]> <emph rend="bold">The Heart of Old Hickory and Other Stories of Tennessee:</emph> Electronic Edition. Dromgoole, Will Allen, 1860-1934 Text scanned (OCR) by Kathy Graham Text encoded by Natalia Smith and Don Sechler First edition, 1997. ca. 400K Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1997.

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 Call number PS3507 .R8 H42 1895 (Dais Library, UNC-CH) The Heart of Old Hickory and Other Stories of Tennessee Will Allen Dromgoole Boston, Estes and Lauriat, 1895

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 Library of Congress Subject Headings, 21st edition, 1998 English Tennessee -- Social life and customs -- Fiction. Tennessee -- Fiction. Southern States -- Fiction. Dialect literature, American -- Tennessee. 1997-04-28, Kathy Graham finished scanning (OCR) and proofing. 1997-05-15, Don Sechler finished first-level encoding 1997-06-10, Natalia Smith, project editor, finished TEI-conformant encoding and final proofing.

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 THE HEART OF OLD HICKORY AND OTHER STORIES OF TENNESSEE BY WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE WITH PREFACE BY B. O. FLOWER SECOND EDITION BOSTON ESTES AND LAURIAT PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHTED, 1895, BY ARENA PUBLISHING COMPANY. All Rights Reserved.

To My Father John Easter Dromgoole

PREFACE

ONE day in the summer of 1890 I received a manuscript entitled “Fiddling His Way to Fame,” accompanied by a brief note. Both were signed Will Allen Dromgoole. I read the sketch, and at once remarked to Mrs. Flower that, in my judgment, this was a case of the hand of Esau and the voice of Jacob, or, in other words, though the name signed was that of a man, the sketch was certainly the work of a woman or had been recast by a woman. There were certain fine strokes and delicate touches, in a word, a general atmosphere evincing a fine interior appreciation of the working of the human heart which characterizes woman's thought at its best and which stamped this as the work of a woman. I know this view does not accord with the opinion held by many of my friends in regard to mental differentiation, but my experience thoroughly convinces me that there is a subtle quality and intuitional power which is distinctly characteristic of woman, though there are men who possess this subtle something in a more or less marked degree.

I immediately accepted the sketch, as it was something I wanted to lighten the pages of my review, and because it possessed a certain charm which is rare among modern writers, being humorous and pathetic by turns, wonderfully true to life, and yet free from the repulsive elements so often present in realistic sketches.

Since that day the brilliant little Tennessee authoress, who bears a man's name, but who is one of the most womanly of women, has contributed more fiction to the ARENA than any other writer. Her sketches have proved extremely popular, owing to her artistic skill in bringing out the pathos and humor of the situations depicted, no less than the fidelity with which she draws her characters and her intense sympathy with humble life. She constantly reminds the reader of Charles Dickens, although her writings are free from the tendency to caricature and overdraw which always seems to me to be present in the works of the great English author.

Miss Dromgoole is nothing if not a Southerner, and her love of the South is only surpassed by the affection she feels for the mountains and valleys of her dear old Tennessee. She is a woman of conviction and possesses the spirit of our era in a large degree. No one familiar with her work during the past four years can fail to note how steadily her views have broadened and how rapidly popular prejudice has given place to that broad and justice-loving spirit which is so needed in modern life, and which enables its possessor to rise above petty prejudice or unreasoning conventionalism when conscience speaks to the soul.

Miss Dromgoole has had a hard life in more ways than one. It has been a constant struggle. It was not until after the death of her mother, who had ever encouraged and believed in her, that she began to write for the public. That was about nine years ago. With the death of her mother the home was broken up, and the loss of the dearest friend and counsellor to a nature so intense as hers, and the necessity of earning a living, led her to carry out her mother's oft-expressed wish and write for publication. Her first ambitious attempt won a prize offered by the Youth's Companion, and that journal and other publications accepted many of her stories. “But,” to quote from her own words, “it was not until ‘Fiddling His Way to Fame’ appeared in the ARENA that I suddenly found myself famous, and since then I have had more orders for work than I have been able to fill.”

As the personality of a famous writer is always interesting, I propose to give a brief descriptive sketch of the little woman of whom the South has just reason to be proud before speaking of this book. She is small of stature, fragile in appearance, intense in her nature, and of a highly-strung nervous organism. I seldom care to dwell on the ancestry of an individual, as I think that sort of thing has been greatly overdone, and I believe with Bulwer that “not to the past but to the future looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity.” And yet the ancestry of an individual may sometimes prove a helpful and interesting study. I have frequently noticed in the writings of authors who exhibit great versatility, no less than in the lives of individuals who seem to present strikingly contradictory phases of character, the explanation of these phenomena in their ancestry. In the case of Miss Dromgoole we find an interesting illustration of this nature. Her great-grandfather Edward Dromgoole emigrated from Sligo, Ireland; as he had accepted the tenets of Protestantism and his people were strong Catholics, it was unpleasant for him to longer remain in his native land. He became a prominent pioneer Methodist minister in Virginia. One of his sons, a well-known orator, represented the Petersburg district in congress. Her maternal grandfather was of Danish extraction, while her great-grandmother on her father's side was an Englishwoman, and her great-grandfather on the mother's side married a French lady. Here we have the mingling of Irish, Danish, English, and French blood, with some striking characteristics of each of these peoples appearing perceptibly in the person and works of Miss Dromgoole. Though she repudiates the English * in her blood, her sturdy loyalty to high principles and an ethical strength wedded to a certain seriousness, almost sadness, * In a personal letter Miss Dromgoole says: “I do not know what I am. I claim the Irish and the French. I feel the Danish blood in my veins at times, but the cold blood of the English I repudiate.” strongly suggest the Anglo-Saxon at its best. She has the Irish keen sense of humor, which is seen in her writings and lectures, no less than in her conversation. The energy and determination together with the persistency of the Dane, and some of the bright and versatile characteristics of the French, are evident in her life and work, although there is a strong tendency to dwell too much on the gloomy side of life which even the Irish humor and the cheerful qualities of the French blood have not overcome. This is due I think largely to the blow occasioned by the death of her mother and the terrible struggle which has marked her life, and which has been waged against adversity with much the same sense of loyalty to right as marked the Roundheads in their conflicts with King Charles I.

Her parents, John E. Dromgoole and Rebecca Mildred Blanch, after marriage, moved from Brunswick County, Virginia, to Tennessee. Miss Dromgoole was born in Murfreesboro, in the last-named state, and graduated from the Female Academy of Clarksville, Tennessee. For several years she was engrossing clerk for the senate of Tennessee. During recent years she has spent much of her time in Boston and New York, where she has been warmly welcomed and has many sincere admirers among those who appreciate genius and sterling worth.

The present volume illustrates the author's power and versatility in a forcible manner, and will prove a valuable addition to the literature of genuine merit from the pens of Southern writers. The first sketch, “The Heart of Old Hickory,” is, in my judgment, one of the finest short stories of the present generation. It has proved unusually popular, and displays the wonderful power of its gifted author in blending humor and pathos, while investing with irresistible fascination a sketch which, in the hands of any other than an artist, would appear tame and insipid. It is a masterpiece in its way, and like all her writings deals largely with the hopes, sorrows, aspirations, and tragedies of the common life in Tennessee. I think it also will convince all readers that the author might have made a great success as an advocate before a jury had she chosen law instead of literature for her professsion. “Fiddling His Way to Fame” is a unique and most delightful sketch, in which ex-Governor Taylor again figures conspicuously. “A Wonderful Experience Meeting” and “Who Broke Up de Meeting'?” are true to the present-day negro dialect. Unlike many persons who essay this field of literature, Miss Dromgoole never overdoes the dialect, and those familiar with the vernacular as spoken in Tennessee and Kentucky will recognize the absolute fidelity to the requirements which characterizes these amusing and faithful sketches. They are in her happiest vein, and are extremely well written. “Rags” is a pathetic picture of the street-gamin life showing the strength of our author when she paints in sombre hues.

“The Heart of the Woods” is in many respects strikingly unlike the other stories. Through it flows a strain of supernormalism which is rarely found in the writings of our Southern authors. In many ways it is one of Miss Dromgoole's best productions, and illustrates anew the versatility of the author. Perchance the manes of some of her Norse ancestors may have been about her when she penned the sombre but fascinating creation “The Heart of the Woods.”

In “Ole Logan's Courtship” we come out again into the sunshine, as here we find humor predominating. This sketch, like most of Miss Dromgoole's short stories, is taken from life. The bases of her best sketches have been actual occurrences, which, however, required the subtle power of the true artist to make others see and feel the life, with its sunshine and shadows, in the scenes depicted. The play of Hamlet, it will be remembered, existed before Shakespeare's time; but it was the immortal bard of the Avon who breathed into it the breath of life, such as comes only from the imagination of a genius, and lo! the mannikin was imbued with life.

In “Christmas Eve at the Corner Grocery” we are strongly reminded of the Dickens quality in the writings of our author, without the slightest suggestion of imitation. This sketch has proved unusually popular as a recitation at Christmas entertainments, and almost ranks with “The Heart of Old Hickory ” in popularity with public readers. It is a charming story to be read at any time, but especially appropriate for the holidays.

I believe that this volume will take a high place among the meritorious works of modern Southern authors. Tennessee has just xii reason to be proud of the little authoress who has depicted so many phases of humble life within her borders with such fidelity, such delicacy, and such rare pathos and humor.

B. O. FLOWER. CONTENTS. Preface . . . iii The Heart of Old Hickory . . . 5 Fiddling His Way to Fame . . . 39 Wonderful Experience Meeting . . . 73 Who Broke Up de Meet'n' . . . 89 Rags . . . 104 Ole Logan's Courtship . . . 133 The Heart of the Woods . . . 157 Christmas Eve at the Corner Grocery . . . 183 THE HEART OF OLD HICKORY.

NOISELESSLY, dreamily, with that suggestion of charity which always lingers about a snowstorm, fell the white flakes down, in the arms of the gray twilight. There was an air of desolation about the grim old State House, as, one by one, the great doors creaked the departure of the various occupants of the honorable old pile that overlooks the city and the sluggish sweep of the Cumberland beyond. The last loitering feet came down the damp corridors; the rustle of a woman's skirts sent a kind of ghostly rattle through the shadowy alcoves.

The Governor heard the steps and the rustle of the stiff bombazine skirts, and wondered, in a vague way, why it was that women would work beyond the time they bargained for. The librarian was always the last to leave, except the Governor himself. He had heard her pass that door at dusk, day in, day out, for two years, and always after the others were gone. He never felt quite alone in the empty State House until those steps had passed by. This evening, however, they stopped, and he looked up inquiringly as the knob was carefully turned, and the librarian entered the executive office.

“I only stopped to say a word for the little hunchback's mother,” she said. “She is not a bad woman, and her provocation was great. Moreover, she is a woman.”

He remembered the words long after the librarian had gone.

“She is a woman.” That was a strange plea to advance for a creature sentenced to the gallows. He sighed, and again took up the long roll of paper lying upon his desk.

“Inasmuch as she was sorely wronged, beaten, tortured by seeing her afflicted child ill-treated, we, the undersigned, do beg of your excellency all charity and all leniency compatible with the laws of the State, and the loftier law of mercy.”

Oh, that was an old story; yet it read well, too, that old, old petition with that old, old plea—charity. Five hundred names were signed to it; and yet, thrice five hundred tongues would lash him if he set his own name there. It was a hard thing,—to hold life in his hand and refuse it. Those old threadbare stories, old as pain itself, had well-nigh wrought his ruin; his political ruin. At least the papers said as much; they had sneeringly nicknamed him “Tenderheart,” and compared him, with a sneer, too, to that old sterling hero—the Governor's eyes sought the east window, where the statue of Andrew Jackson loomed like a bronze giant amid the snowflakes and the gathering twilight. They had compared them, the old hero who lived in bronze, and the young human-heart who had no “back-bone,” and was moved by a rogue's cry.

Yet, he had loved that majestic old statue since the day he entered the executive office as chief ruler of the State, and had fancied for a moment the old hero was welcoming him into her trust and highest honor, as he sat astride his great steed with his cocked hat lifted from the head that had indeed worn “large honors.” But he had been so many times thrust into his teeth, he could almost wish—

“Papers! Papers! wanter paper, mister?”

A thin little face peered in at the door, a face so old, so strangely unchildlike, he wondered for an instant what trick of pain's had fastened that knowing face of a man upon the misshapen body of a child.

“Yes,” said the Executive, “I want a Banner.”

The boy had bounded forward, as well as a dwarfed foot would allow, at the welcome “Yes,” but stopped midway the apartment, and slowly shook his head at the remainder of the sentence, while an expression, part jubilance, part regret, and altogether disgust, crossed his little old-young face.

“Don't sell that sort, mister,” said he, “none o' our club don't. It's—low-lived.”

The Governor smiled, despite his hard day with the critics and the petition folk.

“What? You don't sell the Evening Banner, the only independent journal in the city?”

The newsboy was a stranger to sarcasm.

“That's about the size on't,” he said as he edged himself, a veritable bundle of tatters, a trifle nearer the red coals glowing in the open grate.

