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 DOWN 
 
 Among the Crackers. 
 
 By ROSA PENDLETON CHILES. 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 
 THE EDITOR PUBLISHING CO 
 
 1900 
 
 ■® 
 
COPYRIGHTED 
 
 1900. 
 
 THE EDITOR PUBLISHING CO. 
 
TO 
 
 MARION J. VERDERY 
 
 A GEOKGIA GENTLEMAN. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Though the village, Walesea, has real geographical 
 significance and the old college on the hill is the Rome 
 to which all roads of the section lead, it must not by 
 any means he thought that all, or indeed, any personages 
 in the book have real existence here. Some, ready to 
 draw analogies as well between the characters of a novel 
 and men and women who move in the daily course of 
 life as between Alpine and Rocky mountain scenery, 
 may, indeed, tell me they recognize in one or another a 
 neighbor, an old friend, a student of the college, or some 
 one of whom they have heard ; but I, my dear readers, 
 who have known these children of my brain longer than 
 you, fail to identify them with any of the folks of the 
 section. They may indeed possess characteristics 
 known to you in some residents of Cherokee, but I could 
 as well point you to owners of the same in a half 
 dozen other countries or states, for that matter. These 
 characters are in part, of a composite type, possessing 
 qualities not so much of individuals known to you and 
 me as of the class delineated, whether dwellers in the 
 Empire State of the South, or eleewhere ; yet in larger 
 part, they are citizens of the more mystic realm of the 
 imagination, adapted to the genuine life of the class de- 
 scribed, and that they have taken up their abode in this 
 old Indian village, under the shadow of Pine Log, 
 and under the powerful influences of modern intellectual- 
 ism, is a compliment to the place, for they had choice of 
 many another in which to live. 
 
 Some incidents of the book are true, but these were 
 gathered from a broad area, and by no means all had 
 their occurrence within a day's journey of Walesea. 
 And what if such things happen in the lives of 
 
 ^207624 
 
vi PREFACE 
 
 these, as you have known in the lives of real 
 men and women, dare you say them nay? They have 
 as good right to the happenings of their lives as those 
 you have known, and as for the likeness, why there are 
 fishing parties, dances, courtships, marriages, deaths, 
 murders in Europe as well as here; and if you tell me 
 you saw Mrs. Brown in a yellow gown at church on a 
 Sunday, I can tell you that I saw Mrs. Smith in a yellow 
 gown at church on the very same Sunday in another 
 part of the world. Should the similarity still impress 
 you, so much the better that the characters exist as 
 they do; it will give you abetter feeling,! hope, for these 
 new acquaintances ; but bear in mind, they are new 
 acquaintances; you never knew them before. 
 
 By the strange law of contrast, there will be others 
 no doubt, to tell me that they not only have never 
 known these characters before, but do not believe they 
 could exist; to them the genus "Cracker," has meant 
 no more nor less than an idle boaster, good indeed for 
 the amusement he can afford the rest of the world, but 
 so differentiated from it and so fixed in his differentia- 
 tion as to be past all metamorphosis, or even of vague 
 possibility of approach to the ladder of progress, from 
 the topmost rung of which you now observe him apart ; 
 but do you, my grand messieurs and mesdames^ get 
 closer to him, come down from your high post and 
 scan his character face to face, and do not let the rip- 
 ple of your laughter at his droll remarks drown the fine- 
 ness of the wit you may find in them ; watch him as he 
 plucks an arbutus blossom and places it in the button- 
 hole of his tattered coat; hear from the echo across the 
 way which repeats the sound of his rattling cart as it 
 jostles homeward, the words of an old love song, or of 
 * 'Nearer my God to Thee;" observe him, if you please, 
 as he stoops over the bier of a little child and leaves on 
 its placid face a trace of the moisture that glistens in his 
 eye when you meet afterward. There! You know him 
 better now, there is everything in the point of view. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
DoWQ Arr)Ong The Cracl^ers 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In northern Georgia, among the foothills of the 
 Blue Ridge, is a most interesting and beautiful summit, 
 unknown to history. From its crest on a summer's day 
 one sees various forms of beauty; lengthened shadows 
 spread their trail, softening a hundred tints, and re- 
 minding one of a life dwelling under the mellowing in- 
 fluences of the Almighty. One hears the chirp of 
 mating birds, and, above it, the roar of streams rushing 
 down either side, to make fertile twin valleys ; sees 
 many a lover's leap, where a precipice looks gaunt upon 
 a plain, many a hiding-place tor the fugitive, where 
 bushes lock arms and spread their skirts to protect him; 
 sees curves and crooks and angles and turns, a thousand 
 shades and ten thousand tints, sunshine and shadow, 
 each with a separate influence, but all with an influence 
 for good. The spirit is made tenderer, the heart more 
 loving, the life purer; it is a quiet, peaceful road. 
 
