On the third rock his foot slipped, and he fell into the water, face downward. The current carried his hat to the water-gate, and his spectacles parted from his eyes, and reposed among the pebbles at the bottom of the brook. He called to Missouri who instantly returned to his relief, and bravely rescued his umbrageous hat.

“The hat’s no ‘count; the glaisses is gone!” exclaimed the parson, having recovered a perpendicular attitude, and dripping like a duck in the middle of the stream; and his uncovered optics looked imploringly to his rescuer.

“Save the glaisses! save the glaisses, Missouri ef yo’ kin; I cain’t bar tew lose ’em m’ gaerl,” ejaculated the despairing preacher.

The girl, standing on a rock, watched the stream until the water recovered its transparency, when she seized the spectacles and restored them to his eyes. Having thus gathered together the scattered elements of his personality, the parson waded through the brook, and again fell into his double-quick step, laboring under increased impedimenta which his clothes and shoes had taken from the water.

By this time the cabin had poured out its numerous life. Betsey led the march, and was closely succeeded by the widow, the other girls, and the little ones—the procession tapering down from the agitated grandmother to the youngest grandchild—age, and ability with the feet, contolling the gradation., The hounds burst from the gate and yelped and howled, and ran back and forth along the scattered file like field marshals. The boys saw and heard the excitement, left their shucking and ran; the foreman and his helpers in a distant field witnessed the unusual clatter, dropped their implements and started for the house; and a general stampede set in for the colonel’s mansion. Discovering Long Jim just turning from the road into the lane, the parson shouted lustily and beckoned to him to make haste. Long Jim, certain that some uncommon crisis had occurred, measured the lane with immense strides, vaulted the picket fence, and gained the space in front of the porch just as Missouri and the parson came panting up the slope. Meanwhile, the colonel and his guests hearing the disturbance without, announced by the deep bark of the Newfoundland dog, had reached the porch; and, astonished at the scene before them, Rev. Mr. Bascom laid his hand patronizingly on the colonel’s shoulder, and was in the act of asking his host what it all meant, when the parson said to Jim, in great perturbation:

“Thar; he’s got the kunnel, shore! Come on, Jim; got yore pistil?”

“You bet I hev,” and they both drew their weapons simultaneously from their belts, holding them by their sides, as they stood like sentinels in front of the porch. The foreman arriving with his men in time to witness this act, rushed to the dining-room, snatched the colonel’s shot-gun from its rest, and joined the warriors in front.

For an instant all stood spell-bound to their places—a tableau of uncommon vivacity—the “Christian fighters” on the porch apparently holding the colonel prisoner; the workmen at their right, flanked by the female assistants and the Newfoundland dog and sixteen members of the Brooks family, supplemented by the hounds, looking through the fence, and from behind the spring curb—all fixed, and paralyzed with astonishment. Mrs. Payne and the children had come in from the orchard just in time to catch a glimpse of the warlike pageant, and burst into hysterical screams. All were confounded and shocked.

The colonel, whose soldierly instincts deserted him but for a moment, waved his hand toward the parson and his trusty compatriot, slipped from under the palm of his reverend guest, descended from the porch, and, in a composed military tone, exclaimed:

“What does all this mean?”

“That’s jist what we’uns is ofter findin’ aout,” said the parson. “The gaerl said thar was fighters heah, an’ I ‘lowed that was trouble, an’ I’d be wantin’ of m’ pistil, so I called Betsey fur tew fetch the pistil, an’ when I’d got hit, I lit aout, an’ run faister ‘n a houn’, an’ ez yo’ all kin see, fell plum hintew the brainch. I’m proud ef thar’s no ha’m. I az yore pa’don, gintlemen. I mint no ha’m.”

The parson had scarcely finished his apology, when the whole affrighted assembly burst into a boisterous laugh. The dogs joined in; the men suddenly disappeared; Long Jim sat down on the grass with his back to the porch and shook; and the line of march in the lane was reversed and moved toward the cabin—all retreating, humiliated and disappointed. The parson alone stood his ground, in a confused, hesitating mood—his hard-shell principles restraining him from so complete a capitulation.

“Come up,” said Mr. Bascom to the parson, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes; “come up and get acquainted with the fighters.”

The parson ascended to the porch, pumping the water in his shoes.

“The Rev. Mr. Bascom; and Mr. Graves,” said the colonel, introducing the visitors to the preacher, with a voice broken by his recent emotion.

“Glad to see you, parson,” said Mr. Bascom, promptly. “You’re right, we are fighters but our weapons are not of the sort you have mistakenly brought. We’re serving under the banner of Jesus Christ, and we’ve come to hold a meeting among your people and organize a Sunday-school.”

It was fortunate for the Sunday-school visitors that the awkward escapabe, which presented the parson in so humiliating a condition, had occurred. It had diverted the mind of the hard-shell from the merits of a proposition which, under ordinary circumstances, he would have met with stern opposition. As it was, he was inclined to atone for his blunder by exhibiting an accommodating spirit.

“Wal, what does yo’all ‘low I kin dew fur ye?” said the parson, proceeding to soothe his spirit by a fresh application of his narcotic plug.

“Why, sir, we want your co-operation, in general, and your permission to gather the people in your house of worship,” said Mr. Bascom.

“Ez tew assistin’ of yo’ gintlemen, I caint make no promises, fur hit’s a busy time; nur I caint promise ye the place o’ worship, nuther; but yo’ kin see the deakins—they mout eccommodate ye.” And the parson directed them to the residences of these officers.

“Well,” said Mr. Bascom, “our time is short. We are grateful for your kindness, parson, and for yours, colonel, and hope to see you all at the church at Hog-Eye on Sunday. We shall have a good time.”

The “Christain fighters” took their departure, and the parson walked deliberately and meditatively back to the cabin.

The next day, which was Saturday, there appreared in every direction throughout Fairview valley, printed notices, posted on fences and trees, announcing a mass-meeting at the Hog-Eye church on the approaching Sabbath.

Chapter VIII: The Commencement of Hostilities

Sabbath morning quietly dawned, and looked over the hills into the dale already mellowing into the tints of autumn. In due time the colonel’s family was loaded into the family carriage, and moved quietly away towards Hog-Eye—three miles distant. The parson mounted his mule and paced slowly to the church. Long before the appointed hour of meeting, the hills poured down a trickling stream of humanity—men, women, and children—on foot, and in crowded wagons; women wearing long sun-bonnets, riding on horses and mules, and some carrying babies in their arms, with one or two children sitting behind the saddle on a blanket. Long Jim was there; and Missouri was there, wearing a pretty broad-brimmed hat and a new calico dress cut according to the prevailing style of the city.

The church which stood on a modest but picturesque hill, surrounded by oaks, was soon filled beyond its reasonable capacity, and a multitude stood on the outside, about the door and windows. Promptly at the hour appointed, Rev. Mr. Bascom rose and introduced himself and friend, and explained the object of his visit. Little songbooks were distributed to the audience, and the visitors led in the singing of melodies and poetry quite strange to their audience, except to the Paynes. They delivered stirring addresses profusely illustrated, and abounding in stories from the bible, and stories of those who had risen to be great men from Sunday-school children—presidents, statesmen, and noted preachers. When the speeches had closed Mr. Bascom called for Parson Brooks. The audience scanned itself in every direction, but the parson did not respond, and was not to be seen.

“He’s lit out, half hour ago,” said Long Jim, frightened at the visual focus he made of himself by this announcement.

Without further delay the missionaries came down among the audience and organized the Sunday-school—electing officers and teachers, and enrolling a large number of children for classes. They distributed in great variety and abundance, illustrated papers, cards and songbooks, and appointed the first regular session for the next Sunday. The audience was dismissed. All were evidently pleased, dazed, and bewildered. Hog-Eye had never looked upon a pageant of so brilliant and gaudy an aspect.

Long Jim accompanied Missouri to Brookdale, and many were the exclamamtions of wonder and delight they expressed over what they had seen and heard.

After dinner, Missouri, determined to share her joy with the less fortunate members of her father’s household, obtained permission to visit the cabin. With a full assortment of the literary treasure she had brought from the church, augmented by some contributions from the Paynes, she went with warm haste to display them to her brothers and sisters. As she entered the door of the cabin she found the parson, as was his custom, with the large bible on his knees, expounding the story of Adam’s fall to his obedient audience. The moment he raised his eyes from the book, he discovered the bundle which the girl carried on her arm, and asked gravely:

“What’s them, Missouri? Fetch ’em heah.”

The girl obeyed, and tremblingly placed the bundle on her father’s lap. He opened, and spread its contents, carefully inspecting them one by one, as the children gathered in wild amazement about his knees; and Betsy looked over his shoulder with wonder and silent joy.

“Whar did yo’ git’em at, Missouri?”

“At the meetin’ this mawin’,” answered the girl, with quivering lip.

“Wal,” said the parson, opening the snapping brands with his foot, “the leetle tricks is moighty illigent like, an’ I reckin’ yo’ all would be disaapinted at what I’m bout tew dew, but heah they goes”—and he laid them on the red, angry coals.

“Oh, paw!” exclaimed Missouri, as she jumped instinctively to rescue her possessions from instant ruin.

“Stop! gaerl, don’t git roiled nur finicky,” said the parson in tender but authoritative tone, as he prevented her action with his arm. “They belongs tew the divil, an’ ef he wants e’m he kin gether ’em aout of the smoke. I reckon he’s used tew the smoke.”

There was a look of blank and irrational disappointment in the faces of the young Brookses as they saw this brilliant show dissolve in flame and curl up the big throat of the chimney in thick, blue smoke.