Suddenly, the Executive remembered that it was cold. There were ridges of snow on the bronze statue at the window. He noticed, too, the movement of the tatters toward the fire, and with his hand, a very white, gentle-seeming hand it was, motioned the little vagabond toward the grate. No sooner did he see the thin, numb fingers stretched toward the blaze than he remembered the sneers of “the only independent journal.” It was not far from right, surely, when it called him “soft-hearted,” was this boycotted Banner which the newsboys refused to handle. The Executive smiled; the boycott, at all events, was comical.

“And so,” said he, “you refuse to sell the Banner. Why is that?”

“Shucks!” was the reply. “ 'Taint no good. None o' us likes it. Yer see, cully—” The Executive started; but a glance at the earnest, unconscious face convinced him the familiarity was not intentional disrespect. “You see,” the boy went on, “it sez mean things, tells lies, yer know, about a friend o' mine.”

One foot, the shorter, withered member, was thrust dangerously near to the glowing coalbed; the little gossip was making himself thoroughly at home. The Executive observed it, and smiled. He also noted the weary droop of the shoulders, and impulsively pointed to a seat. He only meant something upon which to rest himself, and did not notice, until the tatters dropped wearily into the purple luxuriance, that he had invited the little Arab to a seat in a great, deep armchair of polished cherry, richly upholstered with royal purple plush, finished with a fringe of tawny gold.

Instinctively, he glanced toward the east window. The bronze face wore a solemn, sturdy frown, but on the tip of the great general's cocked hat a tiny sparrow had perched, and stood coquettishly picking at the white snowflakes that fell upon the bronze brim.

“And so the Banner abuses your friend?”

The Executive turned again to the tatters, costly ensconced in the soft depths of the State's purple. The old-young head nodded.

“And what does it say of him?”

He wondered if it could abuse any one quite so soundly and so mercilessly as it had dealt with him.

“Aw, sher!” the tatters, in state, was growing contemptuous. “It called him a ‘mugwump.’ ”

The Governor colored; it had said the same of him.

“An',” the boy went on, “it said ez ther' wa'n't no backbone to him, an' ez he wuz only fitten to set the pris'ners loose, an' to play the fiddle. An' it said a lot about a feller named Ole Poplar—”

“What!”

The smile upon the Governor's lips gave place to a hearty laugh, as the odd little visitor ransacked the everglades of memory for the desired timber from which heroes are hewn.

“Poplar? Ben't it poplar? Naw, cedar,—ash, wonnut, hick'ry—that's it! Hick'ry. Ole Hick'ry. It said a lot about him; an' it made the boys orful mad, an' they won't sell the nasty paper.”

The tatters began to quiver with the excitement of the recital. The little old-young face lost something of its patient, premature age while the owner rehearsed the misdoings of the city's independent afternoon journal.

The Executive listened with a smile of amused perplexity. Evidently he was the “friend” referred to, else the journal had said the same of two parties.

“Who is your friend?” he asked vaguely wondering as to what further developments he might expect.

“Aw,” said the boy,“ he ain't my friend perzactly. He's Skinny's though, an' all the boys stan's up for Skinny.”

“And who is ‘Skinny’?”

A flash of contempt shot from the small, deep-set eyes.

“Say, cully,” his words were slow and emphatic, “wher' wuz you raised? Don't you know Skinny?”

The Executive shook his head. “Is he a newsboy?”

“He wuz—” the tatters were still a moment, only a twitch of the lips and a slight, choking movement of the throat told the boy was struggling with his emotions. Then the rough, frayed sleeve was drawn across the bundle of papers strapped across his breast, where a tear glistened upon the front page of the Evening Herald. “He wuz a newsboy—till yistiddy. We buried uv him yistiddy.”

The momentary silence was broken only by the soft click of the clock telling the run of time. It was the Governor who spoke then. “And this man whom the Banner abuses was Skinny's friend.”

“Yes. This here wuz Skinny's route. I took it yistiddy. Yer see Skinny didn't have no mammy an' no folks, an' no meat onter his bones,—that's why we all named him Skinny. He wuz jest b-o-n-z-e-s. An' ther' wuz nobody ter keep keer uv him when he wuz sick, an' he jest up an' died.”

Without the window the snow fell softly, softly. The little brown bird hopped down from the great general's hat and sought shelter in the bronze bosom of his fluted vesture. Poor little snowbird!—the human waif which the newsboys had buried—for him the bronze bosom of Charity had offered no shelter from the storm. The tatters in velvet had forgotten the cold, and the presence before him, as he gazed into the dreamful warmth of the fire. He did not see the motion of the Governor's hand across his eyes, nor did he know how the great man was rehearsing the Banner's criticisms.

“He cannot hear a beggar's tale without growing chicken-hearted and opening the prison doors to every red-handed murderer confined there who can put up a pretty story.”

He was soft-hearted; he knew it, and regretted it many times to the bronze general at the window. But this evening there was a kind of defiance about him; he was determined to dare the old warrior-statesman, and the slanderous Banner—and his own “chicken-heart,” too.

“Tell me,” said he, “about this friend of Skinny's.”

“The Gov'ner?”

“Was it the Governor?”

“Say!” Oh, the scorn of those young eyes! “Is ther' anybody else can pardon out convicts? In course 'twuz the Gov'ner. Skinny had a picture uv him, too. A great big un, an' golly! but 'twuz pritty. Kep' it hangin' over his cot what Nickerson, the p'liceman ez ain't got no folks neither, like Skinny, let him set up in a corner o' his room down ter Black Bottom. Say, cully, does you know the Gov'ner?”

“Yes; but go on with your story. Tell me all about Skinny and—his friend!”

The tatters settled back into the purple cushions. The firelight played upon the little old face, and the heat drew the dampness from the worn clothes, enveloping the thin figure in a vapor that might have been a poetic dream-mist but for the ragged reality slowly thawing in the good warmth. The bundle of papers had been lifted from the sunken chest and placed carefully by on the crimson and olive rug, while the human bundle settled itself to tell the story of Skinny.

“Me an' him wuz on the pris'n route,” said he, “till—yistiddy. Least I wuz ther till yistiddy. Skinny tuk this route last year. He begged it fur me when he—come ter quit, because I ben't ez strong ez— Solermun, you know. Wa'n't he the strong un? Solermun or Merthuslem, I git mixed in them bible fellers. But 'twuz when we wuz ter the pris'n route I larnt about Skinny's friend, the Gov'ner, you know. First ther' was ole Jack Nasby up an' got parelized, an' w'an't no 'count ter nobody, let 'lone ter the State. ‘A dead expense,’ the ward'n said. He suffered orful, too, an' so'd his wife. An' one day Skinny said he wuz goin' ter write a pertition an' git all the 'fishuls ter sign it, an' git the Gov'ner ter pard'n ole Nasby out. They all signed it— one o' the convic's writ it, but they all told Skinny ez 'twuz no use, 'cause he wouldn't do it. An' one day, don't yer think when ole Nasby wuz layin' on the hospittul bunk with his dead side kivered over with a pris'n blankit, an' his wife a-cryin' becase the ward'n war 'bleeged ter lock her out, the Gov'ner his se'f walked in. An' what yer reckin he done? Cried! What yer think o' that, cully? Cried; an' lowed ez how ‘few folks wuz so bad et somebody didn't keer fur 'em,’ an' then he called the man's wife back, an' p'inted ter the half dead ole convic', an' told her ter ‘fetch him home.’ Did! An' the nex' day if the Banner didn't tan him! Yer jest bet it did.

“An' ther' wuz a feller ther' been in twenty year, an' had seventy-nine more ahead uv him. An' one night when ther' wa'n't nobody thinkin' uv it, he up an' got erligion. An' he ain't no more en got it, en he wants ter git away fum ther'. Prayed fur it constant: ‘Lord, let me out!’ ‘Lord, let me out!’ That's what he ud say ez he set on the spoke pile fittin' spokes fur the Tennessee wagins; an' a-cryin' all the time. He couldn't take time ter cry an' pray 'thout cheat'n' o' the State, yer know, so he jest cried an' prayed while he worked. The other pris'ners poked fun at him; an' tol' him if he got out they ud try erligion in theirn. Yorter seen him; he wuz a good un. Spec' yer have heerd about him. Did yer heear 'bout the big fire that bruk out in the pris'n las' November, did yer?”

The Governor nodded and the boy talked on.

“Well, that ther' convic' worked orful hard at that fire. He fetched thirteen men out on his back. They wuz suf'cated, yer know. He fetched the warden out, too, in his arms. An' one uv his arms wuz burnt that bad it had ter be cut off. An' the pris'n doctor said he breathed fire inter his lungs or somethin'. An' the next day the Gov'ner pard'ned uv him out. I wuz ther' when the pard'n come. The warden's voice trim'led when he read it ter the feller layin' bundled up on his iron bunk. An' when he heeard it he riz up in bed an' sez he, ‘My prayers is answered, tell the boys.’ The warden bent over 'im ez he dropped back an' shet his eyes, an' tried ter shake him up. ‘What must I tell the Gov'ner?’ sez he. ‘Tell him, God bless him.’ An' that wuz the las' word he ever did say topside o' this earth. Whatcher think o' that, cully? 'Bout ez big ez the Banner's growl, wa'n't it?”

The Executive nodded again, while the little gossip of the slums talked on in his quaint, old way, of deeds the very angels must have wept to witness, so full were they of glorious humanity.

“But the best uv all wuz about ole Bemis,” said he, re-arranging his tatters so that the undried portion might be turned to the fire. “Did you ever heear about ole Bemis?”

Did he? Would he ever cease to hear about him, he wondered. Was there, could there be any excuse for him there? The evening Independent thought not. Yet he felt some curiosity to know how his “chicken-hearted foolishness” had been received in the slums, so he motioned the boy to go on. Verily the tattered gossip had never had so rapt a listener.

“Yer see,” said he, “Bemis wuz a banker; a reg'lar rich un. He kilt a man,—kilt him dead, too,—an' yer see, cully, 'twas his own son-in-law. An' one cote went dead against him, an' they fetched it ter t'other, ‘s'preme’ or ‘sperm,’ or somethin'. An' the Banner said ‘he orter be hung, an' would be if the Guv'ner'd let him. But if he'd cry a little the Guv'ner'd set him on his feet again, when the cotes wuz done with him.’ But that cote said he mus' hang, too, an' they put him in jail; an' befo' they had the trial, the jailer looked fur a mob ter come an' take him out at night an' hang him. He set up late lookin' fur it. But stid uv a mob, the jailer heerd a little pitapat on the steps, an' a little rattle uv the door, an' when he opened uv it ther' wuz a little lame cripple girl standin' ther' leanin' on her crutches a-cryin', an' a-beggin' ter see her pappy. Truth, cully; cross my heart” (and two small fingers drew the sign of the cross upon the little gossip's breast). “Atter that, folks begin ter feel sorry fur the ole banker, when the jailer 'd tell about the little crutch ez sounded up'n down them jail halls all day. The pris'ners got ter know it, an' ter wait fur it, an' they named uv her ‘crippled angul,’ she wuz that white an' pritty, with her blue eyes, an' hair like tumbled-up sunshine all round her face. When the pris'ners heerd the restle uv her little silk dress breshin' the banisters ez she clomb upstairs, they ud say, ‘Ther's the little angul's wings.’ An' they said the jail got more darker after the wings went by. An' when they had that ther' las' trial uv ole Bemis, lots o' meanness leaked out ez had been done him, an' it showed ez the pris'ner wa'n't so mightily ter blame atter all. An' lots of folks wuz hopin' the ole man ud be plumb cleared. But the cote said he mus' hang, hang, hang. Did; an' when it said so the angul fell over in her pappy's arms, an' her crutch rolled down an' lay aginst the judge's foot, an' he picked it up an' heft it in his hen' all the time he wuz saying o' the death sentence.

“An' the Banner said ‘that wuz enough fur chicken-heart,’—an' said ever'body might look fur a pard'n nex' day. An' then whatcher reckin? What do yer reckin, cully? The nex' day down come a little yeller-headed gal ter the jail a-kerryin uv a pard'n. Whatcher think o' that? Wuz that chicken heart? Naw, cully, that wuz grit. Skinny said so. An' Skinny said,—he wuz allus hangin' roun' the cap'tul,—an' he heerd the men talkin' 'bout it. An' they said the little gal come up ter see the Gov'ner, an' he wouldn't see her at first. But she got in at last, an' begged an' begged fur the ole man 'bout ter hang.

“But the Gov'ner wouldn't lis'n, till all's once she turned ter him an' sez she, ‘Have you got a chile?’ An' his eyes filt up in a minute, an' sez he, ‘One, at Mount Olivet.’ That's the graveyard, yer know. Then he called his sec't'ry man, an' whispered ter him. An' the man sez, ‘Is it wise?’ An' then the Gov'ner stood up gran' like, an' sez he, ‘Hit's right; an' that's enough.’ Wa'n't that bully, though? Wa'n't it? Say, cully, whatcher think o' that? An' whatcher lookin' at out the winder?”