 Riding along one day in June, 1880, 'in restful 
 thought, inspired by such surroundings, I came to a 
 sharp turn in the road, where there came in view an ob- 
 ject so foreign to my thought and the sweeter influences 
 of the moment, that I half resented its appearance, and 
 drew rein with a haughty air. Have you never noticed 
 how resentful we become when anything interferes with 
 our tastes or inclinations? Here, amid beauties which 
 the unselfish God had given the world, and in which I 
 was reveling, with heart gushing with gratitude, in an 
 
 1 
 
2 DOWN AMONG THE CKACKERS 
 
 instant gratitude turned to resentment, merely because 
 of an unsightly object, to whom the mountain, with its 
 mellow influences, as truly belonged as to me, and who 
 possibly needed them more. Certainly he looked as if 
 he needed better influences. Sitting listlessly on a log, 
 with a bundle of pine splinters by his side, slouched hat 
 over his face, chin resting on his rough hand, he was a 
 picture of unkempt, uncared-for humanity. 
 
 "My friend, am I on the right road to Pine Log?'* 
 I asked. 
 
 *'I ain't yer friend; I never seed you 'fore now; 
 but the nearest pine log I knows ennything 'bout's down 
 yonder er piece; I don't think you'll git enny splinters 
 off'n it, though, 'caze I's the best splinter-gatherer in 
 these diggins, an' I's done 'ith that log. Is you in the 
 bizness?" 
 
 I assured him that I would not interfere with his 
 trade, and that the Pine Log I was looking for was 
 a small village at the foot of the mountain. 
 
 "Oh ! that ain't Pine Log — that's Town. You see 
 this" (touching the mountain) '' 's Pine Log, and 
 them*' (pointing to the trees) '' 's pine logs, so we calls 
 the place whar folks lives Town. We used to call it 
 'Possum Trot, 'caze the 'possum trots 'long the pine log, 
 but now we jes' call it Town. I guess this road '11 take 
 youthar; leastwise, it allurs takes me whin I follows 
 it." 
 
 He had not risen while saying this, had spoken 
 with as little exertion as possible, and now relapsed into 
 an attitude of silence and ease. I had seen peasants 
 abroad, the "mountain whites" and "dirt-eaters" of our 
 own country, and had heard of the "cracker," but I had 
 never seen the strange, ignorant boaster who went 
 by that name. Now, however, I was confident that 
 a specimen was before me. I soon became more interest- 
 ed in the boy than in the mountain, but was more 
 embarrassed in his presence than I have been in circles of 
 the great. While considering what to say to best 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 8 
 
 ingratiate myself into his favor, he suddenly broke the 
 silence himself by asking : 
 
 "Who be you ennyhow, and what you standin' thar 
 lookin' 't me fur? 1 thought you wanted ter go cer 
 Town. You kin jes' git thar now 'fore night; 'tain't 
 profitable bizness nohow ter stan' an' look 't folks, an' 
 'tain't p'lite." 
 
 I accepted the rebuke, begged his pardon, and told 
 him that 1 had no business at Pine Log; that I was sim- 
 ply riding through the country, and had been told that 
 I might find a resting-place there that night, but that if 
 he would allow me I would rather stay with him. 
 
 "I don't know whether dad'll let you or not; he 
 don't like trav'lin' folks much — see they ought ter be 't 
 home, whar honest folks stays." 
 
 I told him that I was there for a good purpose. 
 
 The truth was, my mission was to learn the real 
 condition of the Georgia "cracker." An earnest, ar- 
 dent teacher of a little school in the village of Walesca, 
 six miles from Pine Log mountain, had asked me to 
 con^e and devise with him some plan of saving the 
 "cracker" from himself. The plan was for me to visit 
 the homes of these peculiar people without their knowl- 
 edge of my purpose, and gain the key to the "cracker's" 
 soul. 
 
 The boy looked at me distrustfully for some seconds, 
 and then blurted out: 
 
 "Stranger trav'lin' man, you got ter tell me who 
 you is; I don't take no man ter dad's house 'out I knows 
 him." 
 
 This was certainly a reasonable demand, and easily 
 answered in an ordinary instance, but it was embarrass- 
 ing in my case. I did not care to assume a fictitious 
 name, for fear the deceit, afterwards discovered, would 
 destroy any influence I might gain over him ; ana I did 
 not care to give my real name, because known in some 
 sections of that country, and he might discover my pur- 
 pose and foil my plans. To gain time for thought I 
 said : 
 
4 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 *'You have not told me your name." 
 
 "That makes no diff' rence; the stranger what's jes' 
 come tells his name fust in these diggins, an' you'd bet- 
 ter out 'ith yourn now." 
 
 I still hesitated, and, with no excitement whatever, 
 but lazily drawling out an oath, he said : 
 
 *'I'd hit you in the head 'ith wun er them pine- 
 knots" (pointing to his splinters) "if I won't tired an' 
 you wus worth it; you ain't no 'count; dad's right; 
 I never seed er trav'lin' man wbat wus worth throwin' 
 er splinter at, sayin' nothin' o' stayin' all night at 
 folks' house." 
 
 My situation was unfortunate. A saving thought 
 came to my mind, however, and I answered : 
 
 *'My name, my young friend, is Ramla ;" w^hich was 
 true, and yet not true. 
 
