]> <emph>Fisher's River (North Carolina) Scenes and Characters:</emph> Electronic Edition. Taliaferro, Hardin E., 1811-1875 Illustrated by McLenan, John, 1827-1866 Funding from the Institute for Museum and Library Services supported the electronic publication of this title. Text transcribed by Apex Data Services, Inc. Images scanned by Melissa G. Meeks Text encoded by Apex Data Services, Inc., Melissa G. Meeks, and Jill Kuhn Sexton First edition, 2001 ca. 275K Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 2001.

© This work is the property of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. It may be used freely by individuals for research, teaching and personal use as long as this statement of availability is included in the text.

 Fisher's River (North Carolina) Scenes and Characters Fisher's River Scenes and Characters Skitt. [pseud. for Taliaferro, Hardin E., 1811-1875.] Illustrations by John M'Lenan ix, [13]-269 p., ill. New York Harper & Brothers, Publishers 1859 Call number C813 T14f c.4 (North Carolina Collection, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)

The electronic edition is a part of the UNC-CH digitization project, Documenting the American South.

The text has been entered using double-keying and verified against the original. The text has been encoded using the recommendations for Level 4 of the TEI in Libraries Guidelines.

Original grammar, punctuation, and spelling have been preserved. Encountered typographical errors have been preserved, and appear in red type.

All footnotes are inserted at the point of reference within paragraphs.

Any hyphens occurring in line breaks have been removed, and the trailing part of a word has been joined to the preceding line.

All quotation marks, em dashes and ampersand have been transcribed as entity references.

All double right and left quotation marks are encoded as ” and “ respectively.

All single right and left quotation marks are encoded as ’ and ‘ respectively.

All em dashes are encoded as —

Indentation in lines has not been preserved.

Running titles have not been preserved.

Spell-check and verification made against printed text using Author/Editor (SoftQuad) and Microsoft Word spell check programs.

 Library of Congress Subject Headings, 21st edition, 1998 English Latin North Carolina -- Fiction. Short stories, American -- North Carolina -- Surry County. Tales -- North Carolina -- Surry County. American wit and humor -- North Carolina -- Surry County. Fisher's River (N.C.) Surry County (N.C.) -- Social life and customs -- Anecdotes. Surry County (N.C.) -- Fiction. Dialect literature, American -- North Carolina -- Surry County. 2002-06-11, Celine Noel and Wanda Gunther revised TEIHeader and created catalog record for the electronic edition. 2001-09-16, Jill Kuhn Sexton finished TEI-conformant encoding and final proofing. 2001-07-20, Melissa G. Meeks finished TEI/SGML encoding 2001-07-16, Apex Data Services, Inc. finished transcribing the text.

[Cover Image]

[Spine Image]

THE HORN-SNAKE.[Frontispiece Image]

[Title Page Image]

[Title Page Verso Image]

 FISHER'S RIVER (NORTH CAROLINA) SCENES AND CHARACTERS. BY “SKITT,” “WHO WAS RAISED THAR.” ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN M'LENAN. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 1859. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine, by HARPER & BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. PREFACE.

When I commenced the following sketches I did not expect to publish them. I visited my old native section in 1857, after an absence of twenty years, and while there the reminiscences of my early years naturally revived, from the influence of that strange but necessary law in man's mental structure, association of ideas, and on my return I concluded to write out some of the scenes and stories of that age and section. When I had nearly finished them, they were read to some friends, who warmly suggested their publication. I have consented, and the reader now has them, and will, of course, as one of the sovereigns of the mental world, decide upon their merits. Long prefaces are not generally read, and I shall say but little in that line. I hope these “Scenes and Stories” will contribute a mite toward our country's stock of humorous literature. I choose to conceal my real name, and will be known by the nickname of my boyhood,

“SKITT.” July, 1859. CONTENTS. I. DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY . . . . . 13 II. “FAMUS OR NO FAMUS” . . . . . 20 III. JOHNSON SNOW THE NIGHT MEETING.—HE JOINS THE CHURCH.—HE APOSTATIZES.—THE INTERVIEW AND TRIUMPH. . . . . . 28 IV. UNCLE DAVY LANE THE CHASE.—THE HORN-SNAKE.—THE RATTLESNAKE BITE.—THE FAST-RUNNING BUCK.—RIDE IN THE PEACH-TREE.—THE PANTHER.—THE TURKEY HUNT.—THE PIGEON-ROOST.—BIG PEACH-EATING.—SOME APPLE-EATING.—THE TAPE-WORM.—THE BUCK-HORNED SNAKE. . . . . . 50 V. UNCLE FROST SNOW . . . . . 94 VI. DICK SNOW CHARACTERISTIC ANECDOTES.—COURTSHIP.—GETTING RELIGION. . . . . . 98 VII. OLIVER STANLEY ESCAPE FROM THE WHALE.—INDIAN AND BEAR STORY. . . . . . 124 VIII. LARKIN SNOW, THE MILLER STORY OF THE EELS.—FAST-RUNNING DOG. . . . . . 139 IX. UNCLE BILLY LEWIS THE FIRE-HUNT.—UNCLE BILLY PREACHES. . . . . . 152 X. JOHN SENTER THE TRIAL.—THE WEDDING. . . . . . 165 XI. REV. CHARLES GENTRY THE ORIGIN OF THE WHITES.—JONAH AND THE WHALE. . . . . . 186 XII. FIGHTING JOSH JONES AND HASH-HEAD SMITH.—BUTTING.—A QUARTER OF A DOLLAR FIGHT.—FIGHT ABOUT A KIP-SKIN. . . . . . 193 XIII. THE CONVERT . . . . . 206 XIV. NOT A TRAVELER . . . . . 212 XV. COOKING.—BIG EATING, ETC . . . . . 217 XVI. A DECLARATION OF LOVE . . . . . 222 XVII. GLASSEL AND THE OWL . . . . . 227 XVIII. ONE OF THE PEOPLE . . . . . 229 XIX. A CALL TO THE MINISTRY . . . . . 233 XX. OUTDONE . . . . . 237 XXI. STRAW! STRAW! MORE STRAW HERE! . . . . . 241 XXII. TARE AND TRET.—AN ALABAMA TALE . . . . . 244 XXIII. HAM RACHEL, OF ALABAMA . . . . . 249 ILLUSTRATIONS. THE HORN-SNAKE . . . . . Frontispiece. THE NIGHT MEETING . . . . . 38 BENDING BUCKSMASHER . . . . . 66 THE PIGEON-ROOST . . . . . 82 “GOOD-MORNIN', LADIES” . . . . . 107 ESCAPE FROM THE WHALE . . . . . 131 THE EELS . . . . . 146 THE FIRE-HUNT . . . . . 157 THE WEDDING . . . . . 181 BUTTING . . . . . 200 THE WINDSOR CHAIR . . . . . 215 TARE AND TRET . . . . . 247 HAM RACHEL, OF ALABAMA . . . . . 266 FISHER'S RIVER SCENES AND CHARACTERS. FISHER'S RIVER. I.—DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY.

THE scenes and stories found in this work were enacted and told between the years 1820 and 1829. Some description of the wonderful country where such striking scenes were acted and such marvelous stories were told, and of the men who figured prominently in them, is imperatively demanded. I frankly confess, however, that I am utterly incapable of doing the subjects ample justice. But an effort must be made; apologies will not do; so I address myself to the important and mighty task, and hope that the united world will return me a vote of thanks for rescuing from Oblivion's fell grasp such important items in the history of our country.

Surry County is one of the northwestern counties of North Carolina, and joins Grayson, Carroll, and Patrick counties, Virginia. These scenes are laid in the extreme north-western part of this county. It is a romantic section, and produces a people equally romantic. The highest part of the majestic Blue Ridge, a branch of the great Alleghany, stands in bold view, overlooking the whole country. From its base flow many crystal streams as cold as ice-water can be made in southern cities. Some of them are dignified with the name of “river.” Thus there are “Mitchell's River,” “Big Fisher's River,” and “Little Fisher's River;” and of creeks there are “Stewart's Creek,” “Ring's Creek,” “Beaver Dam Creek,” and so forth. All these streams, with branches and springs constantly pouring into them, after running a short and swift course, precipitate themselves into the pure, clear, and rapid Yadkin. Near the foot of the Blue Ridge, on its spurs and ridges, and on those rivers and creeks, lived the heroes whose wondrous feats and stories are recorded in the following pages.

But “Shipp's Muster-Ground,” on Ring's Creek, lying between Big Fisher's and Little Fisher's Rivers, being the common centre of rendezvous for the whole country, I choose to call my work “FISHER'S RIVER SCENES AND CHARACTERS.” These two rivers took their names from the loftiest peak of the Blue Ridge chain of the Alleghany, called “Fisher's Peak.” It is a peak of overwhelming beauty and grandeur. It was named after Colonel Daniel Fisher, who ran the line between Virginia and North Carolina to the top of this peak. The line crosses this lofty point near its centre. The tradition of the country says—and I suppose it is correct—that, Mr. Fisher being a fleshy man, the ascent of the mountain overcame him; he fell sick, died, and was buried on its height.

From the top of Fisher's Peak one has an unsurpassed view, east, west, north, and south, of mountain piled upon mountain, lifting their heads high in the immense blue horizon far as the eye can take in an object, strengthened and assisted by the clear and pure atmosphere of that elevated region. If heathen mythology were true, this might have been the place where giants piled mountain upon mountain to scale the walls of heaven. Then “knobs” of lesser size more modestly lift up their heads to aid and swell the grand variety, while hills and ridges assist the spectator to gradually descend to small valleys, river and creek bottoms, where now and then may be seen small farms, cabins, and houses. But the view is indescribably grand, and I shall attempt no farther description of it. One must see it to realize its grandeur.

Near the base of the mountain, and a few miles east, south, and southwest of it, lived a healthy, hardy, honest, uneducated set of pioneers, unlike, in many respects, any set of pioneers that ever peopled any other portion of the Lord's globe. They came mostly from Virginia, and a portion of them from the middle and lower parts of North Carolina, and a few from other sections—a sufficient number from all parts to make a singular and pleasing variety. The emigrants from Virginia furnished exceptions to the general claims of Virginians, most of whom claim to belong to the “first families;” but it was honor enough for them that they came from “Fudginny.” This section was settled between the years 1770 and 1780. They had stirring times during the Revolution. The early settlers were pretty equally divided between Whigs and Tories. A majority were probably Tories, but the Whigs, headed by a few daring spirits, held the Tories in check, and drove them to the mountain fastnesses. Many thrilling incidents could be narrated, but that is not my business in these sketches. Well do I remember hearing the old soldiers of the Revolution tantalize the Tories and their descendants.

A large portion of these early settlers were wholly uneducated, and the rest of them had but a rude and imperfect rudimental education. Each settler brought with him the rustic vernacular of his native section, and held on to it with great tenacity, thus making a common stock of the richest unwritten rustic literature that ever graced any community. They had no use for grammar nor for grammarians; they had no dictionaries; what few literary questions arose among them were decided by Meshack Franklin, for he was the only well-educated man in the community, and had been to Congress. Jesse Franklin, for several years United States Senator, and afterward Governor of North Carolina, lived and died here. For his opportunities, he was the greatest man North Carolina has ever produced. But with most of the people a rifle, shot-pouch, butcher-knife, and an article they dubbed “knock-'em-stiff” were of vastly more importance than “larn-in';” while the younger ones preferred the sound of the “fiddle,” a “seven-handed reel,” and “Old Sister Phebe” to a log-pole school-house. Yet, for all this, they were a clever folk, and one raised among them, who knows their worth every way, has ventured to record some few of their deeds of daring.

It is emphatically a “poor man's country.” There is but little good land in it. All the valuable land lies on the small rivers and creeks, in very narrow bottoms. No rich man will ever be tempted to live there. But, notwithstanding their long, cold winters and poor lands, the inhabitants, by hard labor and by the most rigid economy, live well. All extravagance, however, is necessarily excluded, and the people make the greater part of their own apparel, material and all. Money is very scarce, and corrupting fashions seldom reach them. That is one place where Paris, London, and Broadway seldom reach. I visited them in 1857, and found “sacks” and “joseys” in full fashion.

But the reader is tired, I fear, of this prelude, if he has read it at all. A long introduction to a book is treated as unceremoniously as a long grace at table when men are hungry. It is like a green field to a starving horse when the fence is sorry. But what has been said is essential to what follows, and if I have erred it has been in being too brief.

 II.—“FAMUS OR NO FAMUS.”