The shadows held the tall warrior in a dusky mantle. Was it fancy, or did old Hickory indeed lift his cocked hat a trifle higher? Old bronze hero, did he, too, hear that click of a child's crutch echoing down the dismal corridors of the grim old State House, as the little, misshapen feet sped upon their last hope? And in his dreams did he too hear, the Executive wondered, the cry of a little child begging life of him who alone held it? Did he hear the wind, those long December nights, moaning over Olivet with the sob of a dead babe in its breath? Did he understand the human, as well as the heroic, old warrior-statesman whose immortality, was writ in bronze?

“Say, cully,” the tatters grew restless again, “does the firelight hurt yer eyes, makes 'em water? They looks like the picture o' Skinny's man when the water's in 'em so. Oh, but hit's a good picture. It's a man, layin' in bed. Sick or somethin', I reckin.' An' his piller's all ruffled up, an' the kiverlid all white ez snow. An' his face has got a kind o' glory look, jest like yer see on the face o' the pris'n chaplin when he's a-prayin' with his head up, an' his eyes shet tight, an' a streak o' sunshine comes a-creepin' in through the gratin' uv the winders an' strikes acrost his face. That's the way Skinny's picture man looks, only ther' ain't no bars, an' the light stays ther'. An' in one corner is a big, big patch o' light. 'Tain't sunshine, too soft. An' 'tain't moonlight, too bright. Hit's dest light. An' plumb square in the middle uv it is a angul: a gal angul, I reckin, becase its orful pretty, with goldish hair, an' eyes ez blue ez—that cheer yer head's leaned on. An' she has a book, a gold un; whatcher think o' that? An she's writin' down names in it. An' the man in the bed is watchin' uv her, an' tellin' uv her what ter do; for down ter the bottom ther's some gol'-writin'. Skinny figgered it out an' it said, ‘Write me as one who loves his fellow men.’ Ain't that scrumptious? Yer jest bet.

“I asked Skinny once what it meant, and he said he didn't know fur plumb certain' but sez he, ‘I calls it the Gov'ner, Skip: the Gov'ner an' the crippled angul.’ Atter that Skinny an' me an' the boys allus called it the Gov'ner. Say! did you ever see the Gov'ner?”

The Executive nodded; and the tatters rising and sinking back again with vehemence in accord with surprise, threatened to leave more than a single mark upon the State's purple.

“Oh, say now! did yer though? An' did he look this here way, an' set his chin so, an' keep his eyes kind o' shet 's if he wuz afeard someun ud see if he cried an' tell the Banner ez ther' wuz tears in his eyes? Skinny said he did. Skinny didn't lie, he didn't.

“An' did yer ever heear him make a speech? Raily now, did yer?”

The spare body bent forward, as if the sharp eyes would catch the faintest hint of falsehood in the face before him. “Yorter heerd him. Skinny did once, when he wuz 'norgrated, yer know. An' you bet he's gran', then, on them 'norgrat'n days. He jest up an' dares the ole Banner. An' his speeches goes this er way.”

The tatters half stood; the sole of one torn shoe pressed against the State's purple of the great easy-chair, one resting upon the velvet rug. One small hand lightly clasped the arm of the cherry chair, while the other was enthusiastically waved to and fro as the vagabond's deft tongue told off a fragment of one of the Executive's masterpieces of eloquence and oratory.

“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” indeed, poured the great particle of the great argument that had swept the old Volunteer State, at the moment of its financial agony, from center to circumference:

“ ‘The so-called “State Bonds” are against the letter and spirit of the Constitution of the United States, which declares, No State shall grant letters of marque and reprisal, coin money, or emit bills of credit. State bonds! State bonds! I tell you, friends and fellow-citizens, that is the name of the enemy that is hammering upon that mighty platform upon which all social, political, and financial affairs of the country are founded; the palladium of our liberties,—the Constitution of the United States.’ ”

The ragged shoe slipped from its velvet pedestal, the now dry tatters dropped back into the luxuriant softness of the easy-chair. The glow of excitement faded from the little old face that seemed suddenly to grow older. The man watching with keen surprise, that was indeed almost wonder, saw the boy's thin lips twitch nervously. The great speech was forgotten in the mighty memories it had stirred. The tattered sleeve was drawn across the face that was tattered too, and it was full two minutes by the State's bronze clock, before the vagabond held control of his feelings.

“Say!” he ventured again, “yorter knowed Skinny. He wuz the nicest boy yevver did see. He knowed ever'thing, he did. See the Gov'ner many a time. Heerd him say that very speech I'm tellin' you about. In this very house, too, upstairs, wher' the leguslater sets. I peeped in while ago; nobody ther' but the sextent. Skinny heerd the Gov'ner speak ther' though—an' when the ban' played, an' the folks all clapped their hands, Skinny flung his hat up, plumb inter the big chand'ler, an' hollered out: ‘Hooray for the Gov'ner an' the Low Taxers!’ an' a p'liceman fetched him out by the collar, an' when he got out the cop sez ter him, sez he, ‘Now whatcher got ter say?’ Skinny wuz a Low Taxer his own se'f, so when the cop axed him for his say, he flung his hat up todes the bare-headed Liberty woman out ther' at the front door, an' sez he, ‘Hooray! fur the Gov'ner an' the Low Tax party.’ Did. He slep' in the lock-up that night fur it, you bet; but he got his holler. He wuz a plumb good un.

“Say, cully! I wisht yer could see Skinny's picture anyhow. It's over ter hunchback Harry's house now, t'other side o' Hell's Half. Yer know Hell's Half acre? Awful place. Skinny give the picture ter Harry 'count o' his not bein' able ter git about much. He set a sight o' store by it, Skinny did, an' he didn't let it leave him till the las' minit; he just willed it, yer know, to hunchback Harry. When he wuz a-dyin' he turned ter me, an' sez he, ‘Skip, hang the Gov'ner so's I can see him.’ An' when I done it, he sez, sorter smilin', sez he, ‘Skip?’ Sez I, ‘Skinny!’ Sez he, ‘The crippled angul has wiped all the tears out o' the Gov'ner's eyes.’ Then he fell back on his straw piller an' shet his eyes, so; an' after while he opened uv um, an' sez he—so soft yer jest could a-heerd it; sez he, ‘Write me ez one who loves his fellow-men.’ An' that wuz the las' word he ever said on this earth. He had a nice fun'ril; yer bet. Us newsboys made it; an' the pris'n chaplain said the sument. We bought the flowers, us boys , they cos' ten dollars. Ther' wuz a wreath made uv white roses, an' right in the middle, made out o' little teeny buds, wuz his name—‘Skinny.’ The flower-man said it wouldn't do, when we told him ter put it ther,' but we 'lowed 'twuz our money and our fun'ril and if we couldn't have it our way we wouldn't have it at all. An' he said it might hurt his folkses' feelin's; but we tol' him Skinny didn't have no folks, an' no name neither, 'cept jest ‘Skinny.’ So he made up the wreath like we said, an' it's out ther' on his grave this blessed minit, if the snow ain't kivered it up. Say, cully! Don't yer be a-cryin' fur Skinny. He's all right— the chaplain sez so. The Gov'ner'd cry fur him though, I bet yer, if he knowed about the fun'ril yistiddy. Mebbe ole Pop-Hick'ry wouldn't, but I bet the Gov'ner would.”

The face of the Executive was turned toward the fire—a tiny, blue blaze shot upward for an instant, and was reflected in a diamond setting that glittered upon his bosom. A match to the sparkling jewel rested a moment upon his cheek, then rolled down and lay upon his hand—a bright, glistening tear. There was a sound of heavy footsteps coming down the gray stone corridor—a creak, a groan, and a bang.

“What's that?” asked the newsboy, starting up.

“That,” said the Executive, “is the porter, closing up for the night.”

The tatters stood as near upright as tatters may, and gathered themselves together. Not a paper sold; he had gossipped away the afternoon with right royal recklessness. He remembered it too late.

“Say! yer wouldn't want a Herald?” It was not easy to talk business where lately he had talked confidence. The Executive's hand sought his pocket.

“Yes,” said he, “a Herald will do. What is your name, boy?”

“Skippy! 'cause I don't skip, yer know.”

There was a twinkle in the vagabond's eye, as the maimed foot was thrust forward. The next moment he glanced at the coin the Executive had handed him.

“Say! I can't change a dollar; hadn't seen that much money since the bridge wuz burnt.”

The Executive smiled. “Never mind the change,” said he, “and be sure you bring me to-morrow's Herald.”

The tatters did stand upright at that, while a look of genuine wonder, not unmixed with admiration, came into the little old-young face.

“Say! who be you anyhow?” he asked. And the lids did “drop,” as the Banner said “to hide the tears,” as the great man answered slowly:—

“I am the Governor of Tennessee, Skip.”

There was a low soft whistle, a hurried shambling toward the door, a half-whispered something about “Skinny” and “old Pop-Hickory,” and the ponderous door closed behind him. When the fire had burned so low he could no longer see the print of the newsboy's foot upon the velvet cushion of the arm-chair, the Governor arose and began to put away his papers.

“Inasmuch as she was sorely wronged” —his eye fell upon a line of the woman-murderer's long petition. Was this a “case for clemency,” as the petition declared? The crisp paper rattled strangely as he unrolled it, and fixed his own name, together with the great seal of the State, to the few words he had written. It is a grand thing to hold life in the hand: a thing next to God himself. It is a grander thing to give life, and nearer to God, too, for is not God the giver of all life? The long petition lay in the Executive's private drawer; his day's work was done; to-morrow the despised afternoon journal would sum it up so: “Pardoned another red-handed Cain.” The angels perhaps might record it something after this wise: “Saved another soul from hell.” He sighed, and thrust the few remaining papers into the drawer, locked it, and made ready to go home. For the darkness had indeed fallen; the bronze statue, as he sought it through the window, had become only a part of the bronze night. But the heart of old Hickory was there, in his own bosom, throbbing and alive with the burden of humanity. To-morrow the critics might lash; but to-night—he opened the door of the great gray corridor; the wind swept with a sepulchral groan through the vault- like gloom; he lifted his face to the leaden sky, starless and cold.—“Write me,” he said, “as one who loves his fellow-men;” and blushed, as any hero might, to find his heart as brave as its convictions.

 FIDDLING HIS WAY TO FAME.

WE had fallen in with a party of Alabama boys, and all having the same end in view, —a good time—we joined forces and pitched our tents on the bank of the Clinch, the prettiest stream in Tennessee, and set about enjoying ourselves after our own approved fashion.

Even the important-looking gentleman, sitting over against a crag where he had dozed and smoked for a full hour, forgot, for the nonce, that he was other than wit and wag for the company; the jolly good fellow he, the free man (once more), and the huntsman.

Our division had followed the hounds since sun-up; the remainder of the company were still out upon the river with rod and line. The sun was about ready to drop behind Lone Mountain, that solitary peak, of nobody knows precisely what, that keeps a kind of solemn guard upon the wayward little current singing at its base. Supper was ready; the odor of coffee, mingled with a no less agreeable aroma of broiling bacon, and corn cake, was deliciously tantalizing to a set of weary hunters. But we were to wait for the boys, that was one of our rules, always observed. The sun set, and twilight came on with that subtle light that is half gloom, half glow, and mingled, or tried to, with the red glare of the camp-fire.

While we sat there, dozing and waiting, there was a break in the brush below the bluff upon which we were camped. “A deer!” One of the boys reached for his rifle, just as a tall, gaunt figure appeared above the bluff, catching as he came at the sassafras and hazel bushes, pulling himself up until he stood among us a very Saul in height, and a Goliath, to all seeming, in strength.

He took in the camp, the fire, and the group at a glance. But the figure over against the crag caught his best attention There was a kind of telegraphic recognition of some description, for the giant smiled and nodded.

“Howdye,” he said; and our jolly comrade took his pipe from between his lips and returned the salutation in precisely the same tone in which it was given.

“Howdye; be you-uns a-travelin'?”

The giant nodded, and passed on, and our comrade dropped back against the crag, and returned to his pipe. But a smile played about his lips, as if some very tender recollection had been stirred by the passing of the gaunt stranger.

It was one of the Alabama boys who broke the silence that had fallen upon us. He had observed the sympathetic recognition that passed between the two men, and had noted the naturalness with which the “dialect” had been returned.

“I'll wager my portion of the supper,” he said, “that he is a Tennessean, and from the hill country.” He pointed in the direction taken by the stranger. He missed, however, the warning—“Sh!” from the Tennessee side.

“A Tennessee mountaineer—” he went on. “His speech bewrayeth him.”

Then one of our boys spoke right out.

“Look out!” said he, “the Governor is from the hill country too.”

The silence was embarrassing, until the man over against the crag took the pipe from between his lips, and struck the bowl upon his palm gently, the smile still lingering about his mouth.

“Yes,” he said, “I was born among the hills of Tennessee. ‘The Barrens,’ geologists call it; the poets name it ‘Land of the Sky.’ My heart can find for it no holier name than—home.”

The Governor leaned back against the crag. We knew the man, and wondered as to the humor that was upon him. Politician, wit, comrade, gentleman; as each we knew him. But as native, mountaineer, ah! he was a stranger to us in that rôle. We had heard of the quaint ease with which he could drop into the speech of his native hills, no less than the grace with which he filled the gubernatorial chair.

He had “stumped the state” twice as candidate, once as elector. His strange, half-humorous, half-pathetic oratory was familiar in every county from the mountains to the Mississippi. But the native;—we almost held our breath while the transformation took place, and the governor-orator for the moment became the mountaineer.