Missouri, unable to restrain her tears, passed softly out of the door, and gave full vent to her grief as she walked by the hounds that licked her empty hands, and returned through the lane to the colonel’s house. Mrs. Payne saw her ascending the slope towards the house, and remarked upon the refined expression of her countenance, her improved manner and speech, and that, if she were only educated, she would make an elegant wife for somebody. Col, Payne coincided with this view, and reflected that Missouri’s future depended wholly upon the issue of the parson’s battle of “Armygiddin.”

During the week that followed, little was seen of the parson, except when he came to deposit his loads of corn in the colonel’s bin. Indeed, he seemed shy of his landlord, and several times he was observed to ride by without so much as turning his face toward the house; and a grave solemnity rested on his countenance. Long Jim brought the information that there was much commotion in the valley over the visit of the Sunday-school men; that the parson was sorely offended at the organization of the Sunday-school; that he had compassed the valley by personal visitation, gathering and destroying the seeds of mischief that had been sown by the “fighters,” and endeavoring to restore the wayward brethren to their old allegiance; that he was packing his spiritual ordnance with a heavy load which he proposed to discharge at the devil and all his recent innovations on the next Sunday;—in short, that Parson Brooks was prepared to open the battle of “Armygiddin.”

Chapter IX: The Parson Moves Upon the Enemy

The eventful Sunday arrived, and the sun and clouds disputed its possession. Very early in the morning the parson stood within the cabin, watching the horizon and the shifting clouds, until he had completed his augury, when he announced to Betsey:

“The signs is all favor’ble; the mewn drapped aroun’ right sma’t tew the no’th laist night; it will be kewl, an’ thar is no fallin weathah tew come tew-day.”

He directed the boys to “cairy the mewls tew the stable an’ put on the geahs; place a leetle roughniss in the wagin-bed fur the chillern tew set on; an’ the tew cheers in front for paw an’ maw; an’ hev all things ready agin the quarter.”

Shortly after nine o’clock the parson’s wagon rattled up the lane, transporting a large portion of the Brooks family, including Missouri, to the church. This event suggested to Col. Payne the necessity of an early start, and within an hour his carriage followed, freighted with his entire family. The same tide of humanity that gathered on the previous Sunday, was seen flowing and converging toward the church hill at Hog-Eye. The assemblage was even larger than that of the week before, and a look of solemn expectancy was in every face. The colonel arrived soon enough to secure a seat for Mrs. Payne and the children, but himself stood in the aisle, held in his place by a packed and eager crowd. Behind the desk, in grave and rustic pomp, sat the parson, supported by two of his clerical brethren. When one of these had offered an appropriate invocation, a hymn rolled out from a hundred throats in billows of plaintive melody, set to the minor key. Then the parson read from the second cChapter of the Acts of the Apostles, as far as to the list of the nationalities—’Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, and dwellers in Mesopotamia,’ etc.—when his pronunciation became hopelessly entangled, and he recommended to his people to finish the chapter at their homes. After another hymn he arose, opened his bible, moved his eyes over the audience until the stillness of the grave rested upon it, and slowly read his text:

“Hwo untew yo’ scribes an’ phar’sees, hippercrites; fur ye compass sea an’ land tew make one pros’lyte; an’ whin he is made, ye make him tewfold mo’ a child o’ hell then yo’selves.”

“A heap o’ times, my breathering, yo’ve saw the brainch pow’ful full aftah a big rain. [Rising to a sing-song, ecstatic tone.] The clouds begins tew roll from the nor’wist-ah; black an’ terrible like the day o’ judgment was come-ah; an’ the thundah rolls, an’ the light’nin hit streaks an’ jiggers threw the heavins-ah, like the divil hed turned lewse the fars of hell-ah; an’ thar’s a moighty treminjious cloud-ah—black like the da’kist night, whin hit’s the da’k o’ the mewn-ah, an’ hit’s a’ movin’, an’ a ma’chin’, tell hit lights on the mountain-ah; then, my brethering, she springs a’leak-ah, an’ busts on the mountain-ah; an’ the watah begins tew run, an’ po, an’ the streams run down the side o’ the mountin-ah; an’ they lays thar hends on the watah-gates an’ cairies ’em along-ah; an’ they tumbles an’ biles, an’ roars-ah; an’ they jines in the big brainch-ah, an’ the whull tegither makes a tremenjious flood-ah. Hit axes no man’s leave-ah; hit steals the crap on the bottom-ah , an’ licks in the logs an’ the bresh-ah; an’ runs, an’ tumbles, an’ foams like hit was mad-ah, tew cairy destriction tew the big rivah-ah. Thin [dropping to natural tone] the Lo’d lays his big hend on the stawm, an’ says—Peace, be still! An’ the clouds breaks an’ disappeahs, an’ the sun comes aout tew see hit’s friends once mo’; and the trees an’ the bresh is a’ weepin’ an’ cryin’ like they hed bin doin’ o’ wrong.

“But, my breathering, [rising to the ecstatic tone] one of yo’ all hed wint tew the Knob7 afore the stawm-ah; tew git kofee an’ tricks fur his family ah; an’ whin he seed the clouds a’ comin’ an’ the lightin’ a’ streakin-ah, an’ the heavins was black-ah, an’ he heerd the thundah a’ pealin’-ah, an’ he jist shifted his mind tew the ole woman an’ the leetle uns in the cabin-ah, an’ hoped they was a’ settin’ on the Lo’d’s lap a’whilst he was away-ah; an’ thin ez the stawm give way-ah, an’ the sun hit shines aout agin-ah, he minds his home-ah; he turns his mewls towards the cabin-ah, an’ whups ’em right smart with his blacksnake-ah; an’ ez he was a’ crowdin’ of ’em-ah, an’ qwine down the hill tew the brainch on a plum run-ah,—that! thar, on the t’othah side of the brainch is one which knows the danjah ahead of him-ah, an’ he hollers; hwo! hwo! yo’s a drownded man; hwo! hwo! yo’re gwine tew faist-ah. [Natural tone.] He saves his life, an’ the lifes of his brewts.

“So hit was in the days of Jesus Christ. [Ecstatic tone.] The divil hed raised a big stawm of iniquity-ah, an’ the streams hed riz plum full-ah, an’ danjah was ahead-ah; the people was a rushin’ an’ a tarrin’ towards hit-ah; the scribes an’ the pharsees, an’ the hippercrites, an’ lawyers-ah, was a rushin’ down the hill-ah, a’ carryin’ thar foine garmints, an’ flacteries-ah, an’ sweepin’ away of widders’ houses an’ the keys o’ knowlidge with ’em-ah, an’ shettin’ the do’ of heavin-ah, an’ thinkin’ they was betterin’ thar way with anise an’ cummin-ah,—whin behole’-ah! on t’othah side stan’s the Lo’d-ah, on the iverlastin’ rock-ah, all a drippin’ with the stream he’s wint threw hisself-ah, an’ he hollers tew ’em, ‘Hwo! hwo, untew yo’ scribes, pharsees an’ hippercrites—yo’re gwine tew faist.’

“An’ now, my brethering, [natural tone] I’m comin’ right plum tew the pint. Afo’ the waw we was a happy people; thar was peace an’ plenty in the cabin; ivery man raised his crap, an’ hed enough an’ tew spar. As a mattah of coase thar was sin right smart, an’ the people was tew be kinvurted; but we fit the divil hisself, far an’ squar. He hedn’t no scribes, nur phar’sees, nur lawyers, nur hippercrites tew help him. The do’ wasn’t shet nuther; hit was the ole do’ thet open’d hintew the watah; But, [ecstatic tone] trouble come with the waw-ah; an’ whilst I hed ruther lose m’ mewls-ah, an’ geahs-ah, an’ all thet I’ve gathered by the sweat of m’ brow-ah, then tew hurt the feelins of erry man-ah; yit, my brethering-ah, I recolickt thet I’m the sarvint of the Lo’d-ah, an’ speak the trewth, whither men will heah, or whether they will forbar-ah. The scribes an’ phar’sees, an’ hippercrites, an’ lawyers, an’ city criticals hez come-ah, with thar foine clothes-ah; they hez shet the do’-ah; an’ they axes m’ people tew climb up tew heavin’ some othah way-ah; though some of ’em (bless the Lo’d!) hez done already clim up the right way-ah; they is tryin’ tew rush the people tew heavin’ on the back of skewls, an’ Sunday-skewls-ah, an’ neyewspapahs, an’ picturs-ah, an’ soljer songs-ah, an’ shinin’ tricks-ah; an’ in this yere way they’s a-shoutin’ like they was the gin’rals of a army-ah; thet they’s about tew take the whull valley-ah. But [natural tone] they foun’ Pa’son Brooks on the rompa’t, with the trumpit tew his maouth; an’ he’s not afeerd tew hollor at ’em like his Maistah did: Hwo! hwo, yo’re gwine te faist.

“Oh, my people-ah, [ecstatic tone] ef yo’ only know’d how the divil-ah, is deceivin’ in his new clothes-ah, an’ flacteries-ah, an’ gittin’ away with ye afo’ yo’ knows hit-ah! Hit brings me pain-ah, like a knife was run hintew my h’art-ah—what I’ve been hearin’-ah, that some o’ my people has been gwine tew balls-ah, an theaters-ah, an’ even’ah, even, my breathering-ah, tew agricultural fars-ah! Ez shore ez thar’s a God in heavin’-ah, hit’ll never dew-ah. Yo’ all is tew braish-ah, an’ I say untew yo’: Hwo! hwo, yo’re gwine tew faist.