FISHER'S RIVER was one of the last places for the importance of militia musters, in the expressive language of that section, “to give up the ghost.” I account for it from the fact that a few old Revolutionary soldiers lived in the community, and kept the “militeer sperit” always at blood heat in the rising generation.

Their musters were semi-annual, held in May and November, and the old “Revolutionaries” were ever present. The “capting,” “leftenant,” “sargint”—all the “ossiffers”—were proud to perform “revolutions” before them. “They knowed a thing or two about militeer tacktucks, just as well as old Steuben ur Duane tharselves.” And the “cap'en” never thought for once of giving the word “Right face! dismissed!” till they were gravely reviewed by the “old sogers.”

There was another matter of powerful attraction to the old “'Lutionaries” and the “'Litia”—the “knock-'em-stiff”—that was as punctual in attendance as any of the “patriots.” “Nigger Josh Easley” with his “gingy cakes,” and Hamp Hudson with his “licker,” were men and things as much looked for as “Capting Moore with his militeer uniform.”

Hamp Hudson was the only man in that whole country who kept a “still-house” running all the year; the weaker ones would “run dry.” Of course, Hamp and his still-house, and all the “appurtenances thereof,” were well known to the whole country.

Hamp also had a noted dog, named “Famus,” as famous for being in the distillery as Hamp himself, and quite as well known in that entire region as his master.

Now it came to pass in the course of human and dog events that Famus fell into a “mash-tub” and was drowned. It was “narrated” all through the country “that Famus was drownded in a mash-tub, and Hamp had distilled the beer in which Famus was drownded, and was gwine to carry it to the May muster to sell.” This report produced a powerful sensation in the community, and was the only topic of conversation. All appeared to believe it, and there was a general determination “not to drink one drap uv Hamp's nasty old Famus licker.”

The auspicious muster-day arrives, and the people collect from Stewart's Creek, Ring's Creek, Beaver Dam, Big Fisher's and Little Fisher's Rivers, from the “Hollow,” “the Foot uv the Mounting”—from the Dan to the Beersheba of that whole country. I, too, was there—though but a lad, deeply interested in the action of that important day—to see who would triumph, Hamp and Famus, or an indignant community.

As soon as they collect they meet in little squads to debate the grave question. The old “Revolutioners” are there, and their sage counsels decide all questions. “They fout for our liberties, and they must be hearn.” “Uncle Jimmy Smith,” a leading man among them, particularly on “licker questions,” makes a speech to the crowd just before Cap'en Moore tells the “orderly sargint” to “form ranks.” Uncle Jimmy lisps, but he is clearly understood by his waiting and attentive audience. They are “spellbound” by his nervous and patriotic eloquence. What if he has a slight impediment in his speech? his eloquence is in his subject. Hear him:

“Now, boyith, I'm an old man—wath at the storming uv Stony Pint, under old ‘Mad Anthony Wayne,’ ath we boyith allers called him; and I've marched and countermarched through thick and thin; hath fout, bled, and died nairly for seven long years; I hath theen many outrages, but thith Famus business caps the stack and saves the grain. Jist think uv thith feller, Hamp Hudson, to 'still the beer uv that mash-tub that Famus—that nathty, stinkin', mangy dog—was drownded in; and fur to think fur to bring it here fur to thell the nathty, stinkin' whisky to hith neighbors, Cap'en Moore and company, and to the old sogers, what fout for yer libertith. I tell you, boyith, you can do ath you pleath, but old Jimmy Smith—old Stony Pint—ain't a-gwine to tech it!”

“Nur I!” “Nur I, Uncle Jimmy!” shouted hundreds.

The voice of the sergeant is now heard like a Blue Ridge cataract:

“O-yis! o-yis! The hour of muster have arrove! O-yis! All uv ye what b'longs to Cap'en Moore's company, parade here! Fall inter ranks right smart, and straight as a gun-bar'l, and dress to the right and left, accordin' to the militeer tacktucks laid down by Duane in his cilebrated work on that fust of all subjecks.”

They fall into ranks with precision, order, dignity, and gravity, prompted by their patriotism. Besides, the old “Lutionary sogers” are looking at them.

Cap'en Moore now appears in his old-fashioned uniform, worn probably by some “'Lutionary cap'en” in many a bloody fight. 'Tis an odd-looking affair; the collar of it repulses his “ossifer hat” from the top of his “hade;” the tail, long and forked, striking his hams at every step, and two great rusty epaulets on his shoulders—enough to weigh down a man of less patriotic spirit, and on a less patriotic occasion.

Thus equipped, “as the law directs,” he commences the “drill accordin' to Duane.”

I had seen every muster on that patriotic spot from the time I was able to get there and to eat a “gingy cake,” but never had I seen as poor a one as that was. There was no spirit nor life in the “militeer.” Instead of following Duane, they were whispering and talking about Hamp and Famus. Indeed, they greatly needed the inspiration of Hamp's barrel. Cap'en Moore bawled till he was hoarse; his “leftenant” and “sargint” were exhausted, but it all did no good. They performed no “revolutions” according to Duane, Steuben, nor any other author extant. The old “Revolutioners” could render them no assistance, and in despair the “capting” dismissed them, in deep mortification.

But where are Hamp and Famus all this time? Yonder he sits, under the shade of a large apple-tree, solitary and alone, astride of his whisky-barrel.

It is now one o'clock P.M., and his chances look bad; his whisky-barrel has not been tapped, nor has any man dared to approach his condemned head-quarters. “Old Nigger Josh Easley” has sold all his “gingy cakes,” and is showing his big white teeth, rejoicing at his unparalleled success. Josh is the only joyful man on the “grit.” The rest are all melancholy, standing or sitting in little squads, debating the mash-tub question. Hamp is quite composed, and his looks say, “Never mind, gentlemen, I'll sell you every drap uv my licker yit.”

Two o'clock arrives, and no one approaches Hamp's apple-tree. His prospects are growing worse. But look yonder! The crowd has collected around Uncle Jimmy Smith. Let us approach and hear him:

“Well, boyith, I don't know tho well about thith matter. Maybe we've accused thith feller, Hamp, wrongfully. He hath allers been a clever feller, and ith a pity ef he ith innercent uv thith charge. The fact ith, boyith, it's mighty dull, dry times; nuthin's a-gwine on right. Boyith, you are free men. I fout for your freedom. I thay, boyith, you can do ath you pleath, but ath fur me, old Stony Pint Jimmy Smith, Famus or no Famus, I must take a little.”

The speech of Uncle Jimmy was satisfactory and moving. His audience was not “spell-bound,” for they moved up to Hamp's head-quarters with a “double-quick step;” the “bar'l” was tapped, “Famus or no Famus,” by the generous Hamp, who never reproached them for their severe accusations. Soon the condemned barrel was emptied, the money was in Hamp's pocket, and he was merry as “Gingy-cake Josh.”

Uncle Jimmy soon began to sing his Revolutionary ditties, spin his yarns, and was happy enough. Cap'en Moore, “leftenant” and “sargint,” soon forgot their hard day's work. The “'Litia” and others fell to discussing questions of great moment; but the whole affair ended in skinned noses, gouged eyes, and bruised heads. That was a Famus day in the annals of “Shipp's Muster-Ground.”

 III.—JOHNSON SNOW.

OF all the men in that romantic and picturesque country, I must yield the palm, in many respects, to JOHNSON SNOW.

He was one of the oldest settlers of Stewart's Creek, near its head, and within a few miles of the “Flour Gap” of the Blue Ridge. “Johnson,” for so he was always familiarly called, had not the advantages of even a Dilworth's Spelling-Book education. He had learned the common vernacular of the country, with a few additional eccentricities of his own, but he “axed nobody no boot, and could weed his own row, and keep it clean too—that's sartin.”

Look at him, and you will believe every word of it, and more too.

He is about five feet six inches high, well set, muscularly and powerfully made; but he is good-humored, wears a generous face, and has a warm heart. Well for the “Stewart's Creek Suckers” that he was a good-natured man. He is also fond of good eating, and shows his keeping.

There was a long line of kings in Egypt that went by the common name of “Ptolemy,” and to distinguish one Ptolemy from another the people and historians appended an adjunct expressive of the character or habits of each monarch. One of them was called “Ptolemy Physcon,” or “Tunbelly.” And to distinguish Johnson Snow from the numerous Snows that lived in that region, and to give the reader some idea of the effects of a good appetite, he might with great propriety be called TUNBELLY JOHNSON SNOW.

Two things he was particularly fond of, and upon which he flourished whenever he could get them—turnip greens and “hog's gullicks,” the “Adam's apple” of a hog's haslet, or the “google,” as it is commonly called. Johnson had departed from all technicalities, and called it “gullick.”

Hog-killing time was a glorious time with Johnson—equal to herring time with seaboard North Carolinians. At meals he would say to his wife Patsey, after “sweepin' the platter” of the gullicks and turnip greens already on his rude, crossed-legged table,

“Hello, Patsey! God love your soul! is there any more gullicks and greens in the pot? If there is, God love your soul, Patsey! git 'um fur me.”

I will add that he would help all his neighbors kill hogs for the “gullicks.”

There was an arch, provoking smile ever playing upon his full face, which would attract attention in any crowd, and mark him out as a “rare bird” in any community. He had, moreover, a fund of sharp, provoking wit, running into satire when necessary, which Johnson maintained “were worth more than all yer college lingo, a plaguy sight.” His waggish wit was a terror to the whole country. Woe to the man who happened to fall into some ludicrous mishap! He never heard the last of it from Johnson. He had “a rig” on nearly every man. Invulnerable himself, in one scrape only was he “cotched” —at Bellow's meeting—as you shall soon learn.

Johnson Snow was a necessary appendage at every public gathering. “Licker” was at them all, and he loved it as a thirsty ox does pond-water. The fact is, it sharpened his wit, and he would indulge freely for that additional reason.

He had a peculiar way of prefacing his weightiest sentences with a short word, uttered twice in a guttural manner, clearing up his throat, or his “gullick,” as he would term it, just before uttering them. Henry VIII. and Johnson Snow used the same short, expressive, and significant word, though their pronunciation, action, and manner were quite different. When King Henry used his ha! men might walk a chalkline; when Johnson uttered his, some one might look out.

For instance, when he was where “candidites” for the “Legislater” were treating for votes, he would say,

“Ha! ha! boys, let's take some uv the knock-'em-stiff, fur I can't half talk to these gentlemen candidites till I'm 'bout half slewed.”

Soon Johnson would have first one then another of the “candidites” aside, “borin' them fur the holler horn” to their hearts' content.

He now lets fly his provoking gibes in every direction, striking one, then another, producing all the time peals of laughter from all except himself. In this he resembled Dean Swift. The man that laughs heartiest Johnson turns upon him and he is “seisorified.” A physician dares to laugh, and he “cotches it” thus:

“Ha! ha! hello, Doctor Oglesby, how do you come on killin' folks? You'd better be laughin' t'other side o' yer mouth, and down on yer knees a-prayin'. Ef I'd a kilt as many folks as you, wid yer callomy and jollermy, I'd now, instid o' laughin', be on the yeth, in sackcloth and ashes. Ha! ha! look a here, Doctor Oglesby, where do you bury yer dade? It's a bully grave-yard by this time, I s'pose. When you a-gwine to add any more yeth to it?”

But the above is as much space as I can give my tunbellied, merry, and illustrious Stewart's Creek hero by way of introduction, and will now bring him on the stage in a few acts and scenes.

The first act and the first scene was at

THE NIGHT MEETING.

Johnson Snow had the bump of curiosity fully developed.

“I want to know suthin uv every thing that's a-gwine on. I'll be smashed inter piecrust—yes, inter a million o' giblets, afore I'll be as ignunt as some jewkers! Ha! ha! I've hearn uv this feller Beller's shoutin' night meetin's, and I'm a-gwine to one on 'um.”

With such aspiring feelings as the above, our Stewart's Creek hero “moseyed” off, “three sheets in the breeze,” to one of Parson Bellow's night meetings.

In raw-hide “stitched-down shoes,” he stood six feet four inches. He was rawboned, long-faced, pug-nosed, and wide-mouthed. In size, small men were no more to him than Liliputians were to Captain Gulliver. A mountain “boomer,” dressed in a linsey hunting-shirt down to his knees, with a leather band round his waist, a tow and cotton shirt, dressed buckskin pants, with a few other things of minor importance, made up the uniform, the surplice and gown, of the Rev. Mr. Bellow.

We will now “mosey off” with Johnson to the “night meetin',” and see what happens, for there is always music where our jolly hero goes.

Our “leather-britches parson” had a revival going on, and there was quite “a stir” among the people, for he made his mark as well as Johnson. Johnson staggers in, and with a good deal of difficulty takes his seat.