“I war born,” he said, “on the banks o' the Wataugy, in the county uv Cartir,—in a cabin whose winders opened ter the East, an' to'des the sunrise. That war my old mother's notion an' bekase it war her notion it war allus right ter me. Fur she was not one given ter wrong ideas.

“I war her favorite chil' uv the seven God give. My cheer set nighest hers. The yeller yarn that slipped her shiny needles first slipped from hank ter ball across my sunburnt wrists. The mug uv goldish cream war allus at my plate; the cl'arest bit uv honey-comb, laid cross the biggis' plug uv pies war allus set fur me. The bit o' extry sweetnin' never missed my ole blue chiny cup.

“An' summer days when fiel' work war a-foot, a bottle full o' fraish new buttermilk war allus tucked away amongst the corn pones in my dinner pail.

“An' when I tuk ter books, an' readin' uv the papers, an' the ole man riz up ag'inst it, bekase I war more favored ter the book nor ter the plough then my old mount'n mammy, ez allus stood 'twixt me an' wrath, she riz up too, an' bargained with the ole man fur two hours uv my time. This war the bargain struck. From twelve er'clock ontil the sun marked two upon the kitchen doorstep I war free.

“Ever' day fur this much I war free. An' in my stid, whilst I lay under the hoss apple tree an' figgered out my book stuff, she followed that ole plough up an' down the en'less furrers across that hot ontrodd'n fiel'—in my stid.

“I've travelled some sence then, ploughed many a furrer in the fiel' o' this worl's troubles, an' I hev foun' ez ther' be few ez keers tur tek the plough whilst I lay by ter rest.

“An' when the work war done, an' harvest in, I tuk ter runnin' down o' nights ter hear the boys discuss the questions o' the day at Jube Turner's store over ter the settlemint.

“ 'Twar then the ole man sot his foot down.

“ ‘It hev ter stop!’ he said. ‘The boy air comin' ter no good.’

“Then my ole mammy riz agin, an' set down ez detarmint ez him; an' sez she:—

“ ‘He be a man, an' hev the hankerin's uv a man. The time hev come fur me ter speak. The boy must hev his l'arnin'-books his min' calls fur. He aims ter mix with men; an' you an' me, ole man, must stand aside, an' fit him fur the wrestle ez be boun' ter come. Hit air bespoke fur him, an' ther' ben't no sense in henderin' sech ez be bespoke beforehan'.’

“She kerried, an' I went ter school. The house air standin' now—a cabin in the valley, nigh the banks o' the Wataugy. I tuk ter books, they said, like beans ter cornstalks. An' winter nights I'd pile the pine knots on the fire, to light me ter the secrets uv them blue an' yeller kivers.

“An' she'd set by an' holp me with her presence, my ole mount'n mother would. She even holped to gether up the pine knots when the days war over short. She holped me ever way. Her heart retched down ter mine an' l'arned its needs, an' holped ter satisfy them. She flung the rocks out uv my way, openin' up the path before—the path her partial eye had sighted, every inch uv it.

“She saved the butter an' sent it off ter the settlemint ter sell it, so's I could hev a daily paper, when she see ez I war hankerin' fur it.

“An' when it kem, I'd set ther' on a kaig an' read it ter the mount'n boys, an' Jube; they-uns flocked ter me like crows flockin' ter a corn-field; an' me it war, a mount'n stripplin', ez dealt the word o' politics ter they-uns.

“But somthin' worrit me: a hitch war in my l'arnin'. Still, the ole man in the cabin begin ter grow more easy-like an' teok ter readin' an' war not ill-pleased ter git the news. An' he fretted sometimes ef I tarried ter the store, bekase he war a-waitin' fur the news. But I war troubled; and that eye ez war allus open ter my ailments see that I war worrit. An' one day when I kem down the road, she met me, my ole mammy, an' she put her hand onter my arm, an' walked along o' me. An' sez she:—

“ ‘What air it, son, ez be a-troublin' uv ye, I be yer mammy, an' ez sech yer frien', an' I aims ter know yer ailments.’

“An' I tuk that tremblin' hand close inter mine, an' I spoke my min', my feelin's, freely.

“ ‘I be worrit,’ sez I, ‘becase I be onable ter make out ef I be right or no.’

“ ‘In politics?’ sez she.

“ ‘Yaas,’ sez I, ‘in politics. I git but one side o' the matter, an' I know ez ther' be two. An' I ben't satisfied with this side, an' still I be onable ter make out the other!’

“She onriddled me at onc't.

“ ‘You-uns must hev the other paper, son,’ sez she. ‘Your granddad war a politician under Clay; en' ther' war two sides then, an' ther' air boun' ter be two now, although the word uv it may not retch the Wataugy.’

“I never will furgit the first day it kem, that Dimercratic paper. I went ter the settlemint, I knowed the paper war a comin, an' I guessed what it would be; a coal o' fire ter that Republican stronghold.

“I tuk my fiddle down; it war my mother's thought.

“ ‘Play 'em Sally Gal,’ sez she, ‘afore the mail comes.’

“I done it; an' they-uns war toler'ble frien'ly; fur the mount'n boys allus hev a weakness fur a fiddle an' a mount'n fiddler.

“But when the mail war opened—Laud! how they swore an' tuk on. Some laffed; a mighty few though, an' some winked ter one ernother. Some cussed outright an' all war thunderstruck. Ez fur me, I went out ter it, an' it kem in ter me. I war a Dimercrat from that good day.

“I tuk it home; the ole man list'ned, countin' it a mighty joke ter hear me an' brother Alf argerfyin' 'bout the two sides, an' sometimes he'd say which beat in argerfyin', but he mostly allus went with Alf. Bimeby Alf tuk the Republican paper, ez my time give out, an' we-uns went tergether ter the settlemint; an' we'd mount a kaig, him on one, and me on t'other, and we'd give the news ter both sides, him an' me. Some few sided long o' me, but most war tuk to Alf. An' so it war understood ez I war Dimercrat, and Alf Republican.

“It tickled the ole man mightily. He useter call in the Wataugy boys ter hear us argerfy o' nights, and they-uns sot in jedgmint ez ter which uv we-uns war the best at sech. Alf allus got the vote, an' one night I riz up; fur I war mad some, an' I give the word ez how a Dimercrat would never stan' no chance o' justice in sech a onfair destrict. They-uns laffed, but ther was one ez sot her face aginst sech. ‘A house set against itself air boun' ter come ter bad luck,’ my ole mother said.

“One day ther' war a meetin' ter the settlemint, a political meetin', an' Jube war buckin' up the boys right pears, an' war about ter sweep off everthing. I moved about a bit among they-uns, an' after a little the word war giv ez ther' war a split.

“Then kem a row, an' Jube he druv the Dimercrats out 'n o' his store, an' they held the'r meetin' in the blacksmith's shop. An' I war goin' out along o' they-uns, an' Jube see me; an' he sez, sez he:—

“ ‘Come back here, Bob, an' vote your good ole daddy's principles.’ Fur Jube war boss o' that ther' destrict. But I war mad, an' I sez, sez I:—

“ ‘I aims ter vote my own principles,’ sez I, ‘an' they be Dimercratic.’

“An' when that day war over, ole Si Ridley he rid over ter we-uns' cabin on the Wataugy an' give the word as I war nominated ter the Legislatur aginst big Judge Griggsby, the rankest Republican ter all that county.

“Then the ole man riz up in real dead earnest. He named me fur a idiot an' a upstart, an' let on ez how he never 'lowed that playful argerfyin' o' Alf an' me would ever be tuk fur more'n a little playful talk.

“He swore he'd thrash the heresy out o' me. Then my ole mammy, she riz up.

“ ‘Nary lick, Josiah,’ sez she. ‘He hev the right ter choose, an' he hev done it.’

“Then he give the word ez he'd vote aginst me same's he would any other Dimercrat. He kept his word. On the day uv election him an' the boys went over ter Jube's ter vote.

“Folks showed considerable interest, allowing ez blood war more stronger nor politics, an' that the ole man would come over ter me in the eend.

“But he didn't; he jest voted clean an' open fur Griggsby, an' I 'lowed the boys would foller his lead. But when my oldest brother stepped up an' drapped in a vote fur me, I cl'ar furgot myself, an' I jest flung up my hat an' shouted, ‘Count one fur the Dimercrat.’

“The ole man war pow'ful mad. But when Alf an' Dave an' Hugh voted with him, it kinder eased him some. But when the next cast lots with me, I yelled again.

“ ‘Hooray fur Dimocracy!’ sez I. An' the ole man he jest lifted up his ridin' switch, an' sez he:—

“ ‘Stop, sir! Take off your coat, sir. I'll thrash that Dimocracy out o' you.’

“Ye could a heerd a pin drap. Then I ketched ole Jube Turner's eye. He allus 'lowed ther' war no backbone to a Dimercrat. An' when I see him I flung back my coat an' bowed my shoulders fur the ole man's lash.

“The boys drapped back, disappointed, an' I heard a hiss ez the first blow fell. Forty licks. I tuk 'em without a tremble. An' when the last un fell, I riz up an' tore off my hat, an' tossed it up ter the rafters, an' sez I, ez loud ez I could, ‘Hooray fur Dimocracy! Forty lashes hev heat it ter redhot heat.’

“Then a yell went up, an' I knowed ez Carter County war gone Dimercratic fur onc't, afore ole Jube stepped out afore the boys, an' tuk off his hat an' sez, ‘I be fur the feller ez can't be beat out o' his principles.’

“Them war stormy times in the cabin on the Wataugy, I kin tell ye. The boys built a bonfire top o' Lynn Mount'n jest acrost the river. It lit up the kentry fur miles, an' my ole mammy watched it through her tears ez she stood in the cabin door; but the old man didn't speak ter me no more till I war startin' off ter Nashvill ter tek my seat, ez ‘the member from Carter.’

“But my ole mammy follered me down ter the settlement, wher' the boys war waitin' ter say good-by, an' she tuk my hen' 'n hers, an' sez she:—

“ ‘Legislatur or plow-boy, remember ye air born to die!’

“ ‘Mend up the road law,’ said Jube, at partin', ‘an' let down the gap ter the still house.’ Fur Jube had a taste fur apple-juice an' corn squeezin's.

“Waal, I moved along toler'ble pears. Ef I could set the boys a-laffin', I war toler'ble sartin' ter kerry my p'int. Ef I couldn't, someun would move adjournmint, ‘Ter give Bob time ter ile up,’ they said. ‘Ilin' up ' meant gettin' my fiddle ready an’ callin' the boys tergether in a committee room or somewher's, an' tollin' 'em inter measures with ‘Rabbit in the Pea Patch’—‘Chicken in the Bread Tray’—an' some o' the other mount'n tunes. The mount'n boys war allus sure to come under after a pull at the ole fiddle. It jest put 'em inter a kind o' jubilee that would a' let the State o' Tennessee go ter the devul, ef unly the fiddle war left.

“ ‘Remember ye air born ter die.’ I could hear it in the twang o' the fiddlestrings, a-playin' the boys inter harness, in the clerk's voice a-callin' the roll, in the speaker's gavil a-knockin' fur order.

“One mornin' ther' war a big railroad bill afore the House, an' the Dimercrats went one side the track, and the Republicans went t'other. An' I sot ther' awaitin' my turn ter vote; an' when it kem, I riz up scarcely knowin' what I war a-doin', an' sez I:—

“ ‘I be born ter die! I be aginst that bill.’

“An' the boys set up a yell, a-callin' ter me not ter do it. An' the nex' day the papers named me fur a Jonah, an' said ez I war showin' uv the East Tennessee streak ter my bacon. The streak in East Tennessee bacon air a Republican streak, they 'lowed. An' they made game o' my sayin' I war born ter die. I went ter bed that night toler'ble crushed. But in my dreams, I war back ter the fair valley o' the Wataugy, en' a face deep- scarred an' wrinkled riz up afore me, an a pair o' faded eyes looked inter mine, an' I heeard the voice o' my ole mammy, ‘Stan' by your principles. Ye air born to die!’

“So I went 'long. One day ther' war a mighty rumpus over a bill to shet off gamblin' in the State o' Tennessee. Times were hot, an' word war give ez how some aimed ter hev that bill, spite o' locks an' safes an' clerks an' sergeants. Ther' war a night session. An' I war at it. An' ez I run my hen' inter my desk, it fetched a package. I tuk it up; pinned ter it war a note. ‘$5,000 fur a vote against the Gamblin' Bill,’ it said. I dropped my head on my desk an' groaned. I war unly a mount'n stripplin', an' that temptation war orful, orful.

“ ‘Remember ye air born ter die.’ Ole mount'n mother. I could hear her voice above the voice o' the tempter.

“When my name war called, I riz up, that roll o' gunpowder in my hand. I heft it out afore 'em all, high up ez I could retch, en' I yelled out in reg'lar mount'n fashion—‘Who bids ?’ sez I, ‘who bids? Five thousan' fur some man's honor. Come an' git it whosoever air minded. Ez fur me, I air not a bidder.’