“An’ ef I’ve saw the signs a’right-ah, hit’s moighty few of ye thet’s awar o’ what yo’re comin’ tew-ah. Thar’s a big battle a-wagerin’-ah, an’ yo’ don’t know hit-ah. Hit’s the battle of Armygidden-ah, thet’s spoken of in the epocryphecary-ah. Hit’s a fight agin the divil, along the whull line-ah. Lis’n at me, my brethering-ah! The divil is a preparin’ tew whup the people of the Lo’d-ah. He don’t bring no guns nur cannons tew the front fust-ah. He keeps them in the rare-ah. The scribes an’ phar’sees, an’ hippercrites, an’ lawyers-ah, he’ll git ’em, an’ hol’ ontew ’em, sho-ah! But them thet’s the Lo’d’s, he’s a-fixin’ tew take by strategory-ah. He’s deceivin’ of the very elict-ah. He’s a’clothin’ of hisself in the garble of a false prophit-ah, an a-sayin’ sweet, saft things thet pleases yore years-ah. He’s a-bringin’ of picturs an’ pritty songs-ah, an’ a-makin’ of ye love-sick-ah. He’s aftah the whull of ye-ah; and when he’s wropped his foine silky-like caud aroun’ ye-ah, an’ carried yo’ all hintew his camp-ah—then yo’ shell look behind-ah, an’ afo’-ah, an’ tew the right-ah, an’ his big guns will be lookin’ at yo’-ah, with thar maouths wide open-ah, on ivery side-ah. Thar’ll be weepin-ah, an’ whalin-ah, an’ nashin’ of teeth-ah! I say unto you: Hwo! hwo, yo’re gwine tew faist-ah. Stop-ah! stop, my people-ah, afo’ hit’s fo’iver, too late-ah!’

The foregoing is a verbatim report of portions of a discourse that lasted for an hour and a quarter. It seemed, even to the Payne family, but a few minutes. The parson’s voice and manner, like his theme, rose by gradual accumulations of force, rolling into a wave that broke against the hearts of his hearers, as the sea surf breaks upon the beach. At the commencement of his periods the speaker seized his auditors as by some subtle power, and their bodies vibrated as he rose nearer the climax, faster and faster, until they let off their aching inspiration in an audible groan. The colonel was at first surprised to see Mrs. Payne and the children surging with the rest of the audience; but when he looked at the wall he became conscious of his own pendulous motion, and with difficulty held himself steady by embracing the end of a bench. Following the sermon the parson went down on his knees and offered a prayer from the depths of his troubled soul, full of sulphurous and pyrotechnic expression, but flavored with tenderness and mercy. Then he pronounced a benediction, and the audience slowly and solemnly passed out, and the colonel with his family drove rapidly home to Brookdale.

Chapter X: Table-Talk at the Payne Mansion

At the dinner table, the younger members of the colonel’s family, as might be expected, were profuse in their sallies of sharp and humorous criticism, and bursts of merriment, over the performance of the day. Mrs. Payne took the case to heart. She remarked that “such a performance was positively demoralizing to the children.” The cautious and philosophical colonel reserved his comments until he retired to his library.

When he had gained the seclusion of his sanctum, and the rest of the family had settled down to the usual absorption of Sunday reading, he turned to his wife and remarked thoughtfully:

“This sermon of the parson’s really affords an interesting subject for study.”

“I am glad you find anything in it to study about,” said Mrs. Payne; “for my part, I think it is simply abominable for intelligent people to listen to such ignorant vaporings.”

“But you were interested, were you not?” asked the colonel, smiling.

“Only to get through as soon as possible,” answered Mrs. Payne.

“I am sure your were enthused, like the rest of the audience, for I saw you swaying,” exulted the colonel.

“You must be mistaken, colonel. The physical excitement was the feature at which I was most disgusted, and from which I intensely recoiled.”

“Yet I caught you vibrating, and the children, too; and to my surprise, I became a pendulum myself. Really, the parson was eloquent—simply, genuinely eloquent. Don’t you think so?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Mrs. Payne, “his own people were deeply affected; but that sing-song tone, and those ‘ahs’ at the end of every clause, were simply fearful.”

“But you must remember,” remarked the colonel, “that people of uncultivated minds must be reached largely through the physical organism; and with them the nervous system, to some extent, takes the place of the understanding. The parson’s own ignorance served him a good turn in the selection and adaptation of his text. For his purpose it was a capital hit.”

“Better ‘n a circus,” interrupted the juveniles, “please let us go again.”

“There it is,” continued the colonel, “the parson has that faculty which the cold intellectualism of the city lacks. He interests his hearers (with an occasional exception) and they want to go again. But as to the ‘ahs,’ I have often heard this sort of preaching during war times, and wondered how this peculiar particle originated. It appears to be a convenient rest for the voice, while the succeeding clause is getting ready to come forth. It strikes me that its rhetorical use may have a very ancient and honorable example and analogon. There are the Greek particles, ‘te’ and ‘de,’ over which scholars have been puzzled. It may be that Demosthenes employed them in his famous orations for a voice-rest, just as the hard-shell uses his ‘ah.’ And Homer may have used them to chink up his verses. The South has been more provincial than the North, even more so than New England. Their manner of life has made them so. And the poorer classes of the South have retained, with remarkable accuracy, some of the old Saxon words that have almost vanished from our ordinary parlance.

“As to his position, I am inclined to throw my sympathy with the parson, although he hit me a slight rap for attending the Fair. The Sunday-school men have been too fast, or too ‘brash’ as he says. I intimated as much to them beforehand. It is a matter of conscience and deep feeling with the parson. Our civilization, with its dashing usages in education and religion, is rushing too recklessly over the lines of customs that have been undisturbed for more than two centuries. It’s much like a Norman conquest. Better let these people come to new things gradually and in their own way.”

The parson carried in his bosom the consciousness of triumph and a victory won. For him the battle of Armageddon had been substantially gained. The peace of his soul brought a pleasant smile to his face, but this peace was not entirely unbroken. He was worried about Missouri. She had absorbed much by contact with cultivated people, and the parson could discover that her mind was slowly drifting out of the little inlet that inclosed his world, into the broad, open sea. She had learned to read, and in spite of her precautions, the fact had become known to her family.

Chapter XI: On the Wing

The 16th of October was a clear, bright day. A recent rain had washed away the smoke from the sky. The tints that were woven in the coat of many colors that clothed the hills, had grown distinct and gorgeous, and the air was balmy and delicious.

Tempted by these circumstances, and embracing the first indulgences of the law, sportsmen, with restless dogs and ample trappings, poured out of the city in every direction to carry disturbance to the domains of poor ‘bob white.”

It was ten o’clock, when two young lawyers—Joseph Campbell and Robert Lane—drove down the lane, and fastened their horse to the fence midway between the Payne mansion and the parson’s cabin. They were attired in natty hunting suits of velvet and corduroy, and were armed with the newest patterns of breech-loading guns. Two sleek and impatient setters were let down to the ground, and grew irrepressible in their eagerness to try the field. While the gentlemen were buckling on their bags and belts, and curbing the spirits of the dogs, a covey of quails flew by and alighted near a copse that covered the corner of the forty-acre field under lease to the parson. The sportsmen hurried down the lane, climbed the fence separating the colonel’s premises from the road, pushed toward the parson’s patch, and let loose the dogs. It was the paradise of these creatures, and, following their keen noses, they described any number of graceful curves and parabolas, unitl they struck a direct trail leading through the fence surrounding the parson’s field. Over the fence and into the parson’s temporary dominions bounded those innocent trespassers, and immediately came to a stand.

“Hurry over, Joe,” said Lane, who lingered behind to adjust his trappings, “keep the dogs steady, and don’t flush the birds till I come.” Campbell softly climbed the fence and stood still, while the motionless setters, with raised fore-foot and extended nose, presented a study for a Landseer.8 Lane made hast to join his companion, and just as he had reached the top of the fence—bang! went a shot from the copse. The dogs started; the covey raised and whirred across the field. The hunters shouted at the dogs and brought them down. Turning about to see what evil-minded being had robbed them of this tempting overture to a day’s sport, behold! the parson emerged from the brush, with gun on his shoulder and pistol in his belt.

“You dog-goned old sinner,” said Campbell, as he leveled his two shining barrels at the parson’s head, “what are you doing here? Drop your gun, and throw up your hands, or I’ll knock those glass windows from your dog-goned old head.”

Instantly the parson rested his gun on the ground, drew his navy revolver from his belt, and pointed it at Campbell.

“I reckin I kin stand them leetle shot of yo’rn ef yo’ kin stand a couple o’ my cat’ridges,” said the parson, in mild and resolute tone, while he stood as if petrified in his tracks.

Campbell’s gun drooped until it swung down under his arm.

“Tell us, old man, who you are, and what business you have here, flushing our quail and spoiling our dogs? The colonel gave us the run of his farm, and this is his field, is it not?” said Lane, coolly.

“Not in pertic’lar, only in a gin’ral way,” answered the parson, as he dropped the pistol by his side, “Yo’ see, the kunnel owns the field, but I rints hit an’ makes the crap; an’ from Aprile tew Aprile hit’s mine.”

“But you don’t rent the birds—they can’t be yours?”

“In a gin’ral way they be. They was haitched in my crap, an’ they feed’s off my cawn.”

“Oh, well; come on, Bob, we can’t stop to fool with this old rooster,” said Campbell, out of patience, and the hunters returned over the fence into the colonel’s unquestioned domain.

“Stop!” said the parson, walking to the fence. “My name is Brooks. I live in yon cabin. Hit won’t dew tew be devilin me, nur callin’ of me names.”

“And we are Kentucky gentlemen, sir, and will settle with you at the close of the day,” rejoined Campbell, excitedly.

The parson walked back to the cabin with the burden of a new trouble resting on his soul.