Bellow commences “the sarvices,” and, notwithstanding his powerful voice, quite in harmony with his name—despite of an occasional stamp with his big snake-killing foot, enough to break through any other than a puncheon floor; with now and then a heavy blow upon the Bible with his herculean fist, and often a keen, deafening pop with his hands together, by way of variety—Johnson goes fast to sleep, and snores grandiloquently.

Johnson seems to be opposing the parson's eloquence—Bellow with his mouth, hands, and feet, Johnson only with his nose. The combat is not equal, but Johnson is “one on 'um.” Usually snorers have but little variety in their music, and it is grating and shocking to the nerves; but not so with our hero, for he has a great and pleasing variety. He is as freakish, amusing, and as interesting in snoring as in any other relation of life. There is nothing dull and monotonous about the man. It puts one in a good humor to look at him.

The rivalry lasted for some time, and victory appeared to be doubtful; but at last the parson triumphed. At the close of his discourse—and a masterly effort it was—there was a general shout all through the congregation. Men and women mingled together, shouting and clapping their hands. Johnson's nose eloquence was “nowhar.”

At last some of them—it happened to be women mostly—“crowded” Johnson, and woke him up, and the first idea that entered his “noggin” was that he was in a general “still-house” fight. He was so “slewed” when he went in that he had forgotten all his antecedents, and woke up, as he thought, in a “gin'ral row.” He was no coward, and he determined to “wade through 'um.”

He rolled up his sleeves, clenched his fists, “gritted” his teeth, and commenced:

“Ha! ha! what the devil you about here? What you smackin' yer fists in my face fur? Ha! ha! ef you ar' 'umun, you'd better skin yer eyes and look sharp. I don't 'low man nur 'umun to pop thar fists in my face. No, by juckers! Hello! git out'n the track here! Rip shins and marrer bones! Wake snakes, the winter's broke! Ha! ha! here's at you! I can lick the whole possercommertatus of yer afore you can say Toney Lumpkins three times, by Zucks! Come on, yer cowards!”

By this time the people were quieted in the shouting line, and began to leave the house—some to laugh, but most of them through fear—and every body was silent in the house but Johnson. The cowardly retreat made him more furious than ever. He shouted after them,

“Ha! ha! come back here ef you dare, and face a brave man! Look him plump in the face and eyes a minnit, you cowardly villuns! You're a purty set uv ill-begotten, turkey-trottin' pukes, to raise a quarrel with

THE NIGHT MEETING.

a peaceubble man, and then run like a gang uv geese. Gone! gone, are you? Ha! ha! I've clared the tan-yard! I've clared the tan-yard! Hoo-pee!”

Just here Johnson discovered that the parson was the only man that maintained his position. He marched up to him, without the least respect for his reverence, and said, “Ha! ha! Beller, you're the ringleader uv all this devilment. You're the biggest rascal in this crowd. I can lick you, sir, any day, any minnit.”

Rubbing first one fist, then the other, in the parson's face, he continued:

“Smell uv yer master! Smell uv yer mistiss! Smell uv yer master! Smell uv yer mistiss! Ha! ha! no fight in you? You're a purty feller, to raise a row with a peaceubble man, and then won't fight it out! Mosey! Trollop! Git out'n here, you dinged old sloomy Yahoo!”

The parson, to get rid of his furious antagonist, left the house, and Johnson was left alone in his glory, having “clared the tan-yard.”

 HE JOINS THE CHURCH.

Not long after the foregoing act and scene, Johnson had a spell of sickness that reduced his abdominal dimensions considerably, and, in his own expressive language, “I got so I couldn't eat nuther turnup greens nur hog's gullicks, and like to a pegged out, and left Patsey a poor reflicted widder upon this sinful, villanus world—these mundanious shores uv mortality.”

He reflected not a little on his past life, more especially about that “night-meetin' scrape.” So, in a mellow state of feeling, and with quite a penitent heart, he joined Parson Bellow's church. There was great rejoicing by the class at this “triumph of grace”—at this “wonderful convarsion.” The great Goliath, who had defied Israel—that Manasseh—that Saul of Tarsus—was now a humble penitent and a devout “seeker.”

Johnson, being an ardent and enthusiastic man any way, made pretty rapid progress in his religious duties and life, and so encouraged the class that they had serious thoughts of procuring a license for him to preach; “fur,” said Parson Bellow, “he sartinly has a good gift in prayer, and thar mout be a work fur him to do. He mout be the instrument to slay these Stewart's Creek sinners.”

One day, in class-meeting, Johnson “got happy,” and groaned, cried, shouted, and “tuck on no little.” Johnson would make a “racket” any where; it was his “natur, and he didn't b'lieve in squashin' natur.” Bellow was gratified, went to him, and inquired,

“How do you feel, Brother Snow?”

“Ha! ha! good—mighty good, Brother Beller, and no mistake! It beats creation all holler! Nothin' like it—not even hog's gullicks. Knock-'em-stiff's nowhar compared unto it. Brethering and sistering, one an' all, I'll give you my 'pinion, though not axed fur it: a heap uv groanin', gobs uv shoutin' and cryin', goes a grate ways toads settin' off a meeting'. It's half the battle, sartin. The old inimy has to tuck his tail and leave when he hears it.”

 HE APOSTATIZES.

Johnson's “first love” did not continue sufficiently long for him to obtain a license to preach; hence he never “held forth,” as was confidently expected. He imprudently went out to some public gathering, where “candidites,” his old associates, were treating, got a scent of his old “inimy” knock-'em-stiff, tasted a little, and, some said, “got tight.”

Be the charge true or false, he declined rapidly in his religious duties, and it was very afflictive to his preacher and class. Bellow and the class did all they could to keep him in duty's path, but all their efforts signally failed. They never gave him up till they heard, with much pain, his answers one day to Parson Bellow in class-meeting.*

* The author has no intention, in this sketch, to slur that most excellent denomination of Christians among whom his mother lived and died a pious member.

All the other members of the class had been examined in the usual way, and had reported favorably in regard to their religious prospects to the parson, and Johnson was the last one that was examined. He had listened attentively to every one in their turn, with looks of doubt and indignation, as they gave an account of the “good work” in their hearts, believing all the time, judging from his looks, that they were “putting too much paint in the brush.” At last the parson approached him, when the following questions were asked and answers were given:

“How do you come on, Brother Snow?” asked the parson.

“I come on my feet,” growled Johnson.

“But how do you feel, Brother Snow?”

“Ha! ha! nation hungry! I want some hog's gullicks and turnup greens right smack now. Ef you've got any on 'um, I'm fur 'um right off. It wouldn't hurt my feelin's ef you'd draw a bottle o' knock-'em-stiff on me nuther.”

“But how do you feel in religious matters, Brother Snow? that's the question,” persisted Bellow.

“Ha! ha! deng shacklin, I tell you! I hain't a thimbleful o' religion, ef it was to save yer neck from the gallows. I can't tell as grate tales as the rest on ye here, nur I ain't a-gwine to do it nuther. My chance is mighty slim; but I wouldn't swap it fur some uv yourn and a mess o' turnup greens to boot. Ax me no more questions, else I'll settle the hash with you all quick. That t'other time when I clared the tan-yard won't be a primin' to it.”

They took the hint, opened the door, and let him out, and thus ended Johnson's religious freak.

 THE INTERVIEW AND TRIUMPH.

Johnson Snow possessed, in addition to his waggish wit, a good deal of “hard common sense like a hoss.” He was rich in resources and expedients, and seldom failed of a triumph in times of emergency. In all the “tight fits” and “tarnatious snarls” he got into, he would outfight, outquarrel, or outwit; out he would come with “flyin' colors.”

He triumphed over one of the sternest men in the community, as the following incident will show.

There lived in the neighborhood a rigid Baptist and great “Scriptorian,” one of the few men in that social region that would not take some of the “good critter,” but hated it most cordially. His aversion went so far that he would not let a drunken man tarry with him for the night. He was highly respected by all who knew him, even by the worst drunkards, and bore two titles which were quite honorable then and there. (This was before Americans began to manufacture and apply titles indiscriminately.) He was always addressed very respectfully as “'Squire Charles Taliaferro” and “Cap'en Taliaferro.”

Johnson knew him well, and was fully aware of his hatred to his friend “Cap'en Knock-'em-stiff;” but what of that? “Ha! ha! I'm ready for the old 'coon, cocked and primed, and triggers sprung. I'll show him he don't know uvry thing about Scripter afore I'm done with him. This boy has dipped into Scripter as well as still-houses, sure as gun's iron.”

These sentences were uttered by Johnson at a “still-house,” not long after he had quit Parson Bellow's church. He had just made a bet with some “jewkers” of a gallon of apple brandy that he could stay all night with “old Taliaferro, and could beat him all holler, too, talkin' on Scripter.”

Chuckling as above, he leaves a “still-house” one cold evening, “high up in the picters,” and arrived at Taliaferro's gate just at sunset, altered his voice, and hallooed. Taliaferro opened the door, and our hero commenced.

“Hellow, old Scripter; I'm come to stay all night with you. I want to talk all night with you on Scripter. I've hearn you was a reg'lar built screamer in that way, and I want to try my hand with you, sartin. 'Squire, I'll talk all round you. I'll ringfire you with Scripter. Ha! ha! see here, cap'en, ef you lick me out, you can beat the old Scripter-maker, sartin. I give you far warnin'. No shirkin', now, sartin.”

“You can not stay, Johnson,” replied Taliaferro. “Come when you are sober, and you can stay a week, if you wish; but a drunken man shall not stay all night in my house.”

“Don't be too fast, old 'coon,” said Johnson; “I'll show you a trick ur two afore I'm done, sartin. You Humph! you Humph!” (calling a negro man named Humphrey); “come here, you bandy-shanked rascal, and take my hoss. Put him up, and in the mornin', ef he ain't up to his eyes in corn and fodder, I'll larrup you well. Ha! ha! you b'longed to me once, you cathamed puke, but I gulluped you down my gullick in whisky, and sold you to this rich man, Taliaferro, who's got too big fur his britches, and won't let me stay all night with him. But I'll show him I'm a huckleberry over his 'simmon, sartin.”

Orders were obeyed; the horse was taken, and our Stewart's Creek hero walked to the door and halted. He placed one foot on the door-steps, his elbow upon his knee, his chin in his hand, with a face as long as the president of a club of Pharisees, and commenced his telling speech on “Scripter.”

“Ha! ha! Taliaferro, I read uv you in Scripter. You think I know nuthin' about Scripter, but I'll show you afore I'm done. I know and read of you in that holy book. You're that rich man in the parrabul, which you may find by sarching the 16th chapter of Luke, that fared sumptoriously uvry day, and I'm poor Lezzerus. That rich man wouldn't let poor reflicted Lezzerus come into his house, nur will you let me come into yourn nuther. Don't you see the 'nalogy? But that rich man died, and how was it with him, Taliaferro? Be alarmed, sir! Poor reflicted Lezzerus died, too, and how was it with him? Look into Abram's bosom; see him restin' thar, safe as a bar in a hollow tree in the dead o' winter. Ah! you'll see how it will go with you and me in ‘that day,’ as Parson Beller calls it. When I'm shinin' away in Abram's bosom, like a piece uv new money, where will you be, Taliaferro? Don't Paul, in Hebrews, tell you to be ‘careful to entertain strangers—thereby some have entertained angels?’ What good does all yer Scripter readin' do you, ef you don't 'ply it better? You'd better be studyin' Gale's Almynac, for the good it does you. Ha! ha! you won't let me come into yer house, and even eat the crumbs what falls from your table, now groanin' and screechin' under rich dainties—maybe some hog's gullicks on it too. I'll go out here” (leaving the door, and affecting to weep), “and lie down in yer fence corner, and let yer dogs come and lick my sores. You'll see how it will go with us in that day, sartin.”

“Come back, Johnson,” said Taliaferro, “and stay all night. I acknowledge myself beaten for once in ‘Scripter.’ You certainly got your lesson well while you were in Bellow's church.”

 IV.—UNCLE DAVY LANE.

I MUST not forget, in these random sketches, my old friend and neighbor Uncle Davy Lane. Some men make an early and decided impression upon you—features, actions, habits, all the entire man, real and artificial. “Uncle Davy” was that kind of man.

I will mention a few things that make me remember him. His looks were peculiar. He was tall, dark, and rough-skinned; lymphatic, dull, and don't-care-looking in his whole physiognomy. He had lazy looks and movements. Nothing could move him out of a slow, horse-mill gait but snakes, of which “creeturs he was monstrous 'fraid.” The reader shall soon have abundant evidence of the truth of this admission in his numerous and rapid flights from “sarpunts.”