“An' I flung it with all my might acrost the house, an' I heeard it fall at the clerk's feet ez I called ter him to put me down fur that bill. ‘Fur it, till the crack o' doom.’

“Laud! I never kalkulated on raisin' such a rumpus. I war the bigges' man in Tennessee that night. I went ter bed, ter be woke up by the brass band under my winder, a-playin' ‘Hail ter the Chief.’

“I war allus a fool about a band anyhow, an' when I heeard that grand old tune, played fur me,—me, I jest drapped back 'mongst the kivers and cried like a baby.

“Me, hid away in a forty-ninth class bo'rdin' house,—me, the plow-boy o' the Wataugy. Then the boys bust in an' ordered me inter my clothes, an' drug me out fur a speech. An' when I heeard the yellin', sez I, ‘Boys, in the name o' creation what hev I done?’ An' some-un said, sez he, ‘Ye've turned the water-pipe loose on hell,—that's what ye've done.’

“I went home shortly after that—went a-wonderin' what Jube would say. Fur Jube war toler'ble fond uv ole Sledge now'n then.

“Waal, I hev hed some success, I say it meekly; an' I hev felt some little pride, I say it meekly; an' I hev hed some happy minutes in my life. But the happies' minute I ever knowed war that minute when I sot my foot on my native East Tennessee sile agin, an' felt the hand o' honest old Jube Turner tek holt o' mine an' wring it hard whilst he looked away to'des the blue hills for the tears war in his eyes, an' sez he ‘Ye'll do ter trust, youngster!’

“The ox-wagin war ther' ter meet me ter fetch me up the mount'n. The ole steers Buck and Bill, hed flags a-flyin' from ther horns, an' the wagin war all kivered up in cedar branches an' the pretty pink azalea that growed right around our cabin door An' h'isted squar' on top uv all war a pole a sign-board, with a flag a-flyin', an' on it m' ole school-marm hed writ a line:—

“ ‘The plow-boy o' the Wataugy; Truth, the sledge hammer o' the mountaineer !’

“An' how the boys did shout! They fairly drug me ter the wagin, an' then all fell inter line, an' sot out fur the cabin long side the Wataugy.

“Home! that little cabin wher' the winders turned ter meet the sun; the waters sing ther' all the year aroun', sing and sob. One part the pretty river red'nin' in the sun, an' t'other dead black with the shadow uv the pines that cap the summit uv Lynn Mount'n.

“An' the boys come down ter meet me at the bars, an' the ole man, proud uv his son, ashamed uv the Dimercrat, leanin' on his staff under the greenin' hop-vines. An', best uv all, the vision uv a little woman standin' in the door, shadin' her eyes aginst the sunlight, waitin' fur her boy.

“The flag floated above my head; the boys yelled the'rse'ves hoarse; the wagin creaked, an' Jube's whip cracked about the spotted steer's back. But I heeard nothin'; I seed nothin', but my mother waitin' in the door. She tuk me in her arms, an' drapped her cheek upon my bosom.

“ ‘My boy,’ she said; an' it war wuth ten times over the whole that I hed won.

“But the ole man war worrit. A sign pinned ter the wagin-hed hed tuk his eye.

“ ‘The Champion o' Democracy’ it said.

“ ‘Take it down,’ said some one, ‘it worries the ole man.'’ An' one riz up ter cut it down. But I war ther' afore him, an' I retched out ter take the hand that would cut away my colors.

“ ‘Stop!’ sez I. ‘Boys,' I went on, 'they be my colors. I'll not hide 'em from the eye uv God or man.’

“Then they raised a shout: ‘Them colors'll stan' ye good stead fur Congress,’ they said, ‘bimeby.’

“They done it. It war this way. Ther' war foul play in the convention, the Republican convention. An' ole Bony Pettibrash, who aimed to boss that kentry, got the nomination. That riled the boys, and they-uns swore he never should be elected. So when the Dimercrats nomernated me, the t'other elemint being ag'inst ole Pettibrash come out fur me, an' I went ter Congress.

“I had ter work fur it though, fur Pettibrash hed his follerin'. He war a pow'ful hand at argerfyin', though not much on a joke. He war long-winded, an' my unly chance war in the fac' that the boys got tired uv him. I laid my plans—'twas my ole mammy holped me, an' suggested.

“One night we-uns war ter meet at the log school-house an' discuss matters. A big crowd war ter be ther', an' I tuk my fiddle along, accerdentally, so ter speak. The boys war lookin' oneasy.

“ ‘Can't ye tell a good coon yarn, Bob?’ they sez. But Jube 'lowed a 'possum story ez I knowed would tek better.

“Then I whispered in Jube's ear the plan I hed laid out.

“Jest afore speakin' time I onwropped my fiddle an' twanged a string.

“ ‘Give us a tune, Bob,’ sung out Jube ‘ter liven us up a bit whilst we're waitin'.’

“I tetched the bow across the strings. ‘Rabbit in the Pea-Patch,’—the boys began ter pat; soft at first, then a bit more pears. Then I played up—that ole Rabbit went a-skippin' an' a-trippin', I kin tell ye. Far' well ter the peas in that patch. How the boots did strike that ole puncheon floor! Jube led. I could hear his leather 'bove all the rest.

“All 't onc't I struck inter ‘Rollin' River’; fur I see ole Pettibrash eyein' uv me through the winder. Jube see it, too—an' sez he—‘Plenty o' time, boys, fur speakin'. Out with the benches, an' let's hev a dance.’—Out they went, an' the gals an' wimmen folks kem in; an' then I tuk the teacher's desk, an' put my fiddle ter my shoulder, an' sez I, ‘Boys, ef ye'd rether hev cat-gut music ez ter hev chin, I'm yer man. But I'll jest mek all the speech I've got ter mek in mighty few words. It air this: I'm agin the Blair Bill an' fur the fair thing. Them's my sentiments in Congress or on the mount'n.’

“Then I fetched up the fiddle, an' give 'em ‘Chicken in the Bread Tray,’ whilst ole Pettibrash war left ter chew the ragged eend o' disapp'intment. It war midnight when we quit. We offered ter ‘divide time’ about eleven o'clock, but the boys war in fur a frolic. Waal, we-uns went to Congress, me an' the fiddle. An' that ole fiddle went long o' me ter all the speakin's afore it went ter Congress, an' it beat ole Pettibrash all ter hollow fur argumint. ‘Fiddled his way ter Congress,’ the papers said, an' they didn't miss it ez fur ez I hev knowed 'em ter do.

“But the fiddle war not done yit. The papers talked mightily about it, an' about me 'fiddlin' my way ter fame' an' sech.

“One day a question kem up fur the protection uv iron, an' I voted fur it, long with the Republicans. Ye see I war a mount'n boy; an' them ole hills o' Tennessee, sech ez war not filled with marble, war chuck full o' iron or coal, or sech. I war boun' ter stan' by the mount'n. The papers abused me mightily, an' 'lowed ez I played the wrong tune that time.

“That night I had a diff'rint surrenade, on mighty diff'rint instrumints from the ole Tennessee brass band. They war tin horns, an' busted buckets, an' cowbells; an' ther' war a feller ez give out the tunes, an' one war this:—

“ ‘The Whelp o' the Wataugy,’ an' the band applauded right along.

“The next war:—

“ ‘The Fiddlin' Mugwump,’ an' the band seconded the motion.

“ ‘The Protection 'Possum o' the Cumberlands’ fetched down the house.

“Then some-un called fur me, an' I went out, me an' the fiddle. An' I didn't say a word; I jist fetched the bow across the strings, an' begin ter play,—

‘Kerry me back, Kerry me back ter Tennessee!’

“Fur a minute all war still ez the dead. Then some-un shouted, ‘Go it, Bob!’ An' the whole earth fairly shuk with the'r shoutin'.

“ ‘Fiddle away, ole coon,’ they hollered. “Go it, my whelp!’—‘Hooray fur Tennessee!’

“The next mornin' ther' war a big poplar coffin settin' on the steps o' my bo'din' house an' a big fiddle laid 'pon top o' it, an' on a white card war painted in blackletters: ‘Hang up the fiddle an' the bow.’ An' another card said: ‘Kin any good come out o' Nazareth?’ meanin' East Tennessee.

“Then the mount'n in me riz big ez a mule. An' that day I made a speech. A speech fur Tennessee, with her head in the clouds an' her feet in the big Mississippi. I spoke fur the green banks uv the Wataugy an' the hills that lift ther' crested tips ter ketch alike the kiss uv sunshine an' of cloud—Fur Tennessee—the little strip God breathed upon an' Nature kissed, to set it all a-bloomin'. An' I 'lowed ez I aimed ter stan' by her, an' by her ole iron-filled hills till the breath lef' my body, spite o' coffins an' fiddles, cowbells an' tin horns. ‘An' she'll stan' by me,’ sez I, ‘I ben't afeard ter risk ole Tennessee.’ An' I give the word ez I'd never hang up the fiddle till East Tennessee ordered it, an' ole Jube Turner signed the documint. It war all in the papers nex' day an' I jest mailed 'em out ter Jube. He war mightily tickled, an' the boys all laffed some when he read it out ter they-uns.

“I made one more race, me an' the fiddle, an' hit war the stormiest race I ever set out fur. I hed a new foe ter fight this time, one ez ole Pettibrash couldn't fetch with a forty-foot pole. Hit war jist my own brother. The Republicans put him out to head me off, thinkin' ez I wuldn't make the race ag'inst my own brother. I war with Jube when the news o' the nomernation kem. An' Jube he swore an' cussed like all possessed. He give the word ez I hed to make the race fur Gov'ner o' Tennessee ef the whole fam'ly kem out ez candidates.

“I went home. I war not able ter face the ole man an' the Republican elemint i' the fam'ly; so I went out an' sot on a log under the apple tree an' watched the sun a-settin' behin' Lynn Mount'n. So, it seemed ter me, my sun war goin' down behin' the mount'n o' helplessness—my sun o' success.

“After a while my ole mother foun' me out an' kem down, an' I told her ez how I war hendered by my brother bein' a candidate. An' she heeard me out an' then—sez she—an' her words were slow an' keerful:—

“ ‘Ye hev the right; Alfred knowed ez ye aimed ter mek the race, an' he hev unly done this ter hurt the Dimercrats. Ye hev the right ter go on fur yer party, the same ez Alfred hev fur his. Ye hev that right.’

“Then I riz up an' went in. An' I tuk down the old fiddle, an' teched it gentle-like, an' all the ole times kem crowdin' back. I see the Hall o' Representatives. An' I heeard the clerk's voice callin' uv the roll. An' the shouts o' the boys a-contendin'. Then it changed an' ‘Hail ter the Chief,’ said the fiddle in my ear, unly it war a brass band. Then the tune turned agin, an' I heeard the cowbells an' the tin horns an' the hissin' uv the people. Then it began to fade, an' then it wur a white-tail rabbit skippin' an' skeedadlin' through a turnip patch while all the world seemed ter beat time to the tune of the fiddle, singin' me to glory, an' I riz up an' shuk the fiddle in the face o' the whole house, an' sez I:—

“ ‘Yeas, I'll go. I will go. All hell can't hender me.’

“An' I went. Me an' the fiddle, fur it tuk tall playin' ter git above Alf, ez war up ter all my tricks.

“Nip an' tuck we run together on the first quarter, together on the second; Alf a nose behin' on the third, an' me a neck ahead on the home-stretch, me an' the fiddle. ‘Fiddled himself inter the Gov'ner's cheer,’ they said; an' ther' war some toler'ble tall fiddlin' done after we got ther'.

“I ain't laid her by yit, my ole pardner. Ther's a vacancy ter the United States Senate jest ahead, an'—”

There was a shout down the river: the fisherman had returned. The governor rose and shook himself.

“Ah, gentlemen,” he said, “we shall have fish for our supper after all.”

Richard was himself again.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.—Since this story appeared, first in the “Arena” magazine, then in a former edition of “The Heart of Old Hickory,” it has called forth much pleasant speculation regarding the honorable gentleman suspected of being the hero of the sketch. The author desires to state that the story was not designed as history. Further, had she dreamed for one moment that it would have met with the generous reception that has been accorded it, she would have been careful to make this statement at the first. It is chiefly a fancy sketch with some of the characteristics of a great and good man to rest upon, as a sort of framework or foundation,—no more, nor less. W. A. D.

 A WONDERFUL EXPERIENCE MEETING.

BEING Christmas time the brethren thought it not amiss that something extra, in the way of entertainment, be done at Nebo. Many and warm were the discussions before they had fairly voted down the cake-walking which the “young folks nomernated fur,” the “festerble imposed ” by the more worldly among the older members, and the Christmas tree espoused by those who were in the habit of carrying down presents for themselves to be “called out,” while hungry-eyed little “niggers” by the score watched greedily and waited longingly, to be rewarded by a string of burnt popcorn perhaps at the last.

These being severally voted upon and put down by the more religious element, who had taken the matter in hand, an experience meeting was finally substituted in lieu of the worldly amusements, as being more in keeping with the sacred occasion. Once decided upon, all went to work alike to push it to success. Even yellow “Kelline,” the belle, who always carried off the prize at the cakewalkings, rallied to the help of the “ 'spe'ience meet'n' ” determined to prove to the brethren that she could talk as well as walk.