 *'I ain't yer friend — told you wunst — an' I ain't 
 a-goin' ter be er friend ter no man what behaves as you 
 do: more'n that, I ain't young; I's twenty-one day arter 
 ter-morrer ; I'se goin' ter sell them splinters an' make 
 mam bile me er 'lasses stew 'ith the money. — My name's 
 Bill — Mr. Bill Collins. Now, I'll show you the way ter 
 dad's." 
 
 He arose as lazily as Van Winkle after twenty 
 years' sleep, and stooped to lift the pine splinters, but I 
 had already thrown them across my saddle, and taking 
 my horse's bridle, which was trailing in the road, I was 
 ready to proceed when the *'cracker" had fairly gotten 
 to his feet. 
 
 "Hu ! you're er clever man arter all, but you needn't 
 ter be in sich er hurry ; we takes things easy here , no 
 use hurryin' — makes folks die too soon ; I wants ter 
 live. Some folks got no jedgment nohow; you'd jes' 's 
 well a-tuk five minutes as wun ter git ready ter go 'ith 
 me, specially's I taken five; enny man what stays 'ith 
 me 's got ter do 's I do, 'caze I ain't a goin' ter change. 
 See?" 
 
 I acknowledged the necessity as gracefully as I 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEES 5 
 
 could, and immediately adapted my pace to his, amusing 
 myself trying to estimate the rate. Careful calculation 
 made it a mile and a quarter an hour. The way was in- 
 teresting, however, by a serpentine path down the 
 mountain ; wild flowers charmed the eye with their 
 beauty and refreshed the soul with their fragrance. A 
 soul that flowers do not move is but clay, and I won- 
 dered if the cracker boy's was. I was admiring a bank 
 of magnificent scarlet and white and cream and pink 
 azalias, when the boy stooped, brushed away the dead 
 leaves, and with the delicacy of a woman, plucked a 
 rare arbutus flower, belated in blooming. Turning to 
 me, he said : 
 
 "You like them big honeysuckles; I think this is er 
 purty thing." 
 
 The soul was not all clay. I felt more hopeful. I 
 took the bud, as cheered as were the Pilgrims long ago 
 by the greeting of the same happy-omened mayflower. 
 The mayflower now lies preserved in my study ; its 
 prognostics of good have come true. Its petals are 
 brown ; they are old, as my story soon will be, but the 
 flower will always remain as a "sweet remembrance" of 
 a hopeful, happy past. 
 
 Night was coming on apace; the sun had gone be- 
 low the hill; I turned from nature's beauties to thi« 
 strange human being: 
 
 "Bill, how do you spend these long summer days?" 
 
 "Well, I gits up whin the sun doe8,|help8 mam feed 
 the steer an' the donkey an' the dog, whittle 'round till 
 she gits er bite ter eat fur me an' dad an' the chillun ; 
 thin I whit'le's whin I feels like 't; goes ter sleep 'gin 
 whin I don't. 'Bout the time the sun gits half over the 
 mount'n, I hitches Bill — that's my donkey — ter the 
 splinter cart, an' goes ter town — sometimes ter this town, 
 sometimes ter that un" (pointing to either side of the 
 mountain.) "Folks don't use meny splinters in the 
 summer, though, an' so I don't go ever' day now. 
 Whin I does go, though, I sells my splinters an' 'muses 
 
6 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEES 
 
 the folks in town some whin they don't 'muse me. I 
 comes home ter dinner; thin I lounges 'round till night, 
 without I feels like comin' up here ter git pine. The 
 days I goes ter town though, I don't giner'ly git pine; 
 an' the days I gits pine, I don't giner'ly go to town. I 
 takes life easy — can't 'ford ter die — dunno whar folks 
 lives arter they's dead. Thar's er preacher comes here 
 sometimes an' tells me an' dad er heap 'bout hebin, but 
 I don't think he knows what he's talkin' 'bout; don't 
 much b'lieve he'll ever know nothin' 'bout hebin, 'caz© 
 he tried ter cheat me in er donkey trade wunst, an' got 
 bilin' mad whin I wouldn't let him do 't. Hu ! nobody 
 beats me in er donkey trade. I's jes' the bes' man in 
 these parts whin it comes ter 'pairin' mules an' donkeys. 
 Now, mam's er leetle better'n me on the ox trade." 
 
 I wondered what the father w^as good for. 
 
 Bill continued: "I knowed I was tryin' ter cheat 
 the preacher, but he sed he didn't know he wus tryin' 
 ter cheat me; mebbe he didn't, but you don't giner'ly 
 fool me. I tells from the cut o' er man's eye how much 
 <;heatin's in his head." 
 
 "And can you not be discovered in the same way?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "Naw; takes er better man 'n discivered Americy 
 ter tell whin I means ter cheat, 'caze, you see, I alius 
 means ter cheat, an' T alius looks the same." 
 