Uncle Davy was a gunsmith, and, as an evidence of the fact, he carried about with him the last gun he ever made. His gun, a rifle, was characteristic of its maker and owner—rough and unfinished outside, but good within. It was put in an old worm-eaten half-stock which he had picked up somewhere, and the barrel had never been dressed nor ground outside. He would visit a neighbor early in the morning, sit down with his rifle across his knees, in “too great a hurry” to set it aside, would stay all day, would lay it by only at meals, which he seldom refused, but “never was a-hongry.”

He had a great fund of long-winded stories and incidents, mostly manufactured by himself—some few he had “hearn”—and would bore you or edify you, as it might turn out, from sun to sun, interspersing them now and then with a dull, guttural, lazy laugh.

He became quite a proverb in the line of big story-telling. True, he had many obstinate competitors, but he distanced them all farther than he did the numerous snakes that “run arter him.” He had given his ambitious competitors fair warning thus:

“Ef any on 'um beats me, I'll sell out my deadnin' and hustle off to other deadnin's.”

In sheer justice to Uncle Davy, however, and with pleasure I record the fact, that he reformed his life, became a Christian, I hope, as well as a Baptist, and died a penitent man.

As stated, he was never known to get out of a snail's gallop only when in contact with snakes; and the reader shall now have, in Uncle Davy's own style, an account of his flight from a coachwhip snake.

THE CHASE.

“I had a hog claim over beyant Moor's Fork, and I concluded I'd take old Bucksmasher (his rifle), and go inter the big huckleberry patch, on Round Hill, in sarch for 'um. Off I trolloped, and toddled about for some time, but couldn't find head nur tail uv 'um. But while I was moseyin' about, I cum right chug upon one uv the biggest, longest, outdaciousest coachwhip snakes I uver laid my peepers on. He rared right straight up, like a May-pole, licked out his tarnacious tongue, and good as said, ‘Here's at you, sir. What bizness have you on my grit?’ Now I'd hearn folks say ef you'd look a vinimus animil right plump in the eyes he wouldn't hurt you. Now I tried it good, just like I were trying to look through a mill-stone. But, bless you, honey! he had no more respect fur a man's face and eyes than he had fur a huckleberry, sure's gun's iron. So I seed clearly that I'd have to try my trotters.

“I dashed down old Bucksmasher, and jumped 'bout ten steps the fust leap, and on I went wusser nur an old buck fur 'bout a quarter, and turned my noggin round to look fur the critter. Jehu Nimshi! thar he were right dab at my heels, head up, tongue out, and red as a nail-rod, and his eyes like two balls uv fire, red as chain lightnin.' I'creased my verlocity, jumped logs twenty foot high, clarin' thick bushes, and bush-heaps, deep gullies, and branches. Again I looked back, thinkin' I had sartinly left it a long gap behind. And what do you think? By jingo! he'd hardly begun to run—jist gittin' his hand in. So I jist put flatly down again faster than uver. 'Twasn't long afore I run out'n my shot-bag, I went so fast, then out'n my shirt, then out'n my britches—luther britches at that—then away went my drawers. Thus I run clean out'n all my linnen a half a mile afore I got home; and, thinks I, surely the tarnul sarpunt are distanced now.

“But what do you think now? Nebuchadnezzar! thar he were, fresh as a mounting buck jist scared up. I soon seen that wouldn't do, so I jumped about thirty-five foot, screamed like a wildcat, and 'creased my verlocity at a monstrous rate. Jist then I begun to feel my skin split, and, thinks I, it's no use to run out'n my skin, like I have out'n my linnen, as huming skin are scarce, so I tuck in a leetle.

“But by this time I'd run clean beyant my house, right smack through my yard, scaring Molly and the childering, dogs, cats, chickens—uvry thing—half to death. But, you see, I got shet uv my inimy, the sarpunt, fur it had respect fur my house, ef it hadn't fur my face and eyes in the woods. I puffed, and blowed, and sweated 'bout half an hour afore I had wind to tell Molly and the childering what were the matter.

“Poor old Bucksmasher staid several days in the woods afore I could have the pluck to go arter him.”

When Uncle Davy told one snake story, he must needs exhaust his stock, big and little. After breathing a little from telling his coachwhip story, which always excited him, he would introduce and tell the story of his adventure with

 THE HORN-SNAKE.

“Fur some time arter I were chased by that sassy coachwhip, I were desput 'fraid uv snakes. My har would stand on eend, stiff as hog's bristles, at the noise uv uvry lizzard that ran through the leaves, and my flesh would jerk like a dead beef's.

“But at last I ventured to go into the face uv the Round Peak one day a-huntin'. I were skinnin' my eyes fur old bucks, with my head up, not thinkin' about sarpunts, when, by Zucks! I cum right plum upon one uv the curiousest snakes I uver seen in all my borned days.

“Fur a spell I were spellbound in three foot uv it. There it lay on the side uv a steep presserpis, at full length, ten foot long, its tail strait out, right up the presserpis, head big as a sasser, right toards me, eyes red as forked lightnin', lickin' out his forked tongue, and I could no more move than the Ball Rock on Fisher's Peak. But when I seen the stinger in his tail, six inches long and sharp as a needle, stickin' out like a cock's spur, I thought I'd a drapped in my tracks. I'd ruther a had uvry coachwhip on Round Hill arter me en full chase than to a bin in that drefful siteation.

“Thar I stood, petterfied with relarm—couldn't budge a peg—couldn't even take old Bucksmasher off uv my shoulder to shoot the infarnul thing. Nyther uv us moved nor bolted 'ur eyes fur fifteen minits.

“At last, as good luck would have it, a rabbit run close by, and the snake turned its eyes to look what it were, and that broke the charm, and I jumped forty foot down the mounting, and dashed behind a big white oak five foot in diamatur. The snake he cotched the eend uv his tail in his mouth, he did, and come rollin' down the mounting arter me jist like a hoop, and jist as I landed behind the tree he struck t'other side with his stinger, and stuv it up, clean to his tail, smack in the tree. He were fast.

“Of all the hissin' and blowin' that uver you hearn sense you seen daylight, it tuck the lead. Ef there'd a bin forty-nine forges all a-blowin' at once, it couldn't a beat it. He rared and charged, lapped round the tree, spread his mouf and grinned at me orful, puked and spit quarts an' quarts of green pisen at me, an' made the ar stink with his nasty breath.

“I seen thar were no time to lose; I cotched up old Bucksmasher from whar I'd dashed him down, and tried to shoot the tarnil thing; but he kep' sich a movin' about and sich a splutteration that I couldn't git a bead at his head, for I know'd it warn't wuth while to shoot him any whar else. So I kep' my distunce tell he wore hisself out, then I put a ball right between his eyes, and he gin up the ghost.

“Soon as he were dead I happened to look up inter the tree, and what do you think? Why, sir, it were dead as a herrin'; all the leaves was wilted like a fire had gone through its branches.

“I left the old feller with his stinger in the tree, thinkin' it were the best place fur him, and moseyed home, 'tarmined not to go out agin soon.

“Now folks may talk as they please 'bout there bein' no sich things as horn-snakes, but what I've seen I've seen, and what I've jist norated is true as the third uv Mathy.

“I mout add that I passed that tree three weeks arterwards, and the leaves and the whole tree was dead as a door-nail.”

Uncle Davy's mind was trained in a sort of horse-mill track, and would pass from one story to another with great naturalness and ease. No sooner was he done with the horn-snake rencounter, after giving you time to use some word of astonishment, note of exclamation—some sign of approbation or disapprobation, it made but little odds which—he would commence the story of

 THE RATTLESNAKE BITE.

“I thort my sarpunt difficulties was sartinly ended arter that desput horn-snake scrape; but hush, honey! they'd jist begun. T'other two was jist little frightnin's; this that I'm a-gwine to narrate was a sure-enough bite. He waded inter me far enuff. It happened arter this fashion:

“I knowed whar thar was a mighty nice blackberry patch, 'bout a mile from home. I 'tarmined to have a bait out'n 'um, and some on 'um for Molly to make a pie out'n, fur I'm mighty fond uv blackberry pies—nothin' nicer, 'ceptin' a raal North Carolina puddin'. So off I piked to the old field whar they was. I didn't 'spect to see any old bucks to smash, so I didn't take old Bucksmasher with me that time, which I nairly always done, nur did I—lack-a-day!—know what were to befall me that drefful, drefful day.

“I 'riv on the spot in the cool uv the evenin', which it were mighty hot weather, waded into 'um without ceremony ur interduction, and eat a bushel on 'um afore I picked any fur the family. Last I seen a monstrous big brier full uv great big 'uns, big as hen's eggs. I were so taken with 'um, with my head as high as ef I was looking at the stars, I went up, and, says I to myself, ‘I'll soon hev my basket full uv these master fellers; they'll make bully pies.’

“I were pickin' away hard as I could clatter, barefooted as the day I were borned, when I felt suthin rakin' my feet wusser than sawbriers. But I picked on, and nuver looked down to see what were the matter, thinking all the time it were briers. But it got wusser and wusser till it were no use. I looked down to see what were the matter, and what do you think? Why, thar were the biggest rattlesnake that uver were seen or hearn tell on—would a filled a washin'-tub to the brim. There he were peggin' away at my feet and legs like he were the hongriest critter on yeth.

“I jist let all holts go, and begun to jump right up and down, full thirty foot high, fur a dozen times, I reckon, screamin' like an Injun, allers lightin' in an inch uv the same place. Ev'ry time I'd strike the yeth the cussed sarpunt would peg away at me. At last the spell were broke, and I moseyed home at an orful rate. It's no use to say how fast I did run, fur nobody would b'leeve it, but I can say in truth, the runnin' from the coachwhip warn't a primin' to it. No, sir!

“Now I'd hearn that sweet milk were a mighty remedy fur snake-bites, and, as good luck would have it, Molly and the childering had jist got home from the cuppen*

* Cow-pen.

with the milk of seven master cows to give milk, and I, without sayin' a word, drunk down uvry drap uv it. They looked mighty curious at me. Soon I got monstrous sick, and commenced puking at an orful rate. Up come milk and blackberries, all mixed up together, makin' a relarmin' mess to the family. They begun to beller and squall like ten thousand Injuns were arter 'um and skelpin' on 'um, and me so sick I couldn't say a word. I thort in my soul I should puke up the bottoms of my feet. No poor little mangy pig uver hove and set at a 'tater-hill wusser nur I did. When I'd hulled out uvry thing innardly, I run to the whisky-kag, snatched it up, and landed at least two gallons down me. This were the king cure-all. I went to sleep in less than no time, nuver said a word to any on 'um, and waked up next mornin' ready fur breakfust, and eat more'n common, seein' I were tolluble empty.”

Uncle Davy has one more “sarpunt story,” which I will not let him tell now, but will reserve it for his last story. I will now give the reader, for the sake of variety, some of his hunting feats and stories, which will show him to have been a hero in that ancient and honorable occupation.

We have it from ancient and the best authority that “Nimrod was a mighty hunter before the Lord.” Uncle Davy was a second Nimrod at least. To allow Uncle Davy to decide the question, the Eastern hunter, Nimrod, who has been deified as Hercules for his wondrous feats, has been immeasurably eclipsed by the Western hunter, the Fisher's River Davy Lane. Hercules hunted with a club; Uncle Davy with old Bucksmasher. Hercules was doomed to hunt and perform his feats; Uncle Davy did his without compulsion. Poets and historians have sung and told the stories of Hercules; Uncle Davy tells his own stories. A fruitful imagination could run the analogy endlessly; but I shut down upon it.

I shall not record a tithe of the hunting stories of my Western Hercules, for they would make a ponderous volume. Only a few samples of the many shall be given; and I here take occasion to express the sincere hope that my countrymen will never return to such a state of barbarism as to deify our Fisher's River hero, as the ancients did Hercules, and make for him a mythology out of these imperfect records; for I now testify to all coming generations that Uncle Davy Lane was but a mortal man, and has been gathered to his fathers for several years. But excuse this digression: my plea is, The importance of the subject demanded it.

I will give but a few of my hero's stories, and will begin, without being choice, with

 THE FAST-RUNNING BUCK.

“Now I'd smashed up so many master old bucks 'bout Fisher's Gap, Blaze Spur, Flour Gap, clean round to Ward's Gap,*

* Different crossing-places of the Blue Ridge.