It was a great meeting, a never-to-be-forgotten meeting, held Christmas morning, before sun-up; for there were the Christmas breakfasts “to be got fur de whi' folks” at the homes where many of the early worshippers were employed. They turned out in full force: Old Aunt Sally, who always nodded during the collection (wide-awake now); “Little Jinny,” the fashionable member who rivalled “Kelline” in popularity; Cross-eyed Pete, the most notorious thief in the town, the most vociferous shouter in the church, and who spent at least one fourth of his time in the county jail; Old Jordan, who declared he had served his time “at bein' a nigger,” and who wanted “ter git home ter heab'n whar dey's all whi' folks dest alike;” and there was Shaky Jake, whose idea of heaven was one of golden streets and pearly gates, and who had never been able to reconcile it to his conscience that so much “gold en stuff should jes' be layin' roun' loose en doin' nuffin'.” There was “Slicky Dave” the barber, who looked upon the future bliss as a thing of shimmer and shine and golden crowns. And there was Uncle Mose, who had “raised the tunes ” for Nebo “sence tudder Moses lef' dar,” he was wont to declare; and who expected to be offered a seat in the choir when he reached “de prommus lan'” and received his harp and crown. And there was “Slow Molly,” whose idea of heaven consisted of dozing under a plum tree and waving a palm branch. And all, from baby Jube to toothless Jake, were to be shod in golden slippers. Heaven without those golden slippers—oh! no; there is no such heaven possible to the negro conception.

The morning of the big meet'n' dawned cool and crisp, with a sprinkle of white snow, as Christmas morning should dawn, always. “Brudder Bolles” went to work in a manner that showed “he had Chris'mus in his bones;” brisk, earnest, hopeful. After a short, fiery prayer he arose, and called upon the members to speak, “to testify accord'n' ez dey wuz moved by de Sperit ter so do.”

Shaky Jake was the first to respond. “Brudder Bolles,” said he, leaning forward, a hand thrust into each trousers pocket, his ragged old coat a speech without words to proclaim the fact that Christmas wasn't all warmth and prosperity despite its cheer. But old Jake was there to testify, not to complain. “Brudder Bolles, I hate allus heeard say dat Chris'mus am de time fur 'spe'ience—de bes' time ob all de times. Hit am de time when de trees bleeds, en de cows git down on dey knees, en de sperets walks de yearth, en de chickins en de birds don' go ter roost et all, but jes' keeps watch all de night froo. So I hab heeard; en, Brudder Bolles, hit sholy am, de time. Fur las' night whilst I wuz layin' awake, thinkin' 'bout Chris'mus, en de tukkeys, en de shoat, en de poun' cake what I ud lack ter lay in fur de ole 'omen en de chillen—fur de comfut ob my fam'ly en de glory ob de Lawd— whilst I lay dar dement'n' ob de hard times, en de col', en all, I went off into a tranch.

“En in de tranch I wuz transfloated up inter de heab'ns—jes' lack I wuz, in my ole close, hongry en po' en bent wid de mis'ry en all. En when I got dar, in my ole rags, I jes' stood et de do', 'shame' ter go in whar dey uz all dressed up in dey Sunday close en all. Look lack dey uz habbin' ob a picnic, or else dey uz all gwine on a 'scussion somewhars, dey uz all so fine, en hed so many nice fixin's. I stood afar on de outside, lookin' on. I stood, en stood swell I couldn't stan' no mo', 'count ob de col', 'ca'se hit uz Chris'mus, en winter, en all cat. I wuz jes' about ter tu'n 'way en g'long back home whar I come fum, 'ca'se I knowed I ud nuver be able ter keep up wid de style lack dey uz all containin' ob up dar, when de front do' opened en Marse Jesus Hisse'f walked out on de front peazzy. En He see me standin' afar in de col' en all, en sez He:—

“ ‘What's de matter, Unc' Jake? What am de incasion ob yo' bad feelin's?’

“Sez I, ‘Marster, de ole nigger's mighty po' en all; en he ain't got no close fitten ter soshate wid all dem in dar!’

“He jes' step back ter de do' en retch his han' fur de bell-han'le en when de do' wuz opened, sez he ter de gyardeen ob it, sez He, ‘Peter, jes' let Unc' Jake step inside dar a minit.’ En I stepped in long o' Him, drappin' my ole hat on de do' step, en shadin' ob my eyes fum de glory—en a-wait'n', des' a-wait'n'.

“Well, brudderin, He jes' glanced down et dem golden streets en den up et my ole rags, en sez He, ‘Unc' Jake, jes' rip up one ob de bricks out'n dat pavemint en go buy yo'se'f some close; den come up dem golden sta'rs yon'er ter de ballroom. Buy yo'se'f de wedd'n' gyarmint, fur de bridegroom sholy gwine 'specs yer ter dance et de infair ternight. En,' sez He, ‘don't hab no termod'ty 'bout spendin' ob de brick, hit's yo'en, en dey's plenty mo' here, des' a-doin' nuffin'. Spen' it all; en' what's lef' go buy yo'se'f some oyschers wid hit.’

“An, den I woked up out'n de trench. En hit uz col', en de chiller uz hongry, en de breakfus' some skimp. But I'se here ter testerfy et dat ain't henderin' o' me none. Hit's warm in heab'n whar dey's all habbin' ob dey Chris'mus ter-day; Chris'mus, en oyschers, en tukkey, en all. I'll git afar bimeby, en de pavemints ull keep, 'ca'se dey's gol', en dey ain't no thief, en no mof, en no rus' fur ter cranker ob 'em. So sez I, bress de Lawd! I kin wait fur de Chris'mus ober yon'er.”

Excitable “Little Jinny” sprang to her feet before old Jake had fairly taken his seat. “Brudder Bolles,” she sang out in her clear, flat treble, “I rises ter gib my intestermint ter dis meet'n'. I wuz a sinner—a po', los' sinner, keerin' fur nuffin' but fine close en sech, twell I went off inter de tranch, lack de brudder what jes' spoke. En while I wuz in de tranch Marse Jesus He cum a-ridin' by in His cha'iot o' fire, wid His swode buckl't on, en His crown on His haid. En I crope out'n de paf, 'ca'se I's feard He ud jes' ride me down inter de dus', I uz sech a sinner. But He see me; He see me, en He call out ter me, ‘Aw, Jinny,’ sez He, ‘Jinny!’ En sez I, ‘Yes, my Lawd.’ Sez He, ‘Does yer know whar yer stan's?’ Sez I, ‘Yes, my Lawd; I's hangin' ober hell by de ha'r ob my haid; ober de burnin' pit.’ En sez He, ‘Go, en sin no mo', go back ter Nebo, en tell all de brudderin I's redeemed yer.’ S' I, ‘Yes, my Lawd! bress de Lawd, oh my soul!’ ”

Yellow Kelline was not to be outdone by the startling experience of “Little Jinny.”; She rose at once, a slight, nervous mulatto girl, with her handkerchief to her eyes, the graceful body in a nimble swing that kept time to the tune she unconsciously set to her words.

“Brudderin, I wuz layin' on my baid in de cool ob de mawnin', when I see Marse Jesus come ridin' by on a milk-white horse. S' e, ‘How you do, Sist' Kelline?’ S' I, ‘I's toler'ble, thank de Lawd. How is you, Master?’ S' e, ‘I's toler'ble; is de folks all well?’ S' I, ‘Dey's toler'ble. You's all well, Marster?’ S' e, ‘We's toler'ble.’ Den He lean down fum de saddle, en s' e:—

“ ‘Whar you been, sist' Kelline, Dat you been gone so long?’

“S' I:—

“ ‘Been a-rollin' en a prayin' et Jesus' feet, En my soul's gwine home ter glory.’ ”

“S' e:—

“ ’Keep a-rollin' en a-prayin' et Jesus' feet, Rollin' en prayin' et Jesus' feet, Rollin' en prayin' et Jesus' feet, My soul's gwine home ter glory. ‘ ”

Slowly, from his seat in the Amen Corner, rose Cross-eyed Pete. The sceptic might intimate that it was the song of Kelline that suggested the thread of old Pete's experience. Be that as it may, he was none the less earnest in adding his testimony. Said he, his black face aglow:—

“Brudderin, I dreampt I wuz daid, an' et I went ter de do' o' heab'n. I went straight up ter de front do', 'ca'se de righteous am bol' ez a lion, en I wa'n't 'feard o' nuffin'. En dey ain't no sher'ff up afar ter haul a nigger off ter jail fur nuffin', neider. En when I got ter de do' I knocked; en Marse Jesus He come ter de do' His own se'f, en sez He, ‘How you do, Unc' Peter?’ En I tol' Him I uz des' toler'ble, en He sont me roun' ter de kitchin fur ter git wa'm. En afar wuz ole Mis' Jesus dar, 'en she gimme a cup o' wa'm coffee, en made me set down ter de side table en sot out a pone o' co'n bread, en de hock bone o' de ham what dey all hate fur de Chris'mus dinner, en de backbone o' de Chris'mus tukkey, 'stid o' sabin' ob it fur hash fur breakfus'. Den she ax me all 'bout my troubles en all, en den sez she:—

“ ‘Whar's you been, Unc' Peter, Dat you been gone so long?’

“S' I:—

“ ‘Been a-layin' in de jail, Wait'n' fur my bail, En my soul's gwine home ter glory.’ ”

Old Jordan, fervent if rheumaticky, arose: “Brudderin en sisters! I fotches good tidin's, 'good tidin's ob gre't joy which shall be ter all people.' De book sez ‘de ole men shall see vishuns.’ I hab seed one. In a deep sleep, lack de same ez fell on Brudder Noey, I wuz cyar'd in a tranch up ter heab'n. When I sot my foot in de New Jerusalam my ole shoes tu'n ter gol'n slippers, en my ole close ter a white robe. My ole ha'r wuz a crown ob gol'. En de anjuls dey met me et de gate; en dey formed deyse'ves inter two lines, wid a paf down de middle fum-me ter trabul. En dey all lif' up de harps dey uz houldin' wid one hen', en de pa'm branch dey uz hould'n' wid tudder. En dey waved de pa'ms en strike de harps wid bof hen's; en dey shout, ‘How you do, Brudder Jordan?’ Not Unc' Jordan—naw, sah; dey ain't no Unclin' up dar. En dey say, ‘Welcome home, Brudder Jordan; come en git yer harp.’

“But I sez ter de anjuls, ‘Stan' out de way dar, chillun; lemme git ter de King.’ En I elbowed myse'f up ter whar He uz sett'n' on de throne jest lookin' on et de glory. En He see me, en He riz up an heft out His han', en sez He, ‘How you do, Brudder Jordan?’ same ez de anjuls. En when He done sey dat He moved ter one side ter make room fur me, en sez He, ‘Hab a seat on de throne, Brudder Jordan, en res' yose'f whil'st yo' room's afixin' fur yer.’ I wuz sorter s'prised some et dat sho, en sez I, ‘I's jest a nigger, sah, down yander whar I come fum.’ ‘Heish chile!’ sez He, ‘dey ain't no such word ez dat up here.’ Den sez I, Marster, ef it am true lack yer sey, dat de niggers em all tu'n white up here, den what's de meanin' ob all dem colored gen'lemen stan'in' roun' here?’ Sez He, ‘Dey's de whi' folks what useter wuz.’ Den I wuz sholy astonished, en sez I, ‘Brudder, I ain't nebber heeard 'bout dat; I 'lowed we wuz all des plain white erlack.’ Sez he, ‘Umk-hmk! don' yer b'lieve it, honey; dey swops—dey des' swops places. See dat lean-looking nigger ober yonder by de fi'place putt'n' on a stick o' wood? Well, dat's yo ole marster what useter wuz. He's gwine put on 'is ap'n an wait on you-alls, soon's de bell rings fur dinner.’ Den sez I, ‘Lawd, now let dy serbent depart in peace, fur my eyes hab seen de glory.’ ”

Mose, the leader in song, was the next to take the witness stand. Mose made some pretensions to learning; he had a son who could read, and a grandson who was a “school-scholar” in the public schools. Mose had acquired oratory, if not English.

“Bredderin,” he began, “I wuz imported, in a tranch, ter de heabenly Jerusalam. My gre't desire insistin' ob a wush ter view de glories ob de city, whenst de informalerties wuz ober I set myse'f ter de juty ob so doin'. It was suttinly a most insignifercant city ter look upon. But dat which repealed ter me de moest wuz de onpartialness ob it all. Dey wa'n't no upsta'rs en parlors fur de whi' man, wid basemints en kitchins fur de colored gent'min in dat insignificant house ob many manshens. All uz des' de same; one didn't make no mo' intentions den de tudder. De basemints uz all parlors, en de parlors uz all basemints; en afar resisted a strong fambly likeness betwixt all o' de inhabiters ob de place—a mos' strikin' insemblance.