 We turned a curve just then, and I saw near the 
 foot of the mountain a small farm, scarcely more than 
 an ordinary field, a log hut wnth no glass in the windows, 
 merely sliding boards ; a door straining to stand in place 
 ■on one hinge, broken-down steps, and a dirt chimney, 
 whose top just reached the low roof. 
 
 In front of the hut, with legs crossed and arms 
 folded, sat a dwarfed object that might have been termed 
 a man, though he bore little resemblance to this highest 
 order of creatures. He was smoking, and from the dis- 
 tance of many yards the vile odor of drugged tobacco 
 was sickening. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 7 
 
 "That's dad," said the boy ; and, as we approached, 
 he continued : "Dad, this is Mr. Ramla; he's er trav- 
 'lin man, but I think he's er right good chap, an' I wish 
 you'd let him stay all night 'ith me." 
 
 The man arose, offered me a rickety chair, and be- 
 gan smoking again. 
 
 "Stranger, d' you smoke? Bill, bring t'other pipe.'* 
 
 I answered "No," more .thankful than ever before 
 that I did not smoke. 
 
 Bill, meanwhile, was attending to my horse. He 
 turned him out in the yard to graze with the wonderful 
 donkey, which was no larger than a large dog. It was 
 uncurried, ill kempt, and bore the stamp of the people's 
 life. 
 
 I talked of the country, the crops, and everything 
 that I thought of interest to the old cracker, but he 
 seemed indifferent to almost every subject, as listless and 
 as devoid of thought as a mortal can be. In despair I 
 looked for the boy, and saw him walking across the 
 field by the side of a woman, who was leading an old 
 gray ox. The ox and the woman wore the same un- 
 kempt appearance as the house, the donkey, the boy, and 
 the man ; if there was a difference, the woman looked 
 least cared for of all. With ragged dress, hair dishev- 
 eled and matted, sleeves rolled to the elbow, showing 
 brown, hard-muscled arms, she was a forbidding object, 
 and yet my mission drew me to her. 
 
 "Bill," called the father, "the old 'oman 'il 'tend 
 ter that steer. You come here; fill this pipe. How 
 many times must I tell you ter let wimmen do the wuk? 
 Wimmen must wuk, an' men must rest. I have ter set 
 here all day ter see that yer mam plows the ox an' hoes 
 the corn right. It's leetle rest I'll git watchin' you too. 
 I want yer ter be er gintleman o' ease, an' lemme be 
 wun too. I's glad," he said, turning to me, "that all 
 my chillun's boys; gals wants ter do nothin', an' has 
 ter be watched all the time. That old 'oman's the 
 bother o' my life. Sal, feed the steer and git supper 
 
8 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 right away," he called to his wife. ''Stranger, is you 
 married?" 
 
 I thought of a cozy, quiet home where a woman 
 reigned supreme, of soft, tender hands, unused to hard 
 labor, of a heart never hurt nor hardened by brutal com- 
 mands, and somehow I thought better of myself than I 
 was wont to think. 
 
 Bill asked if I wanted to "tidy myself a bit," and I 
 followed him into the poor shell said to shelter a home. 
 The term "home" sounded so empty when applied here 
 as to seem a mockery. The odor of fried meat which 
 filled the place was preferable to the smell of tobacco out- 
 side, and I found later that it was better than the combi- 
 nation of fumes inside. "Indeed," I thought, "every evil 
 hath its good," for the inmates of the small cabin were 
 doubtless kept from many a foul disease by the frequent 
 fumes of cooking that permeated everything, and passed 
 out through crack and crevice. It was well, too, that 
 the logs of the hut left room for air and light to pass in 
 and drive out some impurities. The room was divided 
 by a curtain discolored by smoke. On one side. Bill ex- 
 plained, was the home "of mam an' dad an' seven chil- 
 lun;" on the other was the home of his brother, younger 
 than himself, his wife and one child — twelve in the 
 space of a room fourteen by twelve. 
 
 We were asked to supper. I was formally introduced 
 to the mother and other members of the family. 
 
 "Madam," I said, "I have just been remarking to 
 your husband upon this fine country." 
 
 "Yes," she said, "it's fine 'nough fur dogs an' men, 
 but it's turrible on women an' steers." 
 
 I looked at the hound at the old cracker's feet, and 
 felt the truth of her saying. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 The next thought was of my resting-place that night. 
 My friend in Walesca had been thoughtful enough 
 of my comfort to suggest my taking a hammock, as the 
 nights were so warm that it might be more pleasant out 
 of doors. So I told Bill that, as he was already supplied 
 with two bedfellows in his little brothers, I would not be 
 so inconsiderate as to cramp him more, and I proceeded 
 to swing my hammock as far from the house as possible. 
 
 Under the influence of a favoring breeze that 
 brought from the mountain perfume of flowers and 
 trees, I went to sleep in peace and comfort, and with ev- 
 en a nascent hope of a better life for the cracker. The 
 memory of the arbutus blossom brightened darker 
 thoughts, and I dreamed that Bill, in white robes, stood 
 beside my narrow, swinging couch as a type of new life 
 in the future — "of light in darkness." Upon his head 
 was a wreath of arbutus flowers, delicate and beautiful. 
 