“I’ve driv ’em from the field, shore,” said he to Betsey, as she cast an inquiring glance over the pickets of the gate. They walked together into the cabin, and the parson returned his trusty weapons to their pegs.

“The criticals ‘ll hang up with the kunnel agin night, an’ afo’ thet time Missouri ‘ll be safe in the cabin,” he audibly reflected.

The preacher was destined to disappointment. Tennessee, who had succedded to her sister in the regular duty of “packin’ watah” from the spring, was necessarily absent for the day, and Missouri was to relieve her in the performance of the midday task, and would pass down the lane.

Midday came. The sportsmen had compassed a portion of the farm in a vigorous campaign. They had met the colonel, who enjoyed the story of their fray with the parson, and from whom they received a general description of the distinguished character they had confronted. And now, with encouraging success, they had returned to the wagon. The panting dogs sprawled in the shade. Their masters took from the vehicle a loaded lunch basket, and seated themselves on the ground to satisfy their whetted appetites, when Missouri approached with a bucket resting on her head.

“A pleasant chance for water is coming,” said Lane.

“And a pleasant chance to see a pretty country girl,” said Campbell.

“Reach me the canteen, Joe,” said Lane.

“Don’t get up, Bob; I’ll attend to this deal,” said Campbell.

He drew from the wagon a relic of war accouterments, stepped toward the girl, gracefully raised his hat, and said:

“Miss, can you spare us a little water?”

“Certainly,” replied Missouri, placing the bucket at his disposal. Campbell filled his canteen, while he fixed his eyes on the striking features of the girl. Returning the bucket, he placed in her hand a small roll of fractional currency.

She blushed, seized her pail, and hurried on.

“By Jove! Bob,” he exclaimed, “she’s the prettiest girl I ever saw!”

“Hard to beat, for a fact,” said Lane.

“Sweet, refined expression in her face,” said Campbell.

“Dainty little hands,” said Lane.

“A delicate little foot, too, if it was only covered by a decent shoe. See! she turns toward the hut. It isn’t possible she belongs to that old cadger,” said Campbell, with curious anxiety.

“It must be,” said Lane. “The colonel’s daughter wouldn’t tote water to that hut. Ha, ha! How do you feel now about settling with the old man to-night, old boy?”

“There’s a new and somewhat complicated interest in that little job, sure,” said Campbell.

“How about the old revolver, Joe; are you prepared to face it?”

“Face anything, Bob; surrender, throw up my hands, get down on my knees, ask his pardon—do anything for a chance to meet the girl again.”

“A heap easier to surrender, under the circumstances, than to fight the old man. He’ll be too many for you, Joe, I reckon. The colonel says he’s a hard-shell preacher, and that’s a guarantee that he’s a good fighter.”

“Give the dogs a bite, Bob, and let’s take the field again. I’ll work up the old man’s case while we fill our bags.”

While they gathered and replaced in the wagon the receptacles of the lunch, and were readjusting their bags and belts, Long Jim passed by, accompanied by his little dog, and turned through the gate to the cabin.

“What gawky giant can that be, I wonder,” said Campbell.

“Confounded hard looking case,” said Lane; “and he carries the mate to the preacher’s pistol in his belt.”

“He goes to the cabin to reinforce the preacher, for a fact,” said Campbell, with a pale, reflective look.

“The case does grow complicated, Joe. There’s a lively time before you to-night, old fellow,” said Lane. “But come; call the dogs, and let’s move around the other side of the old man’s field.”

The hunters walked down the lane and passed the cabin, near which the parson and Jim stood engaged in some spirited interview. Around the forbidden field they continued their course, and into more distant areas of the colonel’s possessions, the cracking of their guns announcing their winding and irregular course, until the sun sank behind a bank of threatening clouds, when they returned to the lane.

“A storm is evidently rising, Joe,” said Lane. “I will drive to the colonel’s, and you go over and settle your account with the preacher. What’s the matter, Joe? Has your pluck left you?”

“No, Bob; not that. I was thinking what a poor figure I shall cut with No. 8 shot against two navy revolvers,” said Campbell, as he raised his white anxious face against the black heavens.

“You can surrender, I reckon. Let me take your gun, and you go unarmed. You’ll have no trouble then; and if you work your cards right, you’ll have a right smart chance to see the damsel while you capitulate to her father. So be off, old fellow, and meet me at the colonel’s later.”

They parted. Lane drove up to the colonel’s house with the dogs and guns, and Campbell went down the lane, with undecided and thoughtful steps, to the cabin.

As he opened the gate, the hounds heralded his approach. The door of the cabin, which stood ajar to admit the light, was thrown back on its wooden hinges, and the face of Betsey, which first appeared in the frame-work of the opening, was at once substituted by the uncovered head of the parson.

“Wal, sah, what’s wantin’?” said the preacher, as he received the large pistol from the hands of his wife. “Whar’s yo’re gun at? Hevn’t yo’ got no pistil ’bout ye?”

“I want nothing special, sir. I come entirely unarmed.”

“But I ‘lowed yo’d came tew settle; yo’all said yo’ was Kaintucky gintlemen.”

“So, we are, sir; but we’ve concluded not to settle in that way.”

“Come in, then,” said the parson, stepping to the fire-place and returning the pistol to its peg. “Pa’son Brooks is not a man o’ waw. Take a cheer.”

Campbell seated himself in the chair placed for him before the bright fire, and the parson filled and lighted his cob pipe.

“We were, quite likely, a little hasty this morning, Mr. Brooks. It was provoking, as you can see, to have our dogs broken on the first stand. But we believe you meant to protect your rights; and if this apology is acceptable, give us your hand.”

Campbell accompanied these words of conciliation by the extension of his hand to the parson, but the latter did not respond,—while he pressed the burning contents of his pipe with his forefinger.

“Thar was names throwed at me, sah. Ef them is tuck back, the pa’son is willin’ tew knock aout the widge an’ let the split come tegither.”

“Certainly, we apologize for the names,” said Campbell, still holding out [his] hand.

“This yere’s good ez fur ez hit goes; but Pa’son Brooks don’t talk tew much with ‘is hend. Hends ‘ll jine—pervided hit’s tew squar the deal in the field; an’ no mo’. But the pa’son’s hend shell be clar from all the gin’ral works o’ onrightousniss.”

“I don’t quite understand you, Mr. Brooks.”

“Mebbe yo’ don’t. Yo’ see, the pa’son ripresints the Maistah, an’ his disciples thet was plain squar men, with no larnin nur gewgaws; an’ yo’-all ripresints the devil and”—

“The what! sir?” interrupted Campbell, withdrawing his hand, and rising from his seat with a bound as if a whole jar of electricity had been poured on him. His eye flashed upon the parson, but at the same instant caught sight of Missouri, who leaned against the logs behind her father—her pretty face lighted up by the blaze in the fire place and her little hands carelessly joined at her waist,—and she drew from the stranger his full store of anger; and he sank limp and subdued into his chair.

“Wait a bit; don’t git roiled,” continued the parson, “I was only a-sayin’ thet yo’-all ripresints the gewgaws, foin clothes, railroads, Sunday-skewls, city trick an’ the divil gin’rally. Don’t git roiled, sah. Now, ‘lowin’ thet the jinin’ o’ hands jines what I ripresints, an’ what yo’-all ripresints in a gin’ral way,—why, sah, I caint dew hit. But ef th’ hends jines only on th’ jowerin’ thet tuk plaice in the field, an’ is druv plum down to this yere, why heah’s m’ hend.”

The hands at last came together, and then resumed their places.

[D]uring this somewhat excited scene, the clouds had rolled their noisy and flashing artillery over the valley, and the rain was decending in torrents. Quite unconscious of this condition of the elements, Campbell rose to depart, when the parson stepped to the door, which Betsy had quietly closed, opened it slightly and made a hasty observation:

“Yo’ caint go yit, sah; hit po’s down pow’ful; the brainch is runnin’ ovah, an’ yo’ll not see the kunnel to-night. Don’t git finicky. Yo’ll break bread with us an’ lay down with us, an’ we’ll hend yo’ ovah to the kunnel agin sunup.”

It would be difficult to describe the awkward and complicated state of mind with which Campbell yielded to the necessity so authoritatively pronounced by the parson. He was delighted to embrace a longer opportunity to study the attractions of Missouri; but as those attractions would soon be obscured for the night, he revolved the problem of his possible entertainment in the contracted cabin. The “breaking of the bread” presented no formidable obstacle, for the table already displayed an abundant supply, the distribution of which his visit had thus far delayed. But the addition of a stranger to the horde of human beings that now almost filled the room, wherein he could see but a single bed, suggested a problem in domestic economy which overmastered any intricacy that had ever confronted Joseph Campbell, Esq., in his practice at the bar. Yet he was soothed and beguiled by the color of romance in which the problem was enveloped, and resolved to meet his fate.

“Set by an’ take a leetle ko-fee with us, Mistah,” said the parson, in mild, cordial inflection.

The two chairs were placed at the ends of the table, for the host and the hostess; a third, brought from the loom shed, was set for the visitor; and a bench, used as a stand for the water-bucket, served for the support of the widowed daughter and Missouri, while the remainder of the family quietly waited for a second table.

The parson said grace, and the stranger was immediately charged upon by a line of boiled and roasted ‘possum, bacon, sweet potatoes, smoking corn bread, beans, corn, preserved fruit, pie, and “sweet cake.” Coffee was added, with sorghum syrup for sweetening. The absence of cream, milk and butter was explained by the announcement that “the cow had n’t come up, hit’s been now a week.”