“De wood pile hit lay et de front do', free ter der nigger en de white dest erlack. En de nigger wuz called ter de fus' table, same's as de res'. En de hin 'ouse wuz ez much for de nigger ez de white man. No mo' crop'n' roun' ter de back alley fur ter slip a chickin off'n de roos', 'ca'se de white man got too many fur his Chris'mus dinner, en de nigger got none. Umk-hmk! All dem hins, en pullets, en roosters, en fryin'-sizers. All you got ter do, jes' lif' yer hen' en yope 'em off'n de roos' same's ef yur put em dar. Umk-hmk! En de horgs en de young shoats des de same. Umk-hmk! Stan' out the way dar, chillun! Dis worl's mighty weery. But dar's Chris'mus ober yonder; chickin fixin's fur de nigger. No mo' hin roos'es all dest for the white man. Dat's all I want know 'bout heab'n'. Umk-hmk! my soul's happy, en I want to go home.”

And while the Christmas bells rang out their “good tidings,” who shall say that the dusky worshippers, interpreting according to their light, had not experienced a foretaste of the “great joy” promised to all men?

 WHO BROKE UP DE MEET'N'?

AUNT SYLVIA told the story, as she sat on the doorstep one soft afternoon in June. She had come to return the “cup o' corn meal” she had borrowed a few days before; and while resting a moment, she related the story of the “scan'l” that had “broke up de meet'n', de big meet'n' ober at the Pisgy meet'n' house, an' tuk Brudder Simmons inter the cote, an' plumb made dey all furgit all about the feet-washin' what dey allus winds up de big meet'n' wid, ever' onct a year.”

“A ‘feet-washing’? What is a feet-washing, Aunt Sylvia?” I asked.

“De Lor', honey, don't you know? But den I furgit you's a Meferdis', en de feet washin's am Babtis'. De Meferdis', dey hab de fallin' fum graces instid. Well, honey, it's dis er way. De sacerment, hit's fur the cleanin' ob de soul; de feet-washin', hit's for de cleanin' ob de body.”

“Ah! I see. And did the ‘feet-washing’ break up the meeting?” I asked, somewhat startled at this unusual interpretation of the Scriptures. She laughed; her fat, black face dropped forward, her eyes closed, her body swinging in that odd way which belongs solely to her race.

“De feet-washin' break up de meet'n'? Naw, honey, dat it didn't, dat it didn't.”

“Then what did?”

“Dat's it!” she exclaimed, “dat's dest it. Dat's dest what we-all wants to know. Dat's what de cote wanted ter know; who broke up de meet'n'? Some sey hit uz Brer Ben Lytle; en some sey hit uz Brer Ike Martin; en some sey hit uz de widder Em'line Spurlock; en some sey hit uz jes' Ike's fise dorg; en den ag'in some sey hit uz de singin'; some sey de preacher hisse'f done hit; en some sey dis, en some sey dat, till dey fetches it ter de cote. En de cote figgered en figgered on it, en den it sey cord'n ter de tees' hit kin extrac' fum de eminence befo' it, wuz, dat de one ez broke up de meet'n', en oughter be persecuted en incited by de gran' jury fur de disturbmint ob de public worshup, am ole Mis' Goodpaschur's big domernicker rooster, what nobody ain't never s'picioned, case'n o' hit livin' 'way 'cross de creek, on de side todes de railroad, wid ole Mis' Goodpaschur. En de cote, hit noller prostituted de case agin de preacher, what de sisters inferred aginst him in dey charges; en dey tuk en laid hit on de domernicker instid.

“Hit uz dis erway: You see, Ike Martin, he wuz 'gaged ter chop wood fur Mis' Goodpaschur, 'count o' lett'n' uv him haul off'n her lan'. Ike, he gits a load fur ever' load he cuts. En hit 'pears in de eminence how Ike went by ter cut some wood mighty early in de mawnin', de day ob de feet-washin', 'count o' goin' ter meet'n'. En he fotched little Eli, his boy, 'long wid 'im ter pick up de chips, case'n Mis' Goodpaschur allus gibs de chile a bite o' warm bre'kfus' when he pick up de chips fur her, seein' ez Ike sent got no wife ter cook fur him. En Eli he fotched his fise dog—thinkin' 'bout de bre'kfus', I reckin. En Mis' Goodpaschur, she axed Eli ter keep off de calf off. En while Eli, he uz wraslin' wid de calf, en nobody ain' never thought ob de domernicker up in de yeller peach tree, all 't onct afar wuz a mighty fluster up ober dey haids, en de big domernick come teetlin' en clawin' down on ter de roof ob de cow-shed wid a pow'ful healfy ‘How-dy-do-oo-hoo!’

“Ole Mis' Goodpaschur, she uz dat upsot she tumbled off'n de milkin' stool, forrards agin' de cow; en de cow, she kicked little Eli in de haid, en Eli, he hollered till his daddy come ter see de incasion ob de fuss. En he tell Eli ter shet up; but he say he ain' gwine shet up tell he kill dat cow; he say he ‘boun' ter bus' it wide op'n.’

“En den Mis' Goodpaschur she say she sholy have him tuk up en jailed ef he tetch dat ar cow. En so Ike he tuk en tuk Eli off ter de feet-washin' fur ter keep 'im out o' mischeef.

“En de fise dog, hit went 'long too wid Eli, 'cause dat dog sho' gwine whar Eli go. En dat's jes' how it all come 'bout; ef dey all hadn't come ter meet'n', ober ter Pisgy, dey ain' been no fuss, en no scan'l, en mo talk.

“De domernick skeered ole Mis', ole Mis' skeered de cow, de cow kicked Eli, Eli hollered fur his daddy, his daddy tuk him ter de meet'n'! en dar wuz de fuss all wait'n' en raidy.

“ 'Twuz de big meet'n', hit ez don't come 'cep' onct a year. Brudder Simmons wuz holdin' fo'th, en jes' a-spasticerlatin' ter de sinners en denunciat'n' ob de Scriptures. En he wuz jes' p'intedly gibbin' de gospil, bilin' hot, ter de gals en boys, de ongodly young folks ez wuz at de dancin' party down ter Owlsley's Holler de night befo'.

“Dey uz all dar, gigglin' en actin' mighty bad. En de preacher, he telled how he rid froo de Holler goin' ter Brudder Job Sawyer's house fur ter put up, en he heeard de tompin' en de singin', en he telled 'em how bad it all sound. He sey, dey uz singin' somef'n' bout “Granny, ull yo dog bite?” En he mek de p'int ter tell 'em uv dat ez'll bite more badder en any dog—it air de wraf! de wraf ter come! de fire dat'll burn, en burn, en neber stop burnin'.

“En the Chrischuns, dey wuz seyin' ‘Amen!’ en dest waitin' wid dey mouf wide op'n fur de trumpit ter blow fur ter start 'em all home todes de glory. En afar wuz de sinner convicted, moanin', wait'n fur de call ter resh ter de moaners' bench. En dar wuz de dancin' crown, col', col', col' ez ice, and not thinkin' ob de jedgmint day. Yes, dey wuz all dar—de worl', de flesh, en de debbul, I reckin.

“En dar wuz de moaners' bench—fur de feet-washin', hit come las'—en de moaners' bench wuz dar, stretched plumb 'crost de house, wid some clean straw throwed roun' bout'n it fur de consolerdation ob dem ez wuz come ter wras'le like Marse Jacob.

“En Ike, he uz dar, en Eli uz dar, en—de fise dog uz dar. Yes, de fise uz behavin' mighty well; a pow'ful frien'ly, onhankerous lookin' little critter, curled up on de fur eend ob de moaners' bench jes' in front ob Eli, en not seyin' a blessed word ter 'sturb nobody. En de widder Spurlock, she uz dar, in her new moanin' dress en a raid ribben in her bonnit. She done been sett'n' up ter Ike eber sence his 'oman died; en Eli, he jes' p'intedly despises de groun' she tromps on.

“Waal, den, when Brudder Simmons, he begin ter exterminate de Chrischuns ter go out inter de byways en de hedgerows, en ter furrit out de sinners en impel 'em ter come inter de gospul feast, ever'body knowed he uz talkin' 'bout de boys en gals what danced ‘Granny, ull yo dog bite’ all de night befo'. Ever'body knowed dat, inspectin' ob de widder Spurlock; she plumb mistuk de meanin' ob de call. Fur 'bout dat time, some ob de wraslin' ones down 't de fur eend ob de moaners' bench fum der fise, foun' grace, en begin ter claw de a'r, en ter roll in de straw like.

“De fise he looked up, much ez ter sey, ‘What dat mean?’

“En den Mis' Spurlock, she jumped up, flung off her bonnit, en wen' tarin' cross de house ter whar Ike wuz sett'n' by Eli on de bench.

“Down she flopped, en flung hersef onter Ike's shoulder en begin ter holler, ‘Glory! glory! Bress de Lord! I loves ever'body, ever'body, ever'—body!’ en jes' poundin' Ike on de back lack same's he uz a peller, else a bolster she uz beat'n' up.

“De fise dog riz ter a sett'n' poacher, sett'n' on de hin' laigs, his tail sorter oneasy like, en his mouf workin'.

“Den I see Eli lean ober en put his mouf ter de fise's year, 'en sey, sorter easy like' sez he, ‘S-i-c-k 'im!’ Land o' Moses ! ef dat dog didn't fa'rly fly. He danced, en he yelped, en he barked, en he barked. He lit inter dat widder-'oman like a mad hornet. I tell yer, he made de fur fly. En den dat Eli, he jes' titled ob his haid back en laffed out loud.

“De gals fum Owlsley's Holler giggled, en de moaners peeped fum behin' dey's han'kercheefs ter see what uz de matter; en eben one ob de preachers hisse'f smiled, while Brer Ben Lytle, ez wuz kerzort'n' ob de moaners, he jes' drapped down in de straw en roared till he had ter hol' his sides, fur ter keep fum bust'n' wide op'n. Yer could a heeard him haff'n a mile, I reckin.

“Dar wuz one didn't laff; dat uz Brer Simmons. He jumped up quick ez he could, en sez he:—

“ ‘Sing somethin';’ thinkin' ter drown out the fuss. ‘Sing, bredderin! Sing dat good ole song, “Granny, will yo' dog bite.” ’

“En afore he could see what he had sea, dem Owlsley Holler gals set up ter singin', loud null ter raise de daid, while de boys, dey begin ter pat:—

Chippie on de railroad, Chippie on de flo', Granny, will yo, dog bite? No, chile, no!

“Brudder Simmons' eyes look lack dey boun' ter pop out'n his haid; he lif' up his hen' up, so, en motion 'em ter stop. But dat only mek dey-all ter sing de more louder, en ter pat the more harder:—

'Possum up a 'simmon tree, Oh, my Joe! Granny, will yo, dog bite? No, chile, no!

“Den de Chrischuns, dey got mad. Dey 'low Brudder Simmons been et de dance his own se'f, else dat song wouldn't slip off'n his mouf so 'fly. Dey woz plumb scan'lized. Dey wuz, shore. En someun sey, out loud:-

“ ‘Put 'im out ! Put 'im out!’ En de word uz tuk up by de whole band a' Chrischuns, exclud'n' de very moaners deyse'ves. En afore he knowed it dey jes' lit inter 'im, drug him out'n de pulpit, en pitched him out'n de meet'n house door, en shet it to, in his face, namin' ob him all de time fur a Jonah. En den dey fotched it up in de cote, persecuted ob de preacher fur disturbin' ob public worship. Dey sho' did.

“En when dey fotched it up, de preacher sey he ain' done hit. Den de cote p'intedly ax, ‘Who bruk up de meet'n' ?’ En some sey dis un, en some sey cat, en dey all sey dey reckin de preacher wuz de mos' ter blame—de witnesses all sey dat.

“But Brudder Simmons, he sey he didn' mean ter gib out dat song. He uz dest a-thinkin' about dat wicked dance dey-all teen habin' in de Holler, en he uz frustrated by de fise dog barkin', en when he went ter sey ‘Sing dat good ole song, “Gre't God, dat awful day ob wraf,”’ he forgot, en sed, “Granny, will yo' dog bite,” bein' frustrated 'bout de fise en de dance.

“So den de cote axed him, ‘Who bruk up de meet'n'?’ En he sey ef he bleeged ter lay de blame he ud lay it ter de dog. He sey de fise dog bruk up de meet'n'. Den I gibs my intestiment, en I sey it wuzn't de dog, it uz Eli fur sickin' on de dog, 'case I heeard 'im. En Eli he sey it uz de widder Em'line Spurlock fur huggin' ob his pappy. En de widder sey it uz Ike fur fetchin' Eli ter meet'n'. En Ike sey it uz ole Mis' Goodpaschur fur tryin' ter jail Eli, else he wouldn't a-fotched de chile ter meet'n'.

“Mis' Goodpaschur sey it uz Eli, fur sayin' he 'u'd kill de cow.

“En Eli, he sey de cow uz ter blame fur kickin' uv 'im, en ole Mis' Goodpaschur fur kickin' ob de cow.

“En den ole Mis' Goodpaschur, she sey 'twuz de domernicker crowed on de roof ez skeered her off'n de stool en made her bump ag'inst de cow.

“Now, den! de cote hit sey de eminence am all in, en it begin ter argerfy de case. En it argerfied might'ly; do de lawyers kep' a-laffin' en laffin', tell de judge shuck a stick at 'em; en he hit on de pulpit ob de cote-room wid it, en looked mighty ser'us, when his mushtash didn't shake, lack it sorter done.