I 'cluded they mout be gittin' scass, and I'd let 'um rest a spell, and try my luck in other woods; so I toddled off to the Sugar Loaf.*

* A lofty peak of the Blue Ridge, running up in a beautiful conical form, resembling a sugar-loaf.

“Now I know'd it were the time uv year fur old bucks to be hard'nin' thar horns, so I tuck the sunny side uv the Sugar Loaf. I kep' my eyes skinned all the way up, but nuver seen any thing tell I got nairly to the top, when up jumped one uv the poxtakedest biggest old bucks you uver seen. He dashed round the mounting faster nur a shootin' star ur lightnin'. But, howsomever, I blazed away at him, but he were goin' so fast round the Loaf, and the bullet goin' strait forrud, I missed him. Ev'ry day fur a week I went to that spot, allers jumped him up in ten steps uv the same place, would fire away, but allers missed him, as jist norated.

“I felt that my credit as a marksman, and uv old Bucksmasher, was gittin' mighty under repair. I didn't like to be outgineraled in any sich a way by any sich a critter. I could smash bucks anywhar and any time, but that sassy rascal, I couldn't tech a

BENDING BUCKSMASHER.

har on him. He were a perfect dar-devil. One whole night I didn't sleep a wink—didn't bolt my eyes—fixin' up my plan. Next mornin' I went right smack inter my blacksmith shop, tuck my hammer, and bent old Bucksmasher jist to suit the mounting, so that when the pesky old buck started round the mounting the bullet mout take the twist with him, and thus have a far shake in the race.

“I loadened up, and moseyed off to try the 'speriment. I 'ruv at the spot, and up he jumped, hoisted his tail like a kite, kicked up his heels in a banterin' manner, fur he'd outdone me so often he'd got raal sassy. I lammed away at him, and away he went round the mounting, and the bullet arter him—so good a man, and so good a boy. I stood chock still. Presently round they come like a streak uv sunshine, both buck and bullit, bullit singin' out, ‘Whar is it? whar is it?’ ‘Go it, my fellers,’ says I, and away they went round the Loaf like a Blue Ridge storm. Afore you could crack yer finger they was around agin, bucklety-whet. Jist as they got agin me, bullit throwed him.

“I throwed down old Bucksmasher, out with my butcher-knife, jerked off my shot-bag and hung it on the horn uv one uv the purtiest things you uver seen. I thort I'd look at it better when I stuck my buck. I knifed him monstrous quick, and turned round to look at the curious thing I'd hung my shot-bag on, and it were gone most out'n sight. I soon seen it were the moon passin' along, and I'd hung my shot-bag on the corner uv it. I hated mightily to lose it, fur it had all my ammernition in it, and too 'bout a pound uv Thompson's powder.*

* A favorite powder with hunters in that section, made by a man named John Thompson. I have no doubt of its being the best powder in the world.

But I shouldered my old buck, moseyed home, skinned and weighed him, and he weighed 150 pounds clean weight. I slep' sound that night, fur I'd gained the victory. I went next day to look fur the moon, and to git my shot-bag, pervided it hadn't spilt it off in moseyin' so fast. Sure 'nuff, it come moseyin' along next day, jist at the same time o' day, with my shot-bag on its horn. I snatched it off, and told it to mosey on 'bout its business.

“Now thar's some things I'll describe the best I can, and I'm a tolluble hand at it, though I say it; but I nuver will tell a human critter how that moon looked. But I'll say this much: all that talk of 'stronimy and 'lossify 'bout the moon are nonsense; that's what I know. They can't fool this old 'coon, fur what I know I know—what I've seen I've seen.”

After a lazy laugh, in which he cared not whether you engaged or not—at least his looks would so indicate—Uncle Davy would straighten himself, fetch a long breath, charge his mouth with a fresh chew of tobacco, and would proceed to tell of his

 RIDE IN THE PEACH-TREE.

“Now when I got my shot-bag off uv the moon, I lost no time, which I'd lost a great deal arter that old buck, as jist norated. I moseyed home in a hurry, straightened old Bucksmasher, and piked off to Skull Camp*

* A spur of the Blue Ridge, at the foot of which one or two human skeletons were found at the first settling of the country, where there were signs of an old hunters' camp; hence the name of the mountain.

to smash up a few old bucks on that grit. Soon as I landed I seen 'bout a dozen old bucks and one old doe. I planted myself, fur they was comin' right smack to'ads me, and I waited tell they got in shootin' range, as it were. I knowed ef I smashed Mrs. Doe fust I'd be right apt to smash all the Mr. Bucks. That's the way with all creation—the males allers a-traipsin' arter the females.

“So I lammed away at her, fotched her to the yeth, and the bucks scampered off. Agin I got loadened up they come back to the doe, smellin' round, and I blazed away agin, and tripped up the heels uv one uv 'um. They'd run off a little ways uvry time, but agin I'd load up thar'd allers be one ready to be smashed, and I jist kep' smashin' away tell there were but one left, and he were a whopper.

“I felt in my shot-bag, and, pox take the luck! there warn't a bullit in it—nothin' but a peach-stone. I crammed it down, thort I'd salute him with that, and blazed away, aimin' to hit him right behind the wethers, and, by golly! ef he didn't slap down his tail and outrun creation, and give it two in the game. I run up, out with my butcher-knife, stuck uvry one on 'um afore you could cry 'cavy. And sich a pile on 'um, all lyin' cross and pile, you nuver seen in yer borned days.

“I moseyed home in a turkey-trot, got Jim and Sanders and the little waggin, went arter 'um, and, I tell you, we had nice livin' fur a fortnight. Some o' the old bucks would a cut four inches clare fat on the rump. Molly didn't hev to use any hog fat nur fry no bacon with 'um. We sopped both sides uv ur bread, and greased ur mouths from ear to ear. It made the childering as sassy as it does a sea-board feller when he gits his belly full uv herrin'. Thar was skins plenty to make me and all the boys britches, and to buy ammernition to keep old Bucksmasher a-talkin' fur a long time, fur he's a mighty gabby old critter to varmunts uv uvry kind, well as to old bucks, he is.

“Arter makin a desput smash among old bucks uvry whar else fur three very long years, I thort I'd try my luck in Skull Camp agin. I took plenty uv ammernition with me this time—didn't care about shootin' peach-stones any more out'n old Bucksmasher—and piked off full tilt.

“Soon as I got on good hunting yeth, I seen right by the side uv a clift uv rocks (I were on the upper side uv the clift) a fine young peach-tree, full uv master plum peaches. I were monstrous hongry and dry, and thanked my stars fur the good luck. I sot down old Bucksmasher, stepped from the top uv the clift inter the peach-tree—nuver looked down to see whar it were growin'—jerked out old Butch, and went to eatin' riproarin' fashion.

“I hadn't gulluped down more'n fifty master peaches afore, by golly! the tree started off, with me in it, faster nur you uver seen a scared wolf run. When it had run a mile ur so, I looked down to see what it mout mean. And what do you think? True as preachin', the peach-tree was growin' out'n an old buck, right behind his shoulders.

“I thort my time had come, for on he moseyed over logs, rocks, clifts, and all sorts o' things, and me up in the tree. He went so fast, he did, that he split the wind, and made it roar in my head like a harricane. I tried to pray, but soon found I had no breath to spar in that way, fur he went so orful fast that my wind was sometimes clean gone. He run in that fashion fur fifteen mile, gin out, stopped to rest, when I got out'n my fast-runnin' stage mighty soon, and glad o' the chance.

“I left him pantin' away like he were mighty short o' wind, returned thanks fur once, tuck my foot in my hand, and walked all the way back to old Bucksmasher. I seen more old bucks on my way than I uver seen in the same length uv time in all my borned days. They knowed jist as well as I did that I had nothin' to smash 'um with. Thar they was a-kickin' up thar heels and snortin' at me fur fifteen long miles—miles measured with a 'coon-skin, and the tail throwed in fur good measure, fur sure. It were a mighty trial, but I grinned and endured it. I piked on and landed at the place whar I started in my peach-tree stage, found old Bucksmasher, shouldered him, and moseyed fur home, with my feathers cut, fur I'd made a water haul that time, fur sure and sartin.”

“To—be—shore, Mr. Lane?” said old Mr. Wilmoth, a good, credulous old man; “ef I didn't know you to be a man of truth, I couldn't believe you. How do you think that peach-tree come up in the back of that deer?”

“Bless you, man! it was from the peach-stone I shot in his back, as jist norated—nothin' plainer.”

Our hero loved to tell of his adventures with other “villinus varmunts” as well as with “old bucks.” We will now hear him “let off” with his marvelous adventure with that ever-dreaded and feared monster,

 THE PANTHER.

“Arter this dreadful relarm jist norated, I thort I'd not go inter the Skull Camp Mountings agin soon, so I sot my compass fur Fisher's Peak to try my luck. I crossed it at the Bald Rock,*

* Near the top of Fisher's Peak, on the south side, there is a large rock, about an acre in size, called the “Bald Rock.”

and went back uv it a piece, skinnin' my eyes all the time fur old bucks, when I come up chug upon one, dead as a mittin—jist killed. Thar warn't the sign uv a bullit on it; it were desputly scratched up and raked hither and thither, and the yeth and leaves was tore up all round. Says I, ‘I'll skin you, any how, and make suthin out'n your hide.’

“I tuck off his jacket quick, hung it up, piked on furder, and found another jist in the same fix. Says I, ‘This is a cheap way of gittin' old bucks' skins, fur sure. No wastin' ammernition here, for Thompson's powder and Pearce's lead*

* Hunters in that section obtained their lead at Pearce's lead mines, Poplar Camp Mountain, Wythe County, Virginia.

is mighty precious.' So I tuck off his clothin' in three shakes of a sheep's tail.

“On I moseyed tell I ondressed eight master bucks in the same way, tell I were in a lather uv sweat, fur it was tolluble hot. When I come to the ninth, the sign was fresher and fresher; it was hardly done kickin'. I ondressed him too, nuver thinkin' fur a minit what it were a-smashin' up old bucks in that drefful way.

“Jist as I riz up from skinnin' him, I looked up in a post-oak-tree right dab over me, and there sot the biggest painter that uver walked the Blue Ridge, fur sure. Thar he sot on a limb, his eyes shinin' away like new money, slappin' his tail jist like a cat gwine to jump on a rat. I like to a sunk in my tracks. Poor, helpless critter I was. I thort about prayin', but I seen there were no time fur that; so I kep' my eyes on him, stepped four ur five steps backwards to'ads where I'd sot old Bucksmasher, thinkin' thar mout be more vartue in powder and lead than in prayers jist then. I cocked him, whipped him up to the side uv my face, drawed a bead right between the eyes, let him hev it jist as he commenced springin' on me. He fell at my feet, and died monstrous hard, like he had a thousand lives, slappin' his tail on the ground; you mout a hearn him three hundred and fifty yards.

“Thinkin' there mout be some more uv the same stock in them thar woods, I nuver tuck time to ondress him, which his skin would a bin wuth right smart uv ammernition. I gathered up my skins, and moseyed fur home.”

Uncle Davy must have had the organ of “destructiveness” pretty fully developed, for fowls, as well as “animils” and “sarpunts,” were “smashed up” by him, as may be gathered from

 THE TURKEY HUNT.

“Now I got mighty tired livin' on old buck meat—nairly as sick uv it as the chillun of Israel was in the willerness livin' on partridges and manna, which my teeth was most wore down to the gums eatin' it; so I thort I'd sweeten my mouf a little on turkey meat. So I piked off to Nettle's Knob,*

* A beautiful knob near the foot of the Blue Ridge, not far from the “Flour Gap,” now “Pipher's Gap.” The line between Virginia and North Carolina crossed it.

knowin' as how thar was a slambangin' chance uv 'um in that mounting. I seen hundereds uv old bucks as I moseyed on, but, pshaw! I told uvry rascal on 'um to git out'n the way, fur when I went a-turkey-in' I didn't go a-buckin'; so they didn't tempt me any more—fur sure they didn't.

“Now soon as I got nairly to the top uv the knob, on the south side, I seen a master gang uv turkeys feedin' along on beggar's lice, etc., mighty busy, comin' right to'ads me. I hid myself right behind an old ches'-nut log, sly as a wild-cat. Thar was 'bout sixty on 'um—a right nice gang. I soon seen which were the grandmamma uv the whole possercomitattus, and I determined to smash her fust. I lammed away, and down she fell to flutterin', and her feet clatterin' away like a pack uv fool boys and gals a-dancin.' The childering and grandchildering all run up to see what were the matter, hollerin' loud as they could, most splittin' their throats, ‘coot! coot! coot!’