 I was awakened by the sound of a great champing 
 near me, and an awful, unmistakable bray, and I dis- 
 covered that Bill, the donkey, having to divide his store 
 of grass with my horse had found the division too short, 
 and was revenging himself for the invasion by trying to 
 convert his master into grass before his time. Of course 
 I resented the insult, but later I thought better of the 
 donkey's feelings, and treated him to a hearty meal of 
 corn. 
 
 Sunrise is scarcely more beautiful in California than 
 on Pine Log. I walked to the top of the mountain to 
 see it. The dews had crept out in the still of night to 
 catch the sun's first rays and store away some new 
 beams of his marvelous light. Oh ! you rogues, I have 
 caught you. You may blush, as a roseate beam falls up- 
 
 9 
 
10 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 on you. then pale with the shades of death as you give 
 up yourself and your stolen light-beams to valley, mead- 
 ow and mountain moss-beds as a reasonable sacrifice to 
 justice, but I shall see these during all the day, and they 
 will tell the story of your roguery by the fresh life and 
 beauty that you impart. 
 
 I retraced my steps to the cabin. The poor cracker 
 woman was feeding her ox. I relieved her of the task, 
 and told her that I thought of my wife, and did it for 
 her sake, and possibly she remembered the time, when, 
 before their marriage, her liege lord had, in his rough 
 way, spoken a word of sentiment. However it was, a 
 great rough hand brushed the stray hair from her face, 
 and a glistening moisture trembled in her eye, like the 
 diamond dew-drops I had just seen tremble on the grass, 
 and I thought other gems were out stealing the sun- 
 beams. 
 
 She said : "I reckin you loves yer wife better'n Jim 
 loves me." 
 
 I didn't feel inclined to dispute it, but I answered: 
 **Men sometimes love their wives more than they show 
 that they love them." 
 
 The words had a cold, hard, doleful comfort in them, 
 as words, when facts combat them, often have. 
 
 Bill came out, and the woman went in to prepare 
 breakfast. 
 
 *'I say, Mr. Man," accosted Bill, "don't you want 
 ter go ter town 'ith me ter-day ter sell splinters an' buy 
 'lasses, or is you got ter go 'way ! Stranger, I likes you. 
 I wish you wouldn't go." 
 
 I could not lose my opportunity. 
 
 *'Why, Bill,I shall be delighted to stay and to go to 
 town with you. You are very kind to ask me. Let me 
 help you feed the donkey, though I really do not think 
 he should be hungry;" and I told him the circumstance 
 of the night. 
 
 After doubling into unrecognizable shapes, accom- 
 panied by hearty haw-haws of laughter, for a minute or 
 two, Bill spoke : 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 11 
 
 '*Well, ef that don't beat all; that donkey's a cur'us 
 animule. He really beats me sometimes, and that's hard 
 ter do. He gits contrary, you know — don't want ter 
 haul splinters — gits awful sick, an' rolls an' groans 
 worse'n dad whin he had mumps. You see dad tried ter 
 holler, and ever' time he opened his mouth er pain struck 
 him, fust on wun side, an' thin on t'other,an' his jaws got 
 cotched worse'n lockjaw; an' of all the faces! You 
 know dad ain't very good-lookin' no time. Well, Bill 
 fell down in the middle o' the road wun day 'ith a kinder 
 spell like dad's,rolled his eyes,an' opened his mouth back 
 to his ye'rs, tryin' ter tell me what's the matter. He 
 fooled me ; man can't do it, but that donkey did. I un- 
 hitched him, tied him ter er bush, an' went home ter git 
 mam ter come an' docter him. Dad won't at home, an' 
 so mam come an' brought lin'ment an' stuff fer ,Bill, an' 
 what d' you reckin? Bill had done broke the rope an' 
 wuz gone; thar won't er hair o' that donkey ter be seen. 
 So mam an' me had ter haul the splinters an' 'bout the 
 time we got home, an' wuz pantin' fur breath, I 
 looked up on the mountain an' thar wus Bill grazin' 
 peaceful-like. I wus too tired ter go arter him. He 
 know'd I'd be, an' so he'd hid till I got home; an' he 
 grazed an' frisked 'round more'n enny donkey you ever 
 see; an' 'bout night he come home an' rubbed his head 
 agin my arm, an' tried ter put his hoofs on me, playful- 
 like, an' sorry, too, 'til I had ter laugh 't his sense, an' 
 couldn't beat him. Ain't no donkey got's much sense's 
 Bill. I think he gits it from me. Now, stranger, if 
 you'll stay 'ith the two Bills er day er two, we'll teach 
 you some sharp tricks, too." 
 
 I accepted the invitation, and breakfast over, we 
 prepared for the trip to town. The cart could not hold Bill 
 and the splinters too, and the donkey could not pull both. 
 So I left my horse and walked with the boy. The time 
 was beguiled by many a quaint story told by the cracker, 
 — each egotistical and boastful — experiences that made 
 his life. I remember three of the stories. 
 