“En one ob de lawyers riz up en made out de case:—

“ ‘De rooster crowed! ole mis' jumped ag'in' de cow; de cow kicked Eli; Eli want ter kill de cow; ole mis' want ter jail Eli; Ike fotched him ter meet'n', wid de dog; de widder hugged Ike; de dog bit de widder; de gals laffed; de preacher gin out de wrong chune; de sisters fit de preacher, en de meet'n' bruk up. En now,' sez he, ‘ who bruk up de meet'n'?’

“Den de judge riz up, en sez he, ‘Ef de preacher hadn't gib out de wrong chune de gals wouldn't a-sung it.

“ ‘De preacher wouldn't done it ef de dog hadn't barked.

“ ‘De dog wouldn't barked ef Eli hadn't sicked 'im on.

“ ‘Eli wouldn't set 'im on ef de widder hadn't hugged his daddy.

“ ‘De widder wouldn't done dat ef he ud stayed et home wid Eli.

“ ‘Ef he'd stayed home wid Eli, ole Mis' Goodpaschur ud put Eli in jail.

“ ‘Ole Mis' Goodpaschur wouldn't do dat ef he hadn't sey he ud kill de cow.

“ ‘He wouldn't sey dat ef de cow hadn't kicked 'im.

“ ‘De cow wouldn't kicked 'im ef ole mis hadn't kicked de cow.

“ ‘Ole mis' wouldn't done dat ef de domernick hadn't crowed on de roof.’

“Den de judge sey, ‘Wid all de eminence afore me, de exclusion reached am dat de domernicker am de culvert, en de case against de defender am noller prostituted.’

“En I sey ef de domernick am de culvert, lack he sey, den who broke up de meet'n'?”

 RAGS

HIS first recollection of anything was of the Bottom, the uninclosed acres just without the city limits, the Vagabondia of the capital, and the resort of numberless stray cattle, en route to Bonedom. It was the cattle first called into active play those peculiar characteristics which marked the early career of my hero, and gave evidence of other characteristics, equally unusual, lying dormant perhaps in the young heart of him, but lacking the circumstance or surrounding of fate necessary to their awakening.

In one room of a tumble-down old row of buildings that had once gloried in the name of “Mills,” our Rags was born, among the rats and spiders and vermin, to say nothing of the human vermin breeding loathsome life among its loathsome surroundings. And indeed, what else was to be expected, since life takes its color from the color that it rests upon? Just as the spring in the Bottom, where man and beast quench alike their thirst, becomes a fever-breeding pool when the accumulated filth about it gets too much for even the blessed water. It was here that Rags was born. He owed his name to his clothes, and to the kindred souls of the Bottom who had detected a fitness in the nickname, which, by the bye, soon became the only name he possessed. If he had ever had another nobody took the trouble to remember it, while as for him, he found the name good enough for all his purposes.

From the time he could use his legs well he was out among the cattle; fetching water in an old oyster cup that he had raked out from an ash heap, for such of the strays as were dying of thirst; or chasing the express trains across the Bottom, saluting with his one little rag of a petticoat the engineer on the tall trestle where the trains were constantly crossing and recrossing the Bottom; but giving his best attention always to the crippled cows and the old horses abandoned to the pitiless death of the Bottom. Any one who had chosen to study his character might have detected the humane instinct at a very early age. The instinct of justice, too, was rather strongly developed, also at an early age.

Did I say he was a negro? A mulatto with a clear olive; complexion, kinky hair, and eyes that were small and black, and showed humor and pathos and fire all in one sharp flash. He was reared in a queer school, and the lessons he learned had strange morals to them. It is no wonder they worked unusual results.

The first patient that came under Rags' ministration was an old cow which had been abandoned to the mercy of the Bottom, and which, in an attempt to return to its unworthy owner perhaps, had been caught by a passing engine and tossed from the trestle, thereby getting its back broken. Rags faithfully plied the tin cup all the afternoon, only to see at evening the poor old beast breathe its last, leaving its bones to bleach upon the common graveyard of its kind, the Bottom.

The next morning Rags' old grandmother found the boy engaged in rather a promising attempt to fire the bridge, to wreck the car, that killed the cow, that roamed the wild, that Rags ruled.

When she had pulled him away from the trestle, and had dragged him home and thrashed him soundly, what she said was, “You fool you, don't you know they'll jail you fur life if they ketch you tryin' to burn that bridge?“

If they caught him. Rags had learned shrewdness if not virtue; henceforth he resolved not to abandon rascality, but to make sure that he was not overtaken in it.

His life from the time he could remember was a series of beatings and a season of neglect. Of his mother he retained no recollection whatever; he had at a very early stage of the life-game fallen to the mercy of his grandmother and her rod. When he was not being beaten he was roaming the Bottom, along with the other stray cattle—they of the soulless kind.

Once he remembered a party of very fine folk that had come out in carriages to look after the old horses that had been cast out by the owners they had served while service was in them. A great to-do had been made over the condition of the dumb things found there, and more than one heartless owner had been forced to carry home and care for the beast that had served him. But the little human stray that fate had abandoned to destruction—there was no humane society whose business it was to look after him. But then the cities are so full, so crowded with these little vagabond-strays; what is to be done about it?

So Rags drifted along with the fresh cattle that wandered into his domain, until one morning in January, when he awoke from sleep without being beaten and dragged from his bed for a worthless do-nothing. He sat up among the bedclothes that made his pallet and wondered what had happened. It was broad daylight; the sun streamed in at the curtainless window; while over in the city the shrill, sharp sound of whistles proclaimed the noon. In all his life he had never had such a sleep. The wonder of it quite stupefied him. He soon remembered, however, that a reckoning would be required; the wonder was that the reckoning had not already been called for. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking about him. Over in the corner stood his grandmother's bed; the covers were drawn up close about a figure, long, rigid, distinctly outlined under the faded covers. Sleep never yet gave a body that stiff, unreal pose—only the one sleep. The old grandmother had fallen upon that sleep.

After her death Rags found a shelter with a very old regress whom he called “Aunt Jane,” a cripple, who lived over in the city, in a little den of a room off one of the chief thoroughfares, where progress was too busy to ferret out such small concerns. From the very first Rags was fond of the woman, possibly because she did not beat him.

And now it was that he began really to live. In an incredibly short time he became an expert sneak thief. The evil in him developed with indulgence. And so too—alas, the wonder of it!—did the humane. He was a strange contradiction; in color he would have been called “a rare combination.” He would risk his life to rescue a child from peril, and he would risk his liberty for the penny in the child's pink fingers. He was not cruel; he had no fight against the rich. He only wanted to keep Aunt Jane and himself in food, and rags sufficient to cover their nakedness. He was not grasping; on the contrary, when he had more than was absolutely necessary for their immediate needs, he would give a bite to a less fortunate comrade of the gutters. He did not do this with any idea of show either, which cannot be said of all who give to beggars; he gave because of the humane that was a part of him; having given, he never gave the matter another thought.

He had a wonderful mind for deducing conclusions, as well as for refusing conclusions founded upon premises that were unsatisfactory to his ideas of justice.

One morning, when Rags' years had gone as far as twelve, a great circus came to the city in which fate had decreed him citizenship. Rags made one of the hundreds who followed the great procession of cages showing the painted faces of monkeys, apes, and ourang-outangs, moving majestically down the crowded street, halting now and then, as the law required, to give right of way to a passing street-car.

Following the procession, pressing close to the cages, watching the wonderful pictured monkeys, an eager, absorbed look upon his face, was a little boy. He could not have been more than six years of age, and had evidently escaped from his nurse and been crowded off the pavement into the almost equally crowded street. His rich, dainty clothing, his carefully curled, bright hair, no less than the delicate, patrician features proclaimed him a child of the upper classes. Nobody noticed him; nobody but Rags, inching along by the chimpanzees' cage. Rags' keen eye had caught the glint of silver in the little animal-lover's hand. It was the child's money to get into the circus, and which, as an inducement to manliness perhaps, he had been allowed to carry.

“Brr-rr-rr-rr!” sneered Rags. “No use o' that. Kin crope under the tent, easier'n eat'n. That's how I do.” And he inched nearer, his eyes never once removed from the small, half- clinched hand holding the bit of silver. The circus was for the moment forgotten; the painted monkeys grinned on, unobserved by Rags; the lion lashed its tawny sides in malicious anticipation of a broken bar or an inadvertent lifting of the cage door; the humped-backed camels in the rear of the procession plodded along under the persuasions of the boys in orange and purple and gay scarlet mounted upon their unwilling backs. Rags was unconscious of it all—and of the car coming down the street in a crackle and flash of electricity.

The first thing he did see clearly was a little golden head go down under the strong, lightning-fed wheels. He gave a wild, unearthly shriek and dashed to the rescue. A hundred throats took up the cry; a hundred feet hurried to help. But too late. A little motionless bundle of gay clothes and bright hair, with crimson spots upon the brightness, lay upon the track when the fiery wheels had passed. And near by lay Rags, his eyes seeing nothing, and the toes of one foot lying the other side the track.

It was months before he could hobble about again; but the very first trip he made was to limp down to the place where the accident had occurred, and, leaning against the iron fence of a yard that opened off the sidewalk, to go over the whole scene again. Had the boy escaped? he wondered; and what had become of the silver? He fancied it might be out there in the gray slush somewhere, together with his own poor toes. At the thought of them he grew faint and sick, leaning against the fence to prevent himself falling into the gutter.

While he stood thus a physician's buggy drew up to the sidewalk, and a man got out. He saw the very miserable-looking boy leaning upon a crutch and stopped.

“Are you sick?” he asked.

“No,” said Rags, “I ain't sick.” Then as the man was about to pass on he rallied his courage and said, “Where's the boy wuz hurt that day?”

“The boy?”

“The boy what the car runged over; where's he at?”

“Ah! The little boy that was run over the day of the circus you mean? He is dead. The car killed him. The company will have it to pay for.”

Dead! The little brown face twitched nervously; the sight of it set the physician's memory twitching also.

“Now I wonder,” said he, “if you are not the boy who got hurt trying to save the little fellow? That was a brave act, my boy.”

There was a mist in the vagabond's eyes.

“I couldn't, though,” said he. “Them wheels wuz too quick for me. They—kotched—uv—him.” He drew his old sleeve across his face; he had been sick and was still weak and nervous; it was a new thing with Rags to cry.

“Never you mind,” laying his hand upon the boy's head. “It was a brave, grand thing to do. It will stand for you with God some day; remember that, if you are ever in trouble. You did your best; you tried to save a fellow-being; you gave up one of your feet almost; crippled yourself for life in order to rescue another from death; and although you failed, you still did your best. That is all God cares to know; the deed stands with God for just what we mean it. He will count it for you some day, God will!”

The brown, tear-wet face looked into with a strangely puzzled expression.

“God?” said Rags, “who's God?”

“Boy, where were you brought up—not to know the good God, who watches over you, over everybody, and loves us all, and cares for us?” He paused, looked down into the knowing little old face, and wondered what manner of trick the beggar was trying to put upon him.

Suddenly the dark face lighted. Rags had turned questioner. “An' you say God sees ever'thin'? He seen the car what runged over the little kid? God wuz awatchin'? Could God 'a' stopped it?”

“Certainly.”

The dark face took on the first vindictive expression it had ever worn. Rags had been asked to believe too much; the mystery of God's measures was too vast for the street child's comprehension; his conclusion was deduced only from the most humane of premises.

“Damn God,” said he. “I wouldn't a let it runged over a cow, nor a dog, nor a rat; an' I ain't nothin', I ain't.”

“You're a wicked sinful boy, that's what you are, and you ought to be—”

“It's a lie,” said Rags stoutly. “I ain't done nothin' half as mean as God done. Psher! Damn God, I say.”

“Papers? Papers? Want a paper, mister?”

The newsboy's insistent cry had to be silenced; when that was done the good man who had stopped to speak the “word in season” looked to see Rags limping down the street upon the feet maimed in humanity's cause, and quite too far away to recall. He was half tempted to get into his buggy and go after him; there was that about the boy that was strangely and strongly appealing. But he considered: “The city is full of vagabonds like him; a man cannot shoulder them all; after all nobody knows that he is really the boy he professes to be; the papers said that boy was carried off by an old negress, a cripple, nobody could tell where.” Rags passed on and out of his sight forever.

The matter ended there, so far as the man knew. But Rags, hobbling down the street, gave expression to his thought with sudden vehemence.

“Somef'n's allus a-killin' o' somef'n',” said he. “Firs' it wuz a cow; then it wuz a boy; somef'n's wrong.”

He had no idea wherein the wrong lay; he had never heard of Eden and the great First Cause; but he had witnessed two tragedies.

He was able to throw away his crutch after awhile, but was painfully lame, and he was never quite able to shut out the vision of a little golden head under a whirl of rushing, fiery wheels. Another thing that he remembered was that God could have prevented the catastrophe.

With the winter Aunt Jane grew so feeble that Rags was forced to add begging to his list of accomplishments. Day in, day out, his stub toes travelled up and down the sleety pavements in search of food, and a few pennies whereby to keep a spark of fire on the hearth before which the old negress sat in her rope-bottomed chair trying to keep warmth in her pain-racked limbs.

It was Christmas day and t