Campbell, animated by an appetite which the day’s tramp had induced, acquitted himself with honor in his contest with the edibles that were marshalled before him in rapid succession, and returned with his host, in excellent humor, to contemplate the fire, fed anon with oaken shavings from the parson’s workshop. Having drawn from his breast pocket a case of fine cigars, he presented it to his host, who refused, with a manifest resentment, these “city tricks,” and proceeded to fill and light his cob pipe.

Noiselessly the supper was dispatched by the numerous second table, and its remnants as quietly disappeared.

While the visitor and his host chatted in friendly dialogue over reminiscences of the war, Betsey was engaged in deftly transporting from the cupboard quilts and comforts, which she spread upon the floor. The parson threw a clean shaving on the fire, which lighted the room with a fresh glare; then took from its shelf the big bible, from which he read a brief extract; then dropped upon his knees and commended to divine keeping his family and “the stranger within the gate.”

When he rose from his knees a solemn stillness pervaded the cabin, and the light of the last shaving was flickering away. Campbell looked about and saw the floor covered with peaceful, sleeping life. The Betsy approached him, and in a sweet, winning tone, said:

“Mebbe yo’d like to lay down?”

“Thank you; I’m in no haste, madam.”

“Wal, when yo’re wearied, lay down heah,” she said, pointing to the remnant of the floor behind his chair, at the end of a long row of Brookses, on which space was spread a bright new comfort, with a snow-white pillow, and a cover neatly turned back to admit the quest.

For a few moments the fire sunk to its flameless embers. Then one more shaving renewed the light; the visitor turned a curious gaze behind him, and saw that Betsey had joined the innocent throng, and was snug in the one bed in the corner. The domestic problem that had puzzled the lawyer was now solved.

“You must have been hard pushed to find names for so large a family,” said Campbell, as he relighted his cigar stump.

“Oh, no; yo’re wrong thar. The heap o’ names is always so big, hit’s pow’ful diffikilt tew chewse from ’em. Look thar—in the cawnah is Georgy, the widder; thar’s quar’lin ovah the names of her tew leetle uns yit. I reckin the wimmin ‘ll settle hit by pilin’ half dozen apiece on ’em. Then thar’s Missouri Brooks; an’ Tennessee Brooks; an’ Car’liny Brooks; an’ Mississippi Brooks; an’ Rachel-Eliz’beth-Car’line-Jane-Leanor-Ransom Brooks; an’ Maryland Brooks; an’ Virginia Brooks—thet finishes the gaerls. Thar’s the boys tew. Fust, Lenar-Cajer-Solomon-Saul-David-Redmon Brooks. Nixt, Geo’ge Washington-Noah Webster-Andrew Jackson-David Crockitt Brooks; we named him aftah the big statesmen. Nixt, thar ‘s Jefferson Davis-Stonewall Jackson-Sterling Price-Marmaduke-Shelby Brooks; he gits the names of the big gin’rals. An these yere tew leetle fellers we caint settle yit. Yo’ see hit’s the heftiest job tew stick names ontew the gaerls. The gran’maws, as a mattah of coase, wants ’em tew cairy thar names, an’ the aints wants ’em tew cairy thar names. Hit was thet a-way with Rachel yon’; the gran’maws and the aints fit an’ jowered over the name we was aimin’ tew give her, so we jist give her the plum whull of ’em. But I reckin yo’all is wantin’ tew lay doen.” Saying which the parson threw the ashes over the bed of coals. The lawyer removed his hunting coat and boots, and stretched himself on his allotted space. The parson set the door ahar for ventilation, and directly sought his bed.

It was long before Campbell closed his eyes in sleep. To the music of two dozen nostrils his reflections marched along, while he turned his eyes to the declining fire that sent up occasional tongues of flame. The glitter and fashion of his city life passed in review before his mind, contrasted with the genuine, homely happiness of the parson’s world, to which he had never before been introduced, and against whose kind he had always shared the common prejudice. Then, there was Missouri, sl[ee]ping like a kitten in the corner. What a simple, artless, beautiful creature was she? With proper advantages, how she would adorn the society even of Lafayette Park! With the cordial of these thoughts, he dropped off to sleep.

Sometime after midnight, a noise at the fireplace startled him, and he saw in the red glow of the embers the parson.

“Don’t be skeered; I’m only jist puttin’ mo’ kivah on the faar,” said the parson. Then he went to the door, put his head out, and Campbell thought he heard a whisper.

“The sky—hits clar agin’,” said the parson, and returned to his bed.

While Campbell revolved in his mind the mystery of the whisper, a large head poked itself in at the top of the door, turned its eyes to the corner where Missouri was sleeping, surveyed the contents of the floor, and rested some seconds on the waking stranger; then withdrew.

“That must be the gawky, long-haired fellow that went down the lane, and we saw talking with the parson last evening,” said Campbell to himself. “Dog-gone him, I wonder if he’s been on the watch here all this time?” He looked at the parson’s pistol hanging on the peg, and reflected that it might yet be necessary to vindicate the honor of a Kentucky gentleman.

The remainder of the night he wore away in fitful sleep. The gray light stole in at the open door. He started up, looked about him, and saw that he was the sole occupant of the floor. The children were playing at the door, and the boys were singing plaintive strains at the stable. Missouri was tripping from one end of the room to the other. Betsey was bending over crackling bacon in the frying pan, and the parson was pulling away at this cob pipe by the fireplace.

He jumped to his feet and saluted his host—

“You begin on your pipe early, parson?”

“Yes, fur a fact. I always smokes m’ pipe while Betsey makes the breakfast.”

Campbell drew on his coat and hunting boots. Missouri had already put on her hat and seemed about to leave for the colonel’s. She turned her face toward the visitor and he wished her “good morning,” to which she timidly responded, and slipped out. Campbell thanked his host and hostess for their hospitality, and started for the door.

“Yo’ ‘ll not be gwine yit, will ye?” asked the parson, with an anxious look.

“Yes, right now; I must get back to the colonel’s to report what’s become of me. Good morning;” and he hurried away, guarded by the sullen hounds to the gate. Missouri was not far in advance, and he soon overtook her. A heavy footfall was heard behind him, and turning, he recognized, with repressed anger, the form of the gawky fellow whose presence had disturbed his peace at midnight.

They came to the branch, still running full—the stepping-rocks out of sight.

“How shall we cross?” he appealed to Missouri.

“I’ll show you. Follow me.” And she jumped like a squirrel upon the bottom rail of the swinging water-gate, and was soon across. Following his gentle guide, Campbell awkwardly reached the other side; and Long Jim, mounting to the top of the log from which the water-gate hung, strode across with a careless step, and ambled up the lane.

Campbell accompanied Missouri to the colonel’s house and parted from her at the porch.

Like a returned adventurer was he received by his comrade, and by the colonel’s household, who demanded an account of his exploits. The breakfast table furnished a proper occasion for the narrative and its attendant humors.

This matutinal entertainment over, Lane urged the immediate departure for the station, in order that they might take the first train to the city. Campbell proposed, for himself, to remain a day or two longer, to pursue the pleasures of the hunt. After much rallying by his companion upon the real motive in his purpose to remain, Lane loaded his dog and traps and drove away.

However trivial these movements may have been regarded by the spectators at the colonel’s mansion, they were watched with serious concern at the cabin.

“Thar’s trouble comin’, shore, Betsey. The critical that lay down heah laist night has stopped behind, an’ the t’other one has gone tew the station. Whar’s Jim at?”

“Gone tew his work. He follered the gintleman an’ Missouri up the lane.”

“Tell the boys tew cairy the mewls tew the stable, an’ fetch the lead mewl with the saddle on,” ordered the parson, with broken, troubled voice.

Betsey obeyed. So did the boys; and the parson, astride of his trusty animal, made a fox-trot up the lane. A short time after, the same animal returned, bearing Jim, with his big feet nearly scarping the ground.

Campbell had now taken the field again, and was working his dog around the outside of the forty-acre field. Presuming upon the friendly relations which he hoped had been established with the parson, he made occasional incursions into the forbidden tract, tempted by the provoking flight of birds. Soon, however, Jim’s presence in the field was observed. He walked like a sentinel within its confines, keeping nearly abreast of the hunter in his movements without. His revolver was exposed by the absence of his coat. All this was irritating to the spirit of the sportsman, who was conscious that he was obeying the spirit of the parson’s prohibition, and who could see no reason why the ungainly person who watched and shadowed him should have any cause of suspicion against him. Surely this boor could not be jealous of the slight attention he had paid Missouri in the morning. Indeed, it was absurd to suppose that a being so gross and untutored could ever hope to win the heart of so delicate a creature as Missouri. Then how could this long-haired barbarian expect to cope with the dazzling attractions which he himself could command, should he desire to sue, or perhaps simply to ask for the hand of the girl? These reflections, together with the insulting intrusion of this fellow during the previous night, wrought [u]pon the pride of the lawyer until he was nearly resolved to bring on an immediate encounter. But the immense odds in Jim’s favor, and the disparity between the pistol cartridge and No. 8 shot, counseled caution. He determined, however, that nothing should prevent his accompanying Missouri to the cabin at the close of the day.

Chapter XIV: The Shadow of the Rock

The vexatious sport of the day was brought to an early close. Campbell returned to the house, left a dozen birds at the kitchen, threw aside his hunting outfit, and waited on the porch. Long Jim came with a bucket, evidently relieving Tennessee of her nightly task, and lingered about the spring. The sun withdrew his soft rays from the gorgeous mountain slope, and Missouri slipped out the door, with a pleasant smile on her face, and started to walk to the cabin. Promptly, according to his plan, Campbell joined her, and they passed Jim, who sat on the curb of the spring with downcast eyes. The stepping stones of the brook appeared above the subsiding waters, and the gallant chaperon took the hand of Missouri, while he led her across, unconscious that the girl would have succeeded better without his uncanny assistance. Jim rocked along close behind, making the conversation of the pair restrained and difficult. Despite this difficulty, the young lawyer succeeded in expressing his pleasure in the girl’s company, ascertained that she had a tintype of her face which she would hand him, and promised, when he returned to the city, to send a clock to her for her mother. All these transactions were to be preserved as a mutual secret.