12 DOWN AMONG THE CBACKERS 
 
 "You Bee, we trades down here and over yonder," 
 (pointing to Pine Log and Walesca.) "Whin we gits in 
 debt 't wun place, we goes ter t'other; whin mam can't 
 git things she giner'ly sends rae, an' I giner'ly gits 'em. 
 I come down here wunst fur corfee. 'Mornin', Mr, 
 Storekeeper; I wants er half er pound o' corfee.' *No, 
 Bill, you can't have 't, nor nothin' else here 'less you 
 pays fur it.' 'How d' you know I ain't a-goin' ter pay 
 fur 't? I giner'ly pays my debts.' I had twenty cents. 
 I won't a-goin' ter let him have it, though, but 1 didn't 
 tell him so ; I laid it down on the counter, an' thin I sed, 
 *You know my donkey. Bill?' Oh, yes, heknow'd him; 
 an' thinkin' he'd like ter hear somethin' 'bout his ac- 
 quaintance, I tole him 'bout Bill's foolin' me an' gittin' 
 sick. Thin I sed, 'Don't you think he's er smart animule?* 
 He sed smart 's he ever seed, handed me the corfee, an' I 
 picked up the twenty cents an' walked out. Whin I'd got 
 'bout fifty yards frum the store, I hoUer'd back ter him, 
 'I say, mister. Bill ain't half's smart's his master.' We 
 wus agoin' home thin, an' I didn't have no splinters ter 
 haul; he couldn't 'a' caught me in ten miles. Well, I 
 didn't 'tend not ter pay the man, so 'bout er month 
 arter that, I went in ag'in. He wanted ter drive me 
 outen the store, and sed he'd have that twenty cents. 
 *0f course,' I sed, 'that's what I come ter town fur, jes' 
 'spressly ter pay you that twenty cents. I alius pays my 
 debts — told you that wunst. — But, say. Bill's larned er 
 smarter trick'n gittin' sick. Want ter hear 't?' 'Naw, 
 I don't. I'se tired o' you an' yer donkey, too.' 'AH 
 right; I talks ter no man what's tired o' me, an' Bill 
 don't stand 'fore yer store no more.' 'But gimme that 
 money,' he sed. 'Hold on, mister; you's tired o' me an' 
 my donkey; now you kin git tired o' waitin' fur yer 
 money.' 'I's tired o' waitin' fur it now, I tell you, is 
 what I's talkin' 'bout.' 'Oh, thin, 'tain't me an' Bill; 
 it's the money; thin I'll trade 'ith you some more; 
 here's yer twenty cents. Now gimme thirty cents' 
 worth o' t'bacco; I chaws er heap these days.' He 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 13 
 
 wrapped the t'bacco, handed it ter me an' sed, 'Whar's 
 the thirty cents?' I felt 'round in my pocket, an' it 
 warn't thar ; thin I turned my pockets wrong side out, 
 an' thar wus er great big hole in wun o' 'm ; I'd jes' cut 
 it ten minutes 'fore. I sed, 'I been standin' by that 
 donkey, an' I knows he's bit er hole in my pocket an' 
 swallowed the money; I'll choke him now.' Bill saw 
 me comin' an' galloped off. I run arter him, an' hol- 
 lered back, 'Mister, the new trick that Bill's larned is 
 that foolin' er storekeeper is more fun 'n foolin' me.' 
 I'd trained Bill er week ter run whin he saw me comin.' 
 I bad more trouble teachin' him not ter run arter wards 
 than I had teachin' him ter run. He wanted ter have er 
 race ever' time I trird ter ketch him. I went back ter 
 the store in 'bout er week, an' that man wus so mad he 
 wouldn't speak ter me. Thar was another man standin' 
 by, an' I sed, ^Mister, I wish you'd toll that storekeeper 
 somethin' fur me.' He sed he would. 'Tell him that 
 Bill's donkey's mighty sick, poor's er snail, but his con- 
 science hurts him fur treatin' him so bad, an' I helped 
 him down here this mornin' ter 'pologiz.' The store- 
 keeper laughed in spite o' tryin' not ter. *Tell him Bill's 
 bad off; he'd give 'most ennything fur er bottle o' lin'- 
 ment. Tell him ter state the price, an' we'll pay fur it 
 — got the money right here.' The storekeeper took 
 down er bottle. 'Twenty cents,' sed he. 'Now, ax 
 him,' sed I, 'ter square 'counts 'ith me; I owes him 
 thirty cents fur t'bacco an' twenty cents fur lin'ment, 
 an' he owes me fifty cents fur larnin' him how donkeys 
 kin be trained — cheap larnin' — ain't that fair, stranger?' 
 He sed 'twus, an' I left er crowd o' folks hurrahin' fur 
 Bill an' his donkey. But the storekeeper looked grum. 
 I got er lot fur twenty cents that time, but he got more ; 
 I think I lost in the barg'in, but I won't a-goin' t«r 
 Stan' up 'g'inst the cart an' look grum, like he did 
 'ginst the counter." 
 