“Afore she was done a-flutterin', I lammed down another old hen; the rest run up, and the same coot! coot! tuck place. I kep' lammin' 'um down fast as I could, which was mighty fast, till the whole woods was alive with flutterin' and hollerin' coot! coot! Soon as I got about forty on 'um, I quit burnin' powder; besides, old Bucksmasher had got so hot I were afraid to put powder down him. I went up to whar they was, and, my stars! what a pile on 'um! I could a killed the last one on 'um, fur I had to shoo 'um off. I went home fur the boys and the little waggin, and for sure we had good livin' fur a week on baked and hashed turkey, which isn't bad eatin' any time, it ain't.”

The transition from one fowl story to another was quite easy and natural to Uncle Davy. Thus he passed with great facility from the “turkey smashin' ” to

 THE PIGEON-ROOST.

“Now, do ye see, a man will git tired out on one kind o' meat, I don't care a drot what it is ('ceptin' Johnson Snow, who nuver gits tired o' hog's gullicks and turnup greens). So I got tireder of them thar turkeys, which thar was so many, than I uver did uv old buck meat. I hearn uv a mighty pigeon-roost down in the Little Mountings,*

* A range of mountains by that name, an offshoot from the Blue Ridge, in the “Hollows of the Yadkin.”

so I 'tarmined to make a smash uv some uv 'um, to hev a variety uv all sorts o' meat. I had got to turnin' up my nose whenuver Molly sot turkey on the table, which I hated to do, fur she's a mighty kind critter.

“So I jist fixed up old Tower,*

* The name of his musket.

and filled my shot-bag chug full uv drap-shot, mounted old Nip,**

** The name of his horse.

 and moseyed off fur the pigeon-roost. I 'ruv thar 'bout two hours by the sun, and frum that blessed hour till chock dark the heavens was dark with 'um comin' inter the roost. It is unconceivable to tell the number on 'um, which it were so great. Bein' a man that has a character fur truth, I won't say how many there was. Thar was a mighty heap uv saplins fur 'um to roost in, which they would allers light on the biggest trees fust, then pitch down on the little uns ter roost.

“Now jist at dark I thort I'd commence smashin' 'um; so I hitched old Nip to the limb uv a tree with a monstrous strong bridle—a good hitchin' place, I thort. I commenced blazin' away at the pigeons like thunder and lightnin'; which they'd light on big trees thick as bees, bend the trees to the yeth like they'd been lead. Uvry pop I'd spill about a pint uv drap-shot at 'um, throwed at 'um by Thompson's powder, which made

THE PIGEON-ROOST.

a drefful smash among 'um. By hokey! I shot so fast, and so long, and so often, I het old Tower so hot that I shot six inches off uv the muzzle uv the old slut. I seen it were no use to shoot the old critter clean away, which I mout have some use fur agin; so I jist quit burnin' powder and flingin' shot arter I'd killed 'bout a thousand on 'um, fur sure.

“Arter I'd picked up as many on 'um as my wallets would hold, I looked fur old Nip right smack whar I'd hitched him, but he were, like King Saul's asses, nowhar to be found. I looked a consid'able spell next to the yeth, but, bless you, honey! I mout as well a sarched fur a needle in a haystack. At last I looked up inter a tree 'bout forty foot high, and thar he were swingin' to a limb, danglin' 'bout 'tween the heavens and the yeth like a rabbit on a snare-pole. I could hardly keep from burstin' open laughin' at the odd fix the old critter were in. The way he whickered were a fact, when I spoke to him—wusser nur ef I'd a had a stack uv fodder fur him ur a corn-crib to put him in.”

“How come him up thar, Uncle Davy?” said Bill Holder, a great quiz.

“Why, I hitched him to the limb uv a big tree bent to the yeth with pigeons, you numskull, and when they riz the tree went up, and old Nip with it, fur sure.”

But how did you get him down?” said Bill, again.

“That's nuther here nor thar; I got him down, and that's 'nuff fur sich pukes as you ter know. Soon as I got him down I piked fur home with my pigeons, and we made uvry pan and pot stink with 'um fur one whet, and they made us all as sassy as a Tar River feller when he gits his belly full uv fresh herrin'.”

 BIG PEACH-EATING.

“These is the oncommonest biggest plum peaches I uver seen sense my peepers looked on daylight,” said Uncle Frost Snow, in the presence of Uncle Davy Lane, while a party were making a desperate havoc of some very fine peaches. “They is 'most as good as I use' to eat in ole Albermarle, Fudginny. While I lived thar I eat a bushel on jist sich peaches at one eatin'.” This was said to draw out a story from our hero. Uncle Frost was good at that.

“Pshaw! fidgittyfudge!” said Uncle Davy; “that's nothin' to a bait I once tuck in ole Pitsulvany, Virginny. I and Uncle John Lane went into his orchard one day, and thar was two grate big plum peach-trees so full that the limbs lay on the ground all round.

“‘Dave,’ said Uncle John, ‘do ye see them big peaches thar? I can beat you eatin' 'um so fur that you won't know yerself.'

“‘Not so fast, Uncle John,’ says I.

“‘I'll bet you ten buckskins,’ says he.

“‘Done, by Jeeminny!’ says I.

“‘Take yer choice uv the trees,’ says he.

“‘Here's at you! this one,’ says I.

“And at it we went, like Sampson killin' the Philistines, with our butcher-knives, commencin' at 'bout twelve ur clock, and moseyed into 'um till 'most night.

“‘How do ye come on, Dave?’ said Uncle John.

“‘Fust-rate,’ says I—‘jist gittin' my hand in. How do you navigate, Uncle John?’ says I.

“‘I gin up,’ says he. ‘My craw's full,’ says he.

“I looked, and, Jehu Nimshi! ef we hadn't eat till all the limbs on his tree had riz from the yeth two foot, and mine had riz three foot. The peach-stones lay in two piles, and they looked fur all the world like two Injun mounds—mine a nation sight the biggest.”

“Haw! haw! haw!” laughed Uncle Frost; “that takes the rag off uv the bush.”

 SOME APPLE-EATING.

“I'm danged,” said Dick Snow, “ef I can't beat any man in this crowd eatin' apples.”

“How many can you eat, yearlin'?” said Uncle Davy. “I'm a snorter in that line, sartin.”

“Don't know adzackly; a half a bushel, I s'pose,” said Dick.

“Bah! that's nothin.' No more'n a bar to an elephant. That same Uncle John Lane which I won the buckskins from, eatin' peaches, not satisfied with one lickin,' tuck me into his apple orchard, and, ‘Dave,’ says he, ‘do you see yon two big leathercoat apple-trees?’

“‘Yes,’ says I; ‘and what uv that?’

“‘You see,’ says he, ‘they're mighty full, with thar limbs lyin' on the yeth?’ says he.

“‘Yes,’ says I; ‘and what does all that signify? Don't be beatin' the bush so long. Come out! Be a man, and tell me what you're arter,’ says I.

“‘I want to win them thar buckskins back agin,’ says Uncle John.

“‘Can't do it,’ says I.

“‘Which tree will you take?’ says he.

“‘This bully un,’ says I.

“‘Bad choice,’ says he; ‘but I'll beat you the easier,’ says he.

“So we moseyed into 'um yearly in the mornin,' and 'bout twelve o'clock he called fur the calf-rope. I'd beat him all holler. Uncle John were swelled out like a hoss with the colic, while I looked as trim as a grayhound. We looked, and the limbs uv my tree had riz from the yeth full four foot, and his'n three foot. Thar was apple-peelin's and cores enough under them thar trees to a fed five dozen hogs, sartin.”

“I'm danged,” said Dick Snow, “ef that don't take the huckleberry off of my 'simmon.”

 THE TAPE-WORM.

Patent medicines go every where; so do the almanacs of the inventors of such medicines. Soon after Dr. Jayne commenced publishing his almanacs, one of them got into the Fisher's River region. It was quite a wonder. It was as great a show as the elephant. Some one showed Uncle Davy the picture of the tape-worm, and read the account of it. He was determined not to be outdone, and held forth as follows:

“Fiddlesticks and Irish 'taters! For to think that a man of larnin', like Dr. Jaynes, should prent sich a little flea-bitten story as that! He sartinly nuver seen any crape-wurrums.”

“Tape-worms, Uncle Davy,” said one.

“Nuver mind, and save your breath,” said he, very emphatically; “I know what I'm explanigatin' about. I say Dr. Jaynes were mighty pushed fur a wurrum story to prent sich a little baby story as that you have jist norated frum his book. If he'd a called on me, I'd a gi'n him one what was wuth prentin'.”

“Let's have it, Uncle Davy,” said several voices.

“I'm a great mind not to tell it here by the side uv this poor little thing uv Dr. Jayneses. It makes me rantankerous mad to hear sich little stuff, it does. But here's at you, as you look like you'd die ef you don't hear it.

“Where I cum from, in ole Pitsulvany, Virginny, thar lived a strange-lookin' critter by the name uv Sallie Pettigrew. I sha'n't try to describe her, for it is onpossible. She were a sight, sure. She looked more like a bar'l on stilts than any thing I can think on. She could eat as much meat sometimes as five dogs, and soon arter eatin' it could drink as much water as a thirsty yoke uv oxen, sartin'. You needn't be winkin' and blinkin' thar; truth, uvry word uv it. She was monstrous fond uv fish, which it was onpossible almost to git anuff fur her to make a meal on. And then, arter eatin' the fish, she would drink galluns upon galluns uv water. The people got mighty tired uv her eatin' and drinkin' so much, and thort suthin must be the matter. They bought a whole bar'l uv salt herrin's; they cooked 'um, and she gulluped down the last one uv 'um. They tied her fast, so that she couldn't git to water. She hollered and bawled fur water, and seemed like gwine inter fits. They brought a bowl uv water, and placed it close to her mouth, not close enough fur her to drink, though. They helt it thar fur some time; at last they seed suthin poke its head out'n her mouth, tryin' to drink. One uv 'um run and got the shoe-pinchers and nabbed it by the head, and commenced drawin' it out. He drawed and drawed, wusser nur a man drawin' jaw teeth, till it looked like he would nuver git done drawing the critter out. At last he got done; and sich a pile! and sich a tape-wurrum! The poor 'oman fainted away, and we like to a nuver a fotched her to. But when she did cum to, Jehu Nimshi! you mout a hearn her a shoutin' two miles and a half. We detarmined to measure the critter. We tuck it up, and tuck it out'n doors, druv a nail through its head at the corner uv the house, then stretched it clean round the house where we started from, which the house was thirty foot long and eighteen foot wide, makin' the wurrum ninety foot long. I tell you, boys, Dr. Jayneses tape-wurrum were nothin' to it.”

“Deng it! we'll gin it up,” said Dick Snow.

“You mout as well,” said Uncle Davy, “fur it were a whaler.”

I promised the reader one more hunting story from Uncle Davy. I will now give it, as it seems to have been the cause of his reformation, and with it I close the sketches of our hunting hero. Here it is:

 THE BUCK-HORNED SNAKE.

“I piked out one day,” said Uncle Davy, “in sarch uv old bucks, but they was monstrous scace, and I couldn't find none. I got 'most home, and thort I hated to return havin' smashed nothin'—didn't like to be laughed at. Jist then an old sucklin' doe got right smack in my way. I leveled old Bucksmasher, and down she fell. I tuck her home, and, meat being ruther scace, we eat her up monstrous quick.

“I furgut to mention that it was on Sunday I smashed that old doe. My feelings sorter hurt me fur killin' her on Sunday, and frum her young fawn too, poor critter! So in two ur three days arter, I thort I'd go out and git the fawn. I made me a blate,*

* Hunters split a stick, put a leaf into it, and by blowing it can imitate the bleating of deer so as to deceive them. They call it a “blate.”

went out to the laurel and ivy thicket whar I'd killed the doe, blated, and the fawn answered me, fur it thought it was its mammy, poor thing! I kep' blatin' away, and uvry time I'd blate it would answer me, but it cum to me mighty slow, sartin. I got onpatient, and moseyed a little to'ads it, and got on a log where I could see a leetle, which the laurel and ivy was monstrous thick. I blated agin, which it answered close by. I then streeched up my neck liken a scared turkey, lookin' 'mong the laurel and ivy, and what do you think I seen?”

“I can not imagine,” said Taliaferro, to whom he was relating this adventure.