With the possession of this trivial secret came the first breath of a conscious passion. The birth of this new frenzy in the soul of Missouri sent a glow of tremulous emotion to her face. Her head swam as she passed through the gate; the ground melted under her feet; she forgot to bestow her usual caresses upon the dogs, and rushed into the cabin.

Campbell scarcely paused at the gate. Jim passed in, set his bucket on the door-sill, and approached the parson, who, taking his customary augury of the weather, had witnessed the movement of this little drama with deep concern.

“Come, Jim,” he said, with breaking voice, “let’s make fur yon rocks, whar yo’ kin lis’n at me; I’ve somethin’ hefty tew unload.’

Having driven back the hounds, they walked, with unequal, pensive steps, and sat down behind a great honey-combed rock at the foot of the hill. Bringing together the palms of his rough, bony little hands, the preacher began:

“Jim, yo’uns and we’uns has always bin one. We cudn’t split ef we was tew try. Whin yo’ was fetched heah by Lyin’ Bill from yon battlefield, the time that Price an’ Ewin’ come tegithah, yo’ was bleedin’ an’ mighty nigh dead. The pa’son keer’d fur yo’, and Betsey wore the flo’ fur ye.”

“Sho’, pa’son, I’ll niver furgit hit.”

“Lis’n at me, Jim; we’s faist frien’s.”

“Shore’s yo’ bawn, pa’son.”

“Wait a leetle. A heap o’ trouble has rolled ontew me. Hit’s the battle o’ Armygiddin. Do yo’ git the idee, Jim?”

“I don’t see no army; but ef thar’s erry battle er fightin’, Long Jim’s to the front, sho’.”

“I see yo’ haint comprehendin’ of Armygiddin. Hit’s a fight with the divil. Yo’ hitch ontew hit now, Jim?”

“I reckin I’ve wropped aroun’ the idee, pa’son. I haint no church member, yo’ know, but I kin fight the divil whin I see him. Anyhow, I’ll go to h—l with you, old man, any time yo’re gwine tew make the trip, sho’.”

“Yo see, Jim, hit’s this a-way: The kunnel’s a moighty noice man, sho’, but he ‘s a bringin’ in ways thet we wasn’t raised tew. We hed a leetle jowerin’ like, an’ I fit him off. Then come the Sunday-skewl fighters thet skeered Missouri, an’ kivered the valley with thar tricks. I fit them off, tew. But now, my boy, the battle ‘s rushin’ hintew the cabin. I tole yo’ yisterday thar was trouble, an’ fur ye to keep watch; but I did n’t shell hit all aout tew ye. I know’d I done wrong whin I let the gaerl go tew the kunnel, but I ‘m rintin’ land of him, an’ I reckin’d hit wouldn’t dew to hev trouble with him. But this yere city critical is a windin’ of his spider web aroun’ her, an’ ef he gits her, Jim, the pa’son ‘ll drap dead in his shews.”

“By the great God,” said Jim, springing to his feet and grasping his pistol, “ef this yere ‘s yo’r trouble, I kin git away with that saft leetle pattridge in no time.”

“No, Jim; don’t be tew braish; wait till I ‘m tellin of ye. Thar must be no great ha’m done—no blood shid. We’uns cain’t split with the kunnel, an’ this yere feller’s his friend. But hit’s bad, moighty bad. Yo’ see, let alone his bein’ a city critical, I’ve heer’d he’s a lawyer; an’ the Maistah put’s ’em all in one—scribes, pharsees, hippercrites an’ lawyers—an’ he says they cain’t ‘scape the damnation o’ hell.”

Wilting into a sitting posture, Jim continued, coolly:

“Wal, this yere kind ‘er beats me; how do yo’ all ‘low ye kin git shet of him without hurtin’ him?”

“A leetle contrivin’ like, Jim, ‘ll do the biz’ness. Hev ye niver driv’ a doge away without hurtin’ of him?” “Hit’s moighty ha’d, whin a feller git’s roiled, tew be measurin’ like. But I see yo’all wants me tew wring the neck of the — leetle pattridge, an’ leave him go afo’ hit’s done broke,” said Jim.

“Kind ‘er thet a-way, Jim; not too overly; be keerful.”

“So hit shell be, as nigh as I kin fetch hit,” said Jim, as he grasped the parson’s hand and squeezed it as in a vise. He drew from his breast pocket a flask bottle, with which he sealed their friendship, and soothed the restless soul of the parson. They left the rock and parted for the night.

To those who are familiar with the life herein portrayed, no word of explanation is needed to point out its typical characteristics. The high-born southerner is both chivalrous and courageous. He is brave before the cannon’s mouth, and, to the last extremity, true to his friend. In his fellow-citizen of lower birth, the bravery that makes a soldier has faded away, but the color of chivalry is left. He will run from battle, but die for his friend.

Personally, Jim was a rough as a chestnut-bur, but he carried, a sound, sweet kernel within. He had cut a poor figure in the army, but in defense of a friend, he, like the parson, could be faithful unto death.

Chapter XV: The Meeting of Two Gentlement

Campbell rose and came late to his breakfast on the morning of the 18th of October; but he was fortunate enough to meet and exchange a few words with the girl he left behind him the night before. This he regarded as a good happening, and it gave him stimulus. The bright sun, and the balmy, quiet air that lay upon the valley, enticed to the field. So he put on his hunting suit, released his setter, and resumed the hunt. After two days of constant worry and fright, ‘bob white’ had grown shy on the colonel’s farm, and the hunter returned to dinner with meag[er] success.

Having finished his after-dinner smoke with the colonel, he started across the lane to try a broken and partly cleared pasture belonging to the colonel’s next neighbor. Soon the dogs pointed a covey, and two birds were brought to bag. Following in the direction of the flushed birds, he passed through a belt of young timber, and entered upon an open glade, where he concluded the birds had lighted. When fairly through the under-brush, the dog whimpered, and his master rushed forward to see what was the matter. There, to his amazement, was Long Jim, only ten yards away, sitting on a log with his shaggy dog by his side. Provoked and angered beyond restraint, he leveled his gun at his uncouth rival, and gave vent to his overcharged wrath:

“You infernal long-haired moose, what business have you here? You’ve watched, and insulted, and followed me like a dog-goned hound that you are, and I’ll stand it no longer. Get out of this or I’ll blow your head off!”

He stood trembling and white with rage, covering Jim with his gun; but the parson’s trusty friend moved no muscle, save to stroke his dog with his hand; and he opened not his mouth.

A few steps more advanced the hunter, still holding his gun on his mark.

“What’s the matter with you? you brainless old fool[?] Are you dumb, or are you a sneaking coward?”

Jim was speechless and motionless; and the muzzle of Campbell’s gun dropped quite below the level of his adversary’s body.

In an instant—with the spring of a panther—Jim jumped forward and caught his foe about the arms and waist, and wrenched him with the hug of a grizzly bear.

“Stop! stop!” shouted Campbell: “this is not fair play. Do you know who you are dealing with?”

“Thet’s jist what I’m aimin’ to find aout,” said Jim, as he added more pressure.

“But you’ve got hold of a Kentucky gentleman,” said Campbell.

“Thet’s what I’ve heerd,” said Jim, “and I’m interdoosin’ of ye tew a Missouri gintl’man. An’ I’m gwine tew show ye, Mistah, thet I’m not deef nur dum; an’ haint no coward nuther.” He hitched for a better grip, and added more power.

“Why don’t you give us a chance to fight like gentlemen, then?” squealed Campbell, with labored respiration.

“Chaince; why, good Lo’d, why didn’t ye use yo’re chaince when yo’ hed it? But yo’ must shet off this yere noise, an’ quit singin’, yo’—little pattridge, or I’ll wring yo’re — neck.”

He withdrew one hand, and with it nearly surrounded the sportsman’s throat, by which maneuver the latter grasped Jim’s pistol, handing from his belt. Jim let go of his neck, wrenched away the pistol, and threw it to the ground; and with his left hand in turn wrenched away Campbell’s gun, which had been embraced in the hug, and flung it away.

“What are you doing with that big revolver against a gentleman with only a shot-gun?” gasped Campbell.

“I nivah uses that tool on small game,” said Jim, “an’ I done throwed hit away, anyhow. I’m gwine tew ecomedate yo’ all I kin. The shootin’ irons is all throwed away, an’ we’re level now.” Again he embraced the lawyer, and added a new increment of power.

“But, Mister, ah— Mister, ah—,” gasped Campbell, “we’re—both—Con—fed—erates, and—fought—on the—same—side—in the—war.”

“Mebbe we was, but we’re split now, sho’,” answered Jim, letting up a little.

Jim was so much taller than his opponent that he was obliged, while applying this unusual mode of punishment, to separate his long legs by a large amount of territory, and as he held his game, now too nearly exhausted to resist any perceptible struggle, he looked like a colossal letter “A,” with an ornamental top—the sides of the letter appropriately terminating in his huge, elongated feet.

“I beg of you, let me have one free breath,” said Campbell, faintly.

“All right,” said Jim, as he released the waist and grasped the wrists of his rival. “Thar; now yo’ kin rest a leetle. Yo’ll need right smart o’ restin’ afo’ we gits threw this leetle play, I reckin.”

“But it’s an infernal outrage—the way you treat a gentleman,” said Campbell, as he hit the shin of his enemy with the toe of his hunting boot.