 When we reached Pine Log I thought Bill might be 
 inclined to enter into "er leetle fun," as ne termed it, 
 with the storekeeper that morning, but he exclaimed: 
 
14 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 ^'Thar's er gintleman's waitin' fur me, an' I've got 
 ter invite my sweetheart ter er 'lasses stew b'sides; 
 hurry up, mister;" and we soon left. 
 
 We stopped to ask Bill's sweetheart to his party. 
 Her home was a short distance from the road, and 1 of- 
 fered to stay and take care of the cart and donkey, while 
 he went to see her, but Bill said: 
 
 "Naw, I wouldn't have you miss seein' that gal fur 
 nuthin'." 
 
 So the cart rattled through the bushes until it 
 stopped at the young woman's door. The house was 
 not unlike Bill's, not so large, nor so prettily situated, 
 but cleaner and more inviting. 
 
 A fresh, beautiful, violet-eyed, blossom-cheeked 
 mountain maiden of perhaps eighteen summers came to 
 the door, blushing, but a little bold. 
 
 *'Mornin', Mol," said her lover; ''this is Mr. 
 Ramla." To me, ''This is my gal, Miss Mol Smith. 
 What do you think o' her?" 
 
 This called for a knightly remark, which a little 
 woman at home keeps me in practice making. Miss 
 Smith's color deepened at what I said regardl-ng Bill's 
 taste and their future bliss, and she exclaimed in almost 
 shrieking tones : 
 
 "Bill Collins, I's half er mind not ter marry you. 
 You tells ever'body in the country I's goin' ter." 
 
 "Thin I won't tell nobody else. Mol, my birthday 
 is ter-morrer. Will you come?" 
 
 "I got ter go ter town ter-morrer; can't come; 
 mighty sorry." 
 
 "Does you go ter town at night? I didn't know 
 that, Mol, or I'd 'a' bin goin' 'ith you all this time." 
 
 "Naw, I goes in the day. Ain't you got no sense, 
 Bill Collins? You 'spose I could trade 't nights?" 
 
 "Oh, well, thin, you kin come; my party's at night; 
 I was born at night. I'll come arter you, Mol;" and he 
 drove off. 
 
 "We goin' ter git married nex' fall," he said. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 16 
 
 "And where will you live!" I asked, remembering 
 the little divided room of such small capacity. 
 
 *'I think we'll live at her house. You see she's the 
 onliest child; her dad's bin dead many er day, an' she 
 an' her mam lives there all alone; 'tain't the place fur 
 women ter be by theirselves, though ever'body r'spects 
 their loneliness. Thar's plenty o' room in the house, 
 an' on the farm too, an' dad's crowded now. Stranger, 
 I don't b'lieve I'll let Mol work like mam does, would 
 you? Mam gets so tired some days, an' sometimes she 
 wants ter leave dad ; but he keeps her down purty close. 
 Somehow, I want my wife ter be with me some an' talk 
 an' love me. But 'tain't the fashion here. I dunno 
 what I'll do." 
 
 On reaching the eminence just above his house, we 
 saw a woman madly throwing up her hands, children 
 huddled in a heap, and heard heart-rending shrieks. 
 We hurried on. The rickety chair in front of the door 
 had fallen ; pale, and with agonized expression, the old 
 cracker lay, where for twenty-five years he had sat 
 watching his wife work. The last watch was over, and 
 the woman, miserable in his death as she had been in 
 his life, cried : 
 
 "Stranger, I loved him if he didn't love me." 
 
 Bill shook and called his father, then said: "Dad's 
 dead." Putting his arms around his mother, he whis- 
 pered: "Wun more widder 'oman, but her son's er man 
 now." 
 
 I picked up the old pipe and placed it in the dead 
 cracker's hand. He looked more natural then. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 The old cracker had died when no one was near; a 
 coroner's jury became necessary. They wanted to move 
 him, but I told them the jury must be summoned first. 
 There the cracker lay in a horrid, awful heap, with a 
 frown that furrowed deep his brow; and grief was 
 loud about him. We watched; there was nothing to do 
 but watch, and the scene was sadder because of the 
 helpless watching. 
 
 The jury came and returned the verdict: "We, the ' 
 coroner's jury, summoned to sit over the body of James 
 Collins, do render the verdict that he came to his death 
 from heart disease." 
 
 The physician explained tome: "Smoker's heart ; 
 inveterate smoking and inertness." I asked him to in- 
 sert this in the verdict ; it might be a warning to other 
 smoking idlers. He did so. 
 
 Friends and relatives collected around the dead 
 cracker; and the house and yard were full of people. 
 Many a worthier man has been laid to rest with fewer 
 about him. Some came through sympathy, others 
 through love of excitement, all through curiosity. I 
 proposed to Bill that I should go back to Walesca, but 
 he said no, I must see the old man buried. 
 