“Well, I'll tell you. Thar lay the biggest, oncommonest black snake the Lord uver made, sartin—which he has made a many a one—full fifteen foot long, with a pair of rantankerous big buck's horns, big as antelope's horns. It fixed its tarnacious eyes on me, but afore it could get its spell on me I jumped off uv that log, and run so fast that I nuver hev nur nuver will tell any man—which it is onpossible to tell any man —how fast I did pike fur home. But sartin it is that the runnin' from the coachwhip on Round Hill were no more to it than the runnin' uv a snail to a streak uv lightnin'.”

“What do you think it was?” inquired Taliaferro.

“I jist think it were suthin' sent thar to warn me 'bout huntin' on Sundays. It blated jist like a fawn, and I thort it were the fawn I were arter; but, Jehu Nimshi! it were no more a fawn than I am a fawn, sartin. But as sure as old Bucksmasher is made uv iron, and is the best gun in the world, I've nuver hunted on Sunday sense.”

 V.—UNCLE FROST SNOW.

THE man who once saw “Uncle Frost Snow” would never forget him; and, of course, being raised under his eye, I can not forget his peculiar features and eccentric actions. He was of small stature, with a triune countenance—the sad, the quizzical, and the cheerful, the cheerful preponderating—ever ready for a loud, hearty laugh. He would laugh all over—his countenance, eyes, mouth, and body. He was energetic and eccentric in all his movements. He was fond of the “tickler,” but not to excess; hated a “feller what would git down dog drunk under yer foot on the yeth.”

He was raised in “Albermarle, Fudginny,” and didn't care “a durn whether he b'longed to one on the fust famblys uv Fudginny ur not.” He certainly came from a section where rustic literature had attained to perfection; and he clung to the language of his section and of his youth with great tenacity, as the following incident will show, which I record as a memento of my regard for his memory.

Uncle Frost lived on a poor, broken piece of land, on which most men would have starved, but by uncommon energy and good farming he managed to live well. He rose early and worked late, obliged to do so or starve.

He had a favorite negro boy named Anderson, who went to a neighbor's house one night, and did not get home next morning till a late hour. Uncle Frost was up early, and went out, nervously awaiting Anderson's arrival, jumping about like a mountain snowbird, hitching up his “hipped britches”—being an old-fashioned man, he wouldn't wear “gallusses,” not he. “Durned ef they'd strap thar backs in old Fudginny, nur I ain't a-gwine to do it nuther.” Presently Anderson came, and what took place he reported to his neighbor and particular friend, Mrs. Easley, thus:

“You see, Miss Yeasley, folks is gittin' too smart—too big fur thar britches. Larnin' and big quality words is ruinin' on us fast. Even the niggers is a-ketchin' big quality words. My Anderson went down t'other night ter 'squire Whitlock's to git a par o' britches cut out, and got home late, he did. Anderson's a good nigger, and I jest wanted to skeer him. I runs up ter him with a bully hickory, lookin' bagonits at him, and, says I, ‘Anderson! whar you bin?’ says I. His eyes looked like a skeered buck rabbit.

“ ‘To Mr. Whitlock's,’ says he.

“ ‘To Mr. Whitlock's!’ says I; ‘and what fur?’ says I.

“ ‘To get a pair of pantaloons cut out,’ says he, mighty qualityfied.

“ ‘Pantaloons! pantaloons!!’ says I; ‘who larnt you to call 'um pantaloons?’ says I. ‘Gittin' above yer master? Talkin' like the Franklins and all the big quality folks, you lamper-jawed, cat-hamed puke,’ says I. ‘You nuver hearn yer master call 'um any thing but britches, nur you sha'n't,’ says I. ‘I'll larn you to puke up big quality words, you varmunt,’ says I; and I larruped him well, I tell you. I 'clare, Miss Yeasley, I wouldn't a tetched him ef he'd a said britches; fur I'm 'tarmined my niggers sha'n't talk this big quality talk, nur shall my chillun talk it, ef I can help it; but my son John, sense he married inter yer fambly, he's quit talkin' like his daddy—got to qualityin' uv it. I'll let that go, but my niggers sha'n't do it, Miss Yeasley.”

 VI.—DICK SNOW.

SPEAKING of Uncle Frost Snow, the association of ideas will naturally carry the mind to his family; and of all the members of his family, which was quite numerous, I have the most vivid and distinct recollection of his son Dick. No wonder, when we were raised together, he being a few years my senior. I shall not have occasion to ask the reader's pardon for giving my friend Dick Snow so much space in this work, for he will find him, upon farther acquaintance, an “original document”—will be pleased with him every way. I shall first give some original anecdotes illustrative of the animus of the man, and, secondly, relate his thrilling courtship.

I have just stated that Dick Snow was a son of Uncle Frost Snow, and a favorite one too, for he inherited most of the looks and eccentricities of his father; and as to the vernacular of his father, no Roman Catholic ever stuck closer to his creed than Dick, besides a considerable addition from other sources. The fact is, Dick had a smattering of all the rustic literature of the land—a fair representative of Fisher's River literature, overdoing the thing a little, however. Uncle Frost loved Dick much, “because he won't git above his daddy, and talks like they did in old Albermarle, Fudginny.”

As to size, Dick was a little above ordinary, but well made and finely proportioned, with muscles clearly and fully developed. He was a little stoop-shouldered, and moved quickly and with great ease. His face was quite paradoxical, wearing both a vinegar and pleasant appearance. His eyes were black, small, and restless, indicating quick perception, particularly of the ridiculous. His nose was well set, indicative of decision of character, of which he evidently had much. His chin testified to the same, and so did his lips. His person and countenance combined bespoke his honesty, frankness, bravery, decision, and mischievousness.

But this must suffice for description—a poor one too. If the reader could see the man, he would agree with me. I will now give some

CHARACTERISTIC ANECDOTES.

When Dick was married, he settled on a very poor farm, on which no other man could have lived. His wife Sallie in due time gave him a son, and as soon thereafter as things of the kind are ever done, she presented him one night with two beautiful twin sons. In the morning, some time before daylight, Dick was heard rattling his chains and gearing his horse. His attendant friends were surprised, and remonstrated.

“Dick, where on earth are you going? What are you going to do?”

“I'm gwine to wurk—that's what. When the fambly is 'creasin' so fast, I must 'crease my wurk, by jingo!”

This was said, not by way of complaint, but from the promptings of his indomitable energy.

People in that country, at the time of which I speak, got nearly all their information by inquiry. They did not take the papers; the sound of the stage bugle never echoed through their hills and mountains. If a man went twenty miles from home, he might expect on his return to be quizzed not a little. Dick once went to Rockford, the seat of justice for Surry County, to court, when a certain “'Squire Byrd” was to be tried for murder. Expectation was on tiptoe. Dick returned, and was asked the news. He replied:

“Thar warn't no trial; 'twas put off, an' 'Squire Byrd has gi'n siscurity for his exspearunce at the next court, so they 'least him.”

Dick had a pertinacious way of abbreviating nearly all his words, even when he knew better. He was a man of fine sense and good judgment, but he wished to take “short cuts,” and “talk jest like he'd bin larnt,” and was too energetic to take time to pronounce whole words. Once he returned from court, and was giving his neighbors the news in the presence of his wife, who was a woman of good learning for that section, and said “sich an' sich” men were “'turned to court.”

His wife was amused at him, and said, “Dick, why don't you call that word right?”

“Well, ree-turned, then, ef you will have it the long way,” replied Dick. “Some folks are allers gwine the long way, but that ain't me. I gits right inter it, like a homminny-bird (humming-bird) inter a tech-me-not flower.”

I remember well the first time I ever heard of domestic cotton cloth. It was from my friend Dick Snow that I learned that there was such a thing. Dick had been to Waugh's store, in the “Hollows” of the Yadkin, and upon his return I inquired the news.

“I'm danged ef thar ain't some uv the cheapestest mastiss cloth at Waugh's store on top of the yeth, by jingo!”

“What?” said I.

“Mastiss cloth, dang it! on'y twenty-five cents a yard.”

I saw it was useless to press the question, as far as Dick was concerned, but I inquired of my father, and found it to be domestic cotton cloth.

Not long after this, Dick came where I was at work. “Dick,” said I, “how is your health?”

“Laus-a-day, I'm 'most dade.”

“Truly,” said I, “your face is quite long. What is the matter?”

“I've got the wust discontary that uver a poor reflicted critter had. It's wearin' me out fast. I'm empty as a bar'l.”

“What is it?” I inquired.

“Discontary! Dang it! can't you hear? I'll pick yer ears with a handspike d'rectly.”

Dick was a good farmer, and was among the first to get any new plow that came along and promised to be useful. There came into the neighborhood a valuable plow called the Dagon Cooter. Dick, determined to have one, went to the blacksmith, Meredy Edmonds, and said,

“Meredy, I'm come to git you to make me a bully plow.”

“What sort of a plow?” asked the blacksmith.

“Dang it! I furgit the name, but I b'leeve it's Caten Dooden or Doodly Dagon. It makes no odds; you know what's what—what I wants jest as well as I does.”

Dragoon bridle-bits used to be in fashion. Dick had never used a pair, but, having an unruly horse, he concluded he'd try him with a pair of dragoon bits; but, not having a pair of his own, he went to a neighbor and inquired,

“I'm come to borry yer dagon bits.”

“What is it?” asked the neighbor.

“Dagon bits! Cuss these hard names!

My mouf was nuver made to 'nounce 'um. Ding such big quality words.”

Game of every kind was plentiful in that mountainous country, and sometimes hunters would descend from big game down to rabbit hunting. Dr. K. Thompson and Dick took a rabbit hunt one day, and when the hunt was over the doctor proposed to divide the game with Dick, to which he responded emphatically,

“Don't want 'um. I doesn't like rabbit meat; it tastes too danged rabbity.”

Dick was a man of respectability, and had a wife whom he and every body else considered number one. The best of company, even the “quality,” visited his house. The Misses Franklin, daughters of Meshech Franklin, “the Congressman,” went to a Methodist quarterly meeting near Dick's residence, called on, and staid all night with him. Dick was unacquainted with “quality ways,” and when the ladies retired to bed up stairs, they bade the family “good-night.” He didn't know what it meant, and it worried him worse than the nightmare. At last he concluded it was some “rig” the young ladies were running on him, and he resolved to retrieve what he had lost, for he was a man who did not like to be outdone. So, early next morning, he rose, built his fire, and watched the stair-steps until he heard the ladies coming down. He then ran and hid himself near the foot of the stairway. As soon as they landed on the lower floor, Dick rushed out of his hiding-place, scaring the misses not a little, and bawled out loudly,

“Good-mornin' at ye, ladies! I's fast anuff fur you this time. Now I'll quit ye, as we's even. You got me last night; I's got ye this mornin'.”

I have never seen a place yet where politics had not reached. In that secluded spot where Dame Fashion has seldom found her way, or has met with such a cold reception that she does not care to visit it, even there the demon Politics is open-mouthed. Dick was therefore compelled to take sides. He became a warm “Dimicrat—a mortal Jackson man.”

During the Revolution there were many Tories in that region, and their descendants were derided and despised by the descendants of the Whigs. Dick entered the list in controversy with the grandson of a Tory, who was a Whig in politics. Sam J—was a little too hard for Dick in discussion, and Dick turned upon him with a “jodarter,” and smote him thus:

“Sam, you's chock full uv yer grandaddy's

“GOOD-MORNIN', LADIES.”

blood. You's got his old rade coat he wore in the Revolution now put away in yer chist. Next thing you'll be wearin' on it; the first good chance you git, you'll be rippin', an' shinin', an' sailin' about in it. I'm danged ef I don't gin you a dollar to see it any day.”

Speaking of politics reminds me of one more anecdote connected therewith. It was customary for “candidites” in olden times to treat with liquor; but after a while the temperance*

* The first time I ever heard of temperance societies in that section, the people called them “temple societies.”

reformation reached Fisher's River, mainly through the instrumentality of Solomon Graves, Esq., of Mount Airy, and “polititioners” in treating had to change their “tacktucks” a little. Mackerel were used by some candidates instead of Johnson Snow's “knock-'em-stiff.”

“Mackerel! why, didn't every body have mackerel?”

Not so fast, captious reader. Close under the Blue Ridge we had nothing but chubs, hornyheads, pikes, white suckers, sunperch, eels, speckled trout, and a few other small varieties of the finny tribes. Mackerel was unknown when I left in 1829.

Now it came to pass that a candidate for the suffrages of the sovereigns of Fisher's River, by the name of Reeves, procured a barrel of mackerel from Fayetteville, Wilmington, or somewhere else, at a great deal of expense, brought them into Surry, and a few of them into Dick's neighborhood, and resolved to have a mackerel supper at Wylie Franklin's. Dick was invited. Said the person inviting him, “Mr. Reeves sends his compliments, and wishes you to come over this evening to Mr. Franklin's, and take some mackerel with him.”