“Oh; them’s the weppins yo’ wants tew fight with now,” said Jim, as he lifted his ponderous extremity and drew it back at the end of an enormous lever.

Campbell dropped his eye upon the formidable catapult thus poised, and begged his contestant not to return the blow. He grew pale and paused for breath.

“Mebbe yo’d like the use of them leetle white hands,’ said Jim, good naturedly.

“I don’t see what I could do with them, anyhow,” sighed Campbell. “But this thing must be settled on some terms.”

“Hit kin be settled; er we’ll play a leetle mo’; jest ez yo’ like,” said Jim.

“I reckon you want me to surrender,” said Campbell.

“Yo’re done already surrendered, sah,” said Jim, still holding fast the delicate wrists of his foe.

“Well, what in the devil do you want?” said Campbell, in despair.

“I want this yere—look me in the eye—I want yo’ tew clar out of this yere valley by to-morry, sun-up; and tew promise me that yo’ll nivah come back heah agin.”

“But I’ve promised to visit the Colonel on Christmas.”

“Wal, I’ll leave yo’ hev Christmas; but yo’ must give me yo’ word o’ honah that yo’ll nivah go neah the pa’son’s cabin, nur disturb the ladies in this yere valley. And mind ye! Ef yo’ go back on this yere promise, — ye, Long Jim’ll drap on ye fur the laist time.”

“Give us your hand, Jim: it shall be so,” said Campbell.

They shook hands and separated. Jim turned back towards the cabin, and his vanquished foe pursued his lost covey of quails.

Chapter XVI: Three Fluttering Hearts

The parson was on the qui vive for news; and when he saw Jim approaching with quicker pace than usual, he knew something must have happened, and started to meet him.

Jim reported the escapade in detail, and the parson beamed with delight. But he drew down his features into a thoughtful and solemn cast as he gave further directions.

“Jim, yo’ done noble! I’m proud of ye; but hit’s not ovah yit. The gaerl’s tew be fit off yit.”

“You kin hold her, I reckin; haint yo’ her paw?”

“Very true, Jim; but yo’ see the gaerl’s come of age, an’ orthority won’t dew in sich a case. Now he’s a-pushin’ in yon field toward the station; he’ll git futhah off’n he knows, an’ hit’ll be plum da’k afo’ he finds the big road tew make back tew the kunnel’s. This yere is the way: I’ll send Missouri tew Fitzgeral’s of an irrant agin da’k, an’ they’ll meet somewhar on the big road. Yo’ shell follah along oftah, an’ ef thar’s trouble yo’ll know what tew dew. Somethin’ ‘ll happen sho’; I’ve saw the sign of hit in the heavins.”

Jim gave the parson his hand, and the latter started to call on the colonel, so as to be ready to catch Missouri when she should leave for the cabin.

The colonel and his clerical friend sat on the broad porch until after the sun had gone below the horizon. They could hear the occasional faint report of Campbell’s gun, which indicated his distance from the house. At the usual time Missouri left the house to go home, and her father bade her wait till he was ready.

Jim, all this time, had been hanging about the cabin gate, keeping close watch of the progress of events.

It was almost dark when the parson, taking leave of the colonel, stepped down from the porch, and confided to Missouri a message to Fitzgerald, who lived a short distance off the “big road” that led to the station.

The girl started. And as soon as she turned from the lane into the big road, Jim began his pursuit at a vigorous gait. Impelled by a natural timidity that was increased by the rapidly approaching darkness, she glided over the ground like a whippoorwill. Soon she reached a depression in the road, where the rocks came to the surface. The expansive field, which Campbell had made the scene of his afternoon hunt, lay along the road, and the fence was loosely set upon the exposed rocks. The hunter was making haste to secure the road before it was quite dark, and was in the act of climbing the insecure fence, when Missouri drew near. Startled by the sudden appearance of the figure of a man at the fence, and possessed of the vague idea that it might be the colonel’s guest, she slackened her speed. Crash! went the fence, and in an instant the gun was discharged by the falling of a rail on the hammer, while angry oaths divided the possession of the atmosphere with the report of the gun. Missouri turned, gave a shriek, and ran back like a frightened quail. She had retrieved but a short portion of the return path, when the vague form of Jim rose before her, and she was on the point of another shriek, when the familiar voice of the brave private met her ear, in the most tender, soothing tone:

“Hit’s Jim! Missouri, hit’s Jim! Don’t be a-skeered.”

The force of her fright threw her upon Jim’s expansive frame as a bird in a gale of wind is blown against the broad side of a dwelling. Jim caught her in his arms, lifted her up tenderly, and said:

“Yo’re home with Jim, now, leetle un; don’t flutter no more. Wrop your leetle hend in mine. Yo’re safe, now, leetle un.”

“Who was it, and what was he tryin’ to do?” asked the girl, partially recovering her balance, but still quivering from head to foot.

“He’s that — little city pattridge, an’ the Lo’d only knows what he was aimin’ tew dew. I hed a leetle skirmish with him this evenin’, oftah he’d tried tew shewt me, an’ I come moighty nigh wringin’ his neck.”

“But he can’t be a bad man, can he, Jim?” asked Missouri, with agitation.

“I cudn’t say,” answered Jim, ‘all I knows is the leetle dealins I’ve hed with him, an’ yore pap says he’s a lawyer; an’ lawyers is worse ‘n scribes an’ pharsees an’ hippercrites; an’ none of em’s gwine to git shet o’ damnation.’

The little hand of Missouri reposed in the convoluted palm of the great man like a young bird in its nest. Nor did she attempt to withdraw it. The sense of security was balm to her troubled heart. Still, she could not escape a certain measure of conflict that brought tears to her eyes. She had moved beyond the circumference of the parson’s limited world, and her mind had begun to feed on the fruits of a higher intellectual clime. Impelled by the curiosity and avidity of a woman’s nature, she had gathered and appropriated many of the graces and appearances that distinguish the sphere of the lady from that of the mere woman. Lastly, her girl’s heart reached out for [its] mate, and was about to find it in this new, glittering world. The two elements that created her conflict were represented in Campbell and Jim. Should she give up the first and return to the last? This was the analysis of Missouri’s condition, which to her had no analysis. With the parson it was simply the battle of Armageddon, and the salvation of his daughter.

With her one free hand she caught away the tears from her eyes, as Jim handed her to her perturbed parent at the gate.

“Come in tew yore maw, leetle gaerl. I was afeer’d trouble hed ketched ye. But yo’re home now,” said the parson, with pathetic tenderness, as he led her into the cabin.

She soon joined the slumbering throng on the floor. Long Jim stretched his dimensions before the hearth. The parson knocked the ashes from his cob pipe, buried the weary embers, and retired. And the starry mantle of the night covered the silent cabin.

The sun was quite above the hill top when a bustle was observed at the colonel’s house. At the door stood the spring wagon. The paraphernalia of the sportsman were loaded, and the young lawyer and his setter dog climbed into the vehicle and were driven away. Missouri was detained at home until this event was accomplished, and then she repaired to her daily routine with a saddened countenance.

The Paynes had already divined more than they had heard. The parson was serene in the comfort of his abiding faith; though, like Jim and Missouri, he had felt the fluttering of an agitated heart.

Chapter XVII: Long Jim Reaches the Persimmon

To Lafayette Park the excitement of the conflict was now transferred. Robert Lane had returned from his day’s sport, and made hast to report to the home of Joseph Campbell the fact of Joseph’s detention. To a room full of eager listeners, including several young ladies who were spending a social evening with the Misses Campbell, the returned sportsman gave a vivid narrative of the adventures of the day, dwelling at length upon the encounter with the hard-shell preacher. The conquest and surrender of young Campbell, and his romantic experience at the cabin, were recited in such humorous and picturesque style as to create alternate paroxysms of laughter and upraisings of many delicate hands in surprise, and even horror. A natural curiosity, not unmingled with anxiety, pressed Mrs. Campbell and her daughters, which the subsequent return of the son and brother only served to confirm. His lean game-bag, his changed aspect, and the fact that certain business and social engagements positively required his return with Lane, conspired to deepen the concerm that preceded his coming. If Joseph were really smitten with a country girl, and if he had truly fallen in love with the pretty daughter of a poor white, it was “simply horrid,” and “perfectly awful.” The capture of a tin-type, accidently left on the dressing-case of the young gentleman, ripened the concern of his mother and sisters into a passionate anxiety. She was pretty, very pretty, and the winning of the poor creature, of course, would be but a trivial and one-sided effort.

Mrs. Campbell could endure the torture of her anxiety no longer, and sought to relieve her mind with the point of her pen. She forthwith addressed a letter to her “Dear Mrs. Payne,” in which she stated the facts, with the evidence that supported them, and implored her friend in the valley to intercede and save the name of Campbell from impending disgrace.

Mrs. Payne immediately replied, acknowledging the facts as stated; pleaded for the sweetness and purity of the girl; and endeavored to allay the anxiety of her friend by expressing the opinion that Joseph was only momentarily carried away, and that, in the accomplishment of her wishes, his mother had an earnest coadjutor in the parson, who was the father of the girl. The main text of her letter, however, was neutralized by an unfortunate postscript, which expressed the opinion that “if Joseph should persist, and should finally carry away Missouri as his wife, his family in the end would have no real cause for regret.”

From the moment this letter was read in the city, there were two equally distrurbed and unconsciously harmonious spirits concerned in the future of Missouri; one was Mrs. Campbell, of Lafayette Park, and the other was Parson Brooks, in the Brookdale cabin.

The autumn grew old. The tints disappeared from the foliage, the leaves fell, and the meadows were “brown and sere.” A package came by express to the colonel, which, by request, he delivered to Missouri. It contained an octagonal clock, which was designed to hang in the cabin; but Missouri put it away, and the cabin went on, as usual, by the sun.

For some weeks no event of importance disturbed the usual placid life of Brookdale. Parson Brooks often met Colonel Payne, and rarely failed to inquire whether the “city critical” was to visit him “agin Christmas, shore.”

With the opening of December the parson commenced an “association meetin'” in the conduct of which he received friendly assistance from clerical brethren. Among the numerous fruits of this effort were Missouri and Long Jim, who were both “buried in baptism” in the clear, cold water of the branch. Immediately following this event Missouri took an affecting leave of Mrs. Payne, and abode in the cabin.

It was just a week before Christmas. The ground was slightly frozen, a gentle fall of snow covered the tenacious white oak leaf, and the bright sun and clear sky of a Missouri winter imparted a cheerful vivacity to the naked landscape. Mrs. Payne was seated by an open woodfire, when the door gently opened, and the sweet face of Missouri appeared, flushed with the tinge of the winter day, and smiling with the “severe delight” that filled her heart. They two talked pleasantly of the summer days they had passed, and delicately touched upon some of the romantic incidents of the season that was gone, when the girl, rising to take her leave, announced to her former mistress that on the night before Christmas a wedding would take place at the cabin.

In a moment she was gone, and Mrs. Payne was left in a state of conjecture. She had not heard from Mrs. Campbell since the receipt of her first nervous letter. She only knew that Joe was again to visit them on Christmas.

The colonel received the news with pleasure and surprise, and incidentally remarked that the parson seemed uncommonly happy. At all events, Mrs. Payne and her children treated themselves to the pleasure of preparing a variety of personal and household presents for the future bride, which were sent to her in due time.

At last, with the going down of the sun, and the rising of the full moon, came Christmas [E]ve, laden with joy for the parson and his simple household. The colonel and his family were sent for and came. The squire rode down the lane and entered the cabin. Betsey, the “wider,” the boys, and the whole brood of chain-named Brookses were in their best attire. Every foot of space in the rude habitation was filled. All was silent as a funeral, when Long Jim, in a new suit of “store clothes,” stepped forward to the fire-place, holding the little hand of Missouri, and the squire pronounced them man and wife. The parson dropped upon his knees, and with a voice modulated with deep emotion, prayed the Lord that he would “make them tew sperits run tegithah like tew draps o’ watah.” The pair were congratulated by the guests. The parson received a special felicitation from the colonel. A loaded table was soon relieved, and the guests departed. By Betsey’s maternal hands the comforts and “kivers” were spread. Missouri was specially provided for in her corner. The prolonged frame of the groom was stretched in front of the fire-place.

Around the formidable extremities of his brave and prostrate son-in-law the parson made his way to the fire-place, to perform the closing act of the day. Carefully he returned, closed the door, and reposed upon the bed beside his weary wife. The excited joy that filled his heart, and in which the occupants of the cabin had rioted, was passing into the forgetfulness of slumber, when the din of the charivari burst upon the silent night without. A jangled chorus of clanging tin pans, dissonant horns, execrable cow-bells, with shouts and laughter, joined by the mournful howling of the hounds, beat against the logs of the hut, and reverberated away in wild undulations over the valley, and was lost in faint echos from the distant hills. The uproar was not unexpected, and brought no alarm. The parson welcomed it as a grand closing anthem of his sacred triumph—a fitting pæan of his victory of Armageddon.

“Come, Betsey,” he said to his drowsy companion. ‘Light aout. We must pay respicts tew the neighbors. Lay still, leetle uns; thar’s no ha’m comin’,” he added to the prostrate throng, as he picked his way to the fire-place.

He uncovered the coals, laid on a few shavings, and in the brilliant illumination that followed, the rustic pair handed out the remnants of the wedding feast to the noisy crowd, received their boisterous congratulations, and again gave themselves to rest.

Christmas morning brought a springtide of happiness to the parson’s cabin. Not the joy that revels in the wealth of stockings “hung by the chimney with care.” Such profanity had never entered the precincts of the parson’s home. Had it been necessary, the visits of St. Nichols would have been sternly interdicted. No; it was a joy that sprang from the traditions of the day, and from the one event that occupied the thoughts of the whole Brooks family. It moved in the sleight of Betsey’s hand, as she turned the roasting ‘possum before the red, oaken fire. It ascended in the ringlets of smoke from the parson’s cob pipe, that were sucked up and carried aloft by the draught of the great chimney. It sounded in the prattle of the “leetle uns;” resounded in the minor notes of the boys, sung and whistled to the feeding mules; moved in the squirrel feet of Missouri as she tripped about the room; talked through her little fingers as they deftly packed her bundle for the approaching departure; and beamed from the honest, awkward features of Long Jim as he recounted to the contemplative parson the events of the preceding month.

Breakfast and the morning blessing of the parson were over as the sun rose from behind the hill and looked down upon the cabin.

“Put on the geahs, boys; hitch the mewls tew the wagin, an’ cairy ’em tew the do’,” said the parson. “I’ll run ahead tew the station, tew cairy the mewls back agin. Put in the cheers, an’ a heap o’ straw tew keep the gaerl’s feet wa’m.”

The bridal party were ready for their trip.

“Wait a minute,” said the parson, taking from the cupboard a flat bottle, containing an amber-colored fluid. “Heah’s tew the prittiest Christmas yo’ve ivah saw; hit’ll keep yo’all wa’m, tew.”

Jim raised the flask to his lips and drank. Missouri tasted; Betsey tasted; the parson drank; the “wider” tasted; the girls tasted; the boys tasted; the “leetle ‘uns,” down to the youngest grandchild, who choked and wept under the burning application, tasted; and the parson returned the precious liquid to the cupboard, and hasted to the station.

The wagon stood before the door. Two large bundles were thrown in. The wedded pair took their seats and showered a flood of parting words upon the gathered, gazing crowd. Jim lifted the reins and drove away.

“Take keer o’ yo’selves,’ shouted the amiable Betsey; and she flung an old shoe after the moving carriage.

When they drew near to the lower gate of the colonel’s residence, they were again besieged with congratulations and farewells, after which they rattled over the rocks up the lane, and turned into the big road.

Chapter XVIII: “Not in Pertic’lar; Only in a Gin’ral Way.”

Joseph Campbell had not forgotten his appointed Christmas visit. While the ‘squire was tying the knot that made the idol of his heart and his uncouth foe inseparable, the train released him at the station. Alone with his nervous thoughts, he spent the night at the little inn, from which he walked forth to behold what the colored people call a “black Christmas.” The sun was bright, the air was keen; but the ground was bare. For Joseph Campbell it was a black Christmas.

The parson had already arrived at the station when young Campbell, having ordered a package containing a large inventory of Christma gifts to be sent to the colonel’s, untied his dog, embraced his gun, and started on foot for Brookdale.

As he drew near to the St. Francois [C]reek, he saw a wagon, that had just passed the ford, coming towards him. He gave little attention to it, or to its contents, until it was so near as to drive him from the track. Then the driver stopped the team, and Campbell lifted his eyes and fixed them with white astonishment on Missouri, and Long Jim at her side.

“Good mawnin’; [M]erry Christmas tew ye, Mistah. Ef yo’re gwine tew the kunnel’s, git in, an’ the pa’son ‘ll drive yo’ ovah ofter a leetle. This yere’s my wife, Mistah, Mrs. Landis; an’ this yere’s a bundle fer ye,” said Jim, as he reached out the package at the end of his long arm.

If Long Jim had thrust a knife into the heart of Joseph Campbell he could not have hurt him more deeply.

It was Jim’s victory now. Transfixed and speechless, but instinctively raising his hat to Missouri, Campbell received the package, and Jim whipped up his mules and drove on.

“What an infernal Christmas this is to me,” muttered Campbell, as he came to the stepping stones of the creek, “and what is this?” he continued, detecting a peculiar throbbing in the package, and raising it to his ear; “that confounded old clock, for a fact!” he exclaimed with rage, and dashed it into the brawling current of the brook.

Jim and Missouri lumbered on to the station; procured tickets; took leave of the happy parson, and rolled away toward their destination in Arkansas.

Parson Brooks sat on the door-sill of the station house. The smoke of his cob pipe floated out from beneath his broad brimmed hat. A complacent smile shortened his features as he was approached by the young lawyer, Joseph Campbell, who had abandoned his visit to Brookdale in deep disgust, and had determined to take the first train back to the city.

“Good morning, parson. I hope you are supremely happy,” said the yong man with forced cordiality.

To which the parson, still holding his seat, and removing from his teeth the stem of his cob pipe, replied:

“Not in pertic’lar; only in a gin’ral way, sah.”

End Notes to Parson Brooks

1. Iron Mountain, approximately one mile east of Buford Mountain, was once believed to be made entirely of iron ore.
2. The Battle of Pilot Knob, also known as the Battle of Fort Davidson, was the opening act of confederate General Sterling Price’s 1864 raid into Missouri. The battle took place on September 27, 1864 and resulted in the over-night evacuation of the Union army from Fort Davidson.
3. Buford Mountain is in Iron County. At 1740 feet, it is the third highest peak in Missouri.
4. Clay-bank, or claybank, refers to mules and horses of reddish color whose darker points are a darker shade of red rather than black.
5. Centerville is a town in Reynolds County, Missouri, approximately thirty miles southwest of Pilot Knob.
6. A shote is a young, weaned pig. Also commonly spelled shoat.
7. Pilot Knob, Missouri.
8. Sir Edwin Henry Landseer (1802-1873) was an English painter and sculptor known primarily for his paintings of animals, especially those of dogs.