“Ah! dang Reeves,” said Dick. “That's jest like him. I knows him jest as well as the man that made him. He knowed I couldn't read his dinged newspapers and pamphlets” (Dick couldn't read); “but I'll go and hear him read 'um; I loves to hear 'um read; I loves good readin'.”

Imagine Dick's surprise when he went and found his newspapers and pamphlets were converted into fish.

Dick was a rough hand to joke people. It was a law in that region, enacted by common consent, that no one was to get angry at a joke, however rough it might be. Dick observed M. H., a married man, walking with a young lady, and conversing pretty fluently, and, as he thought, a little too amorously, in a crowd. He thought it a good chance, and blurted out loudly,

“Hellow, M—! I'll tell your wife, sir. I'm danged ef you hain't sot your coulter too deep to make a good crap. You can't fool this chile. I'se cut my eye teeth long ago.”

Dick had lost none of his joking propensities when I visited that section in 1857. I wore a long beard—the whole beard—and was a perfect wonder to the people. For, as stated, Fashion either neglects that place wholly, or makes it the last place she visits. Upon my arrival, I found that Dame Fashion had just introduced in full vogue sacks and joseys among the young ladies; and as to a full-grown beard, except among the “Dunkards,” it was “onhearn on.” I made my defense one day in a large crowd, and when I was through Dick came to my relief as follows:

“Gintlemen, I knows what Hardy wears his beard for. You doesn't know him well as I does. I was raised wiz him; I knows him adzackly. You see, gintlemen, wimin's mighty 'ticin' things to men, and men's mighty 'ticin' things to wimin. Hardy is out a grate deal from home, and he doesn't want to 'tice the wimin, nur he don't want the wimin to 'tice him; so he's put on that great big, ugly beard, that there mayn't be any 'ticement neither way.”

The foregoing anecdotes of Dick Snow are a few only of the many now in my memory. They have been selected at random, or nearly so. If all that are remembered were written, they would fill a large volume; but space allows no more, and I will now give the reader his

 COURTSHIP.

The word “courtship” reminds one of courting and of courting days, probably long past. So back I go to old Surry, to the days of my boyhood. Where is the boy who has entered his teens who has not “tried his hand” at courting? His first essays in the business are quite laughable. The first time I ever attempted to court a girl, being quite bashful, we went into the cook-house, and while I was very awkwardly prefacing matters, a shrill tenor voice was heard from the “big house,” which, set to music, runs thus:

“Oh, Poll, mammy says you must git dinner; and she says you must fry a piece o' meat apiece, and two for daddy.”

Thinking meat was a little scarce, and being very bashful too, I unceremoniously left.

Courting was done then and there on an original scale, differing from that adopted in most other places on this green earth—very different from nowadays courting every where. Being a peculiar place, it had its own etiquette.

Most of the people walked to “meetin'.” Boys and “gals,” the boys mostly barefooted, would get together as by magic, and walk “side-and-side,” the “gals” with their beautiful striped cotton home-made dresses on, with their shoes in their “redicules” till they got in sight of the “meetin'-house.” They would then halt, go aside and put on their shoes, while their barefooted gallants, with tow and cotton shirts and “britches,” stood in the road till their return. Reader, don't be incredulous; every word of it true. And those were happy, happy days. I love them because I was an actor in such primitive scenes of life.

There were endless ways of getting the “young folks” together. In the spring there would be “grubbings” and “log-rollings;” in summer, “reapings;” and in the fall, “corn-shuckings.” On all such occasions the girls would always manage to have “quiltings” and “sewings.” As soon as night came, or the work was done, the fiddle sounded, and they danced and courted all night. Christmas was a great festival. They felt grateful to and blessed the man that invented it. With the “young uns” it was a generation from one Christmas to another. For a whole week they would dance from house to house day and night, “sparkin' ” going on at a “big lick” all the time. The old-fashioned “seven-handed reel” was the only go. A brainless, barrel-headed dancing-master (for all are such) was a perfect lion; a fiddler was next in repute; and the parson was “nowhar.”

For one young man to get the advantage of another in “sparkin' ” was considered quite lawful and shrewd, and it was called “cuttin' out.” No duels were fought on account of it. It was a law in their courtships. The young ladies admired it; hence they would make no engagements with young men to be partners with them for a time—not even to accompany them to “meetin' ” and back to their homes. No; the young misses loved to see the young “sparkers” exercise their ingenuity in the game of “catch and keep.” They might start coupled, but before they arrived at their destination they would probably “change pardners” often. All right, for it has been shrewdly done, and has afforded merriment for the crowd and matter for conversation. The same was true of the few who rode on horseback; for I have been speaking of the foot crowd. Some fine feats of horsemanship, worthy of a Murat or a Cossack, have been performed in that region by way of “cuttin' out.”

But I have wandered, yet not unintentionally, for it is necessary and prefatory to Dick Snow's courtship.

Now it came to pass, in the course of human events, that Dick fell in love with Sally Tucker, youngest daughter of William and Molly Tucker, a very respectable family. “Uncle Billy Tucker” being “well off” for that country, and Sally being an admirable girl, Dick had quite a time of it, owing to her many suitors. Algias Cave was Dick's principal opponent, and the struggle was long, hard, and doubtful. Nothing but Dick's energy and perseverance, and “gittin' on the blind side o' the old folks,” caused him to succeed. Many a man would have “gi'n it up as a lost ball;” but not so with Dick; “fur,” said he, “I nuver gins a thing up as long as there's a pea in the gourd.”

But I must let Dick tell his own courtship.

“The fust time I uver seen Sally,” said Dick, “I sot my 'fections on her right smack like a leech on to a fish, so that I'd a gi'n my life fur her. But I was mighty dry a lettin' her know how I was a-takin' on. I knowed the boys was a-takin' on and shinin' around her, 'tickeler Caldwell Shipp and 'Gius Cave—'Gius the wust. I knowed ef I didn't spark her soon my cake was dough. I made a 'skuse to Sally to go wim me inter the garden to show me the hollyhawks and all the purty flowers. She went wim me, and kept showin' me this, that, and t'other cussed thing, which I keered no more for 'um than a hog does fur holiday. My heart was a-spinnin' round like a top, and my breath short as pie-crust, and my body shakin' like a dog with the ager. Last I made out to ax Sally ef she'd have me. She said she'd 'sider on it a while. Now I'd ruther hearn any thing else. I didn't like that 'siderin' a bit, fur I knowed 'Gius had his eye on her like a blue-tailed hawk watchin' a chicken; but I helt a stiff upper lip; let on like I didn't care a dried-apple durn, and left.

“I staid away fur some time, and 'Gius was all the time knittin' away. I b'leeved I could onravel all his knittin' when I got my pegs sot; yet I was a good deal consarned about it, I must 'fees. Last I got a hint from Sally, as I tuck it. I went over and onraveled all 'Gius's knittin', and showed him whar Tony hid the wadge. Still I was sorter 'served, all to make Sally b'leeve I wasn't sich anxious arter all. Last I made a 'skuse to wuck some fur the old man, Sally's daddy. It was corn-gathering time, and, I tell you, I made things wake—wucked all day, wouldn't stop fur dinner—to show my smartness.

“Sally waited on me at supper, and I 'tarmined to wuck a new plan, and feel uv Sally's pulse in a new way. I told her I was a-gwine to court a sartin gal, widout namin' her. I seen it wucked well, fur she didn't like it. I sparked her a little that night, and told her I was a-gwine wiz her to meetin' next Sunday.

“We went, and 'bout the fust man I seen was 'Gius. I seen him cuttin' his fox eyes 'bout as I and Sally walked up to the meetin'-house door. The preachin' didn't do me much good that day, sartin as a turkle fallin' off uv a log into a mill-pond. They mout a shouted the top of the meetin'-house off, and I wouldn't a hearn a word on it. I was all the time doin' my own knittin', and 'siderin' how to head 'Gius gwine home, as I seen it in his foxy looks that he 'tended to gin me a clatter.

“So no sooner had they 'nounced the word ‘amen’ than I got Sally's eye, gin her the wink, and started wiz her. I cotch our horses, and helped Sally on, and afore I could git on my animil, 'Gius—pox take him!—like to a got in atween us. But he didn't cut me out that bout, and off we put, 'Gius close arter us. At last we cum chug up to a fence that had no draw-bars nur gate. Thar was 'Gius slinkin' along clost behind us. I thought I'd be fast anuff fur him, so I jumped down, jerked down the fence, 'tendin' to git mine and Sally's hosses over, put it up, and leave 'Gius on t'other side. But no sooner had Sally's hoss jumped over and clared the fence, than 'Gius—confound him!—jumped his over too, afore I could git up a single rail. I put up the fence in a mighty great hurry, and was sich anxious that I put it up and left my hoss on t'other side. The fat was all in the fire, and I caved in. Aginst I pulled down the fence and got my hoss over, Sally and 'Gius was away yender. 'Twasn't long afore we cum to another fence, and thar I slayed 'Gius, and I rode home wiz Sally arter all 'Gius's knittin'.

“This scrape made me mighty oneasy, and I 'cluded that night to make the big war-talk to Sally, hit ur miss. So I yoked her, and 'swaded and 'swaded her all night, till jest before day I got her 'sent to marry me. When I got her 'sent, I felt like I could a shouted 'most as loud as Passon Beller at a Mathodiss meetin'; but I helt my tongue.

“Next time I went over I axed fur Sally. I went over on Saturday night, but kep' puttin' it off till Sunday night, and then didn't ax fur her. I didn't sleep much Sunday night, for sartin. I fixed my plan: I'd git up afore Tommy, Sally's brother, soon in the mornin' (Tommy slep' wiz me), knowin' the old folks was yearly risers, and ax 'um fur her as soon as I got down stairs. But, bless you, mate! I wasn't more'n out'n my bade afore Tommy was up too, peart as a cricket. I went down stairs, Tommy a-follerin' along arter me. Dang him! he nuver got up so soon afore in all his life. I waited till the old man went out to feed his hogs, and I axed him. Said he, ‘Go and ax the old 'omun.’ I went, which I was in sich a sweat to git home to work that I couldn't wait till she got out'n the smoke-house. While she was in thar cuttin' meat, I axed her, and she gin her 'sent. I went home tickled to death, nearly, to see how I'd slayed 'Gius, and had onraveled all his knittin'.

“We didn't have much of a weddin', 'case as how the old man, old 'omun, and all the gals, Sally too, was sich Mathodises they wouldn't 'low dancin', and uvry thing was serious as a love-feast, 'most, only we didn't tell our 'spearances, as they does on sich 'casions. The fact is, I'd been whizzin' round all my life, and had no 'spearance uv 'ligion to tell ef I'd been axed.”

 GETTING RELIGION.

The foregoing are a few only of the many interesting incidents in Dick's courtship, which he always told with great gusto. But before I dismiss him he must tell the story of his attempt to “git 'ligion.”

“Not long arter I was married, old Mister and old Miss Tucker 'menced 'swadin me to git 'ligion; as I had a fambly, I ought to set a good 'zample afore 'um, and hold fambly prayer, and all sich good 'vice. I knowed it would please them and Sally too; and, knowin' I was a poor, sinful creetur, I'cluded I'd try the 'speriment. So there cum on a quarterly meetin' at the old man's, and I 'cluded that was the time to make my Jack. I went on Saturday, wiz my face tolluble long, and 'cluded I'd make a good start at the 'ginnin'. Nobody knowed what was in my head, more'n dander, till Sunday. When they 'vited up mourners I went up, and you may s'pose there was some racket jist then. They all tuck on mightily. Besides Sally's folks, the circus-rider prayed fur me, like he was beatin' tan-bark off uv trees in dade uv winter. They beat my back wusser nur a nigger beatin' hominy in a mortar, jist like 'ligion could be beat inter a man, like maulin' rails out'n locked timber. The meetin' broke up, and I tried gittin' 'ligion a whole week; but I got along so shacklin' I 'cluded I wouldn't waste my time, and quit short off—short as pie-crust. So I've nuver 'fessed 'ligion to this day; I don't say this boastin'—jist state the fact.”

Here, for want of space, I leave my friend Dick, only giving the reader, in the following pages, an occasional glance at him.

 VII.—OLIVER STANLEY.

OLIVER was quite a competitor in the line of big story-telling, and came to that region from the “seaboard.” It did him so much good to spin his yarns and tell his feats that you would feel perfectly at ease while he laughed and “norated” one after another of his “bully scrapes.”