 *'Mr. Ramla, we want ter put dad 'way decent, he 
 never did much fur us, but he wus dad, you know, an' 
 mam won*t hear ter nothin' buthavin' him buried right. 
 And thin, Mr. Ramla, dad won't er mean man; he 
 stayed 't home an' let other folks alone; he jes' done 
 nothin', an' made mam wuk too hard. But I dunno 
 what I'll do. I kin make er pine corfin, but that won't 
 do. You reckin they'd credit me an' lemme make it up 
 in splinters?" 
 
 16 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 17 
 
 I told him that I would be glad to see that his 
 father was buried decently, to leave it all with me, and 
 comfort his mother. Slapping me on the shoulder, he 
 said : 
 
 "Stranger, some day you'll git yer pay. Bill Col- 
 lins's nothin' but yer splinter boy, but he'll pay you, 
 sure." 
 
 "Bill," I said, "remember that, I'll call on you for 
 the pay soon, but it will not be in money." 
 
 . "Ennything, Mr. Ramla — wuk or ennything else." 
 My horse, with one from Pine Log, was sent to Car- 
 tersville. All night people came and went, offering to 
 the bereaved family the most doleful comfort. 
 
 "Ef you'd 'a' been here and seed him die, what er 
 comfort it'd a' been, Sister Sal. I alius wants ter see 
 my folks die." 
 
 "Ef he'd jes' been er chirch member, you'd 'a' 
 knowed whar he is, but you dunno now." 
 
 "Whar you'd be, you sinner, ef you'd 'a' been tuk 
 off suddint?" someone remarked. 
 
 "Sister Sal, I know you'll miss him sittin' thar 
 watchin' you plow, but the ole man'll never be thar no 
 more. I likes fur my ole man ter watch me in the field ; 
 I'll wuk, jes' gimme er man. Corn 'pears ter grow bet- 
 ter, an' cotton looks whiter. What ef he do beat you 
 sometimes; you gits over 't." 
 
 "Sorry fur you. Sister Sal. Husband's gone for- 
 evermore." 
 
 "How you know she won't git another wun!" blur- 
 ted out a boy. 
 
 "Never!" the widow shrieked. 
 
 And so the night passed. All the sacredness of 
 grief was absent; there was none of the quiet mourning 
 of hearts bowed down that bespeaks the higher nature ; 
 all was uncontrollable and showy. Showy grief is like 
 showy dress; both emanate from low minds. 
 The men were smoking. I said : 
 "My friends, have you seen the verdict of the cor- 
 oner's jury?" 
 
18 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 They had not. I showed it to them. 
 
 Sickened with all I walked out upon the mountain. 
 One broad sheet of silver light shimmered along its side; 
 it was restful there. I heard a groan near by. Here, 
 too? The groaning ceased, then began again; a heavy 
 step approached. A sudden fear came over me that 
 maybe I had come to the mountain to meet a worse fate 
 than I had left. Some of the crackers had heard my 
 offer to Bill to bury his father; I wondered if they 
 thought I had money. The object was close to me ; it 
 was a man. 
 
 *'Mr. Ramla." 
 
 "Bill, you frightened me." 
 
 We sat down. 
 
 "Stranger — though you don't 'pear ter be er 
 stranger — I don't feel jes' right ; they're all mournin' 
 an' groanin' down yonder; dunno why I don't feel that 
 er way. He wus my father; I orter, it seems, but I 
 didn't love dad 'nough, I reckin. I thought I loved him 
 much's mam did though ; don't 'pear so now. What's 
 the matter 'ith me?" 
 
 I talked to him very quietly ; his feeling was better 
 than that of the others, I thought. He seemed better 
 satisfied after a little while, and went to his mother. I 
 offered him ray hammock, and quietly beckoning her to 
 him, he said: 
 
 "Mam, thar ain't no use o' this." 
 
 He persuaded her to lie in the hammock, and threw 
 himself on the grass by her side. Worn out with phys- 
 ical effort she fell asleep. 
 
 I heard on all sides: "How kin Sal sleep! Don't 
 believe she keered nothin' fur Jim, nohow. What 
 scan'lous behavior!" 
 
 Her sister said; "I'll wake Sal. She shan't b'have 
 so indecent.^' 
 
 I said: "Don't disturb her;" and they did not. 
 
 The next morning preparations were made for the 
 interment. The casket had come. On its face were the 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 1» 
 
 words, "At Rest." They seemed a mockery. We bur- 
 ied him near the door ; his wife requested it. M}'' friend 
 from Walesca, who was minister as well as school 
 teacher, came. Scarcely anything was said about the old 
 cracker; the Lord was made prominent. Some friends 
 thought that the cracker's virtues should have been em- 
 phasized; I thought they should have been emphasized 
 in life. 
 
 The people all commented on the fine burial. "Jim 
 never seed nothin' like it while he wus 'live. Wonder 
 ef he'll rest good in the corfin? Strangers is good folks 
 sometimes." 
 
 They went home, and the place was as quiet as 
 if nothing of the kind had happened in ten years. The 
 high physical tension and the relaxation were equally in- 
 tense; I wonder the cracker does nofc die young. 
 
 My friend and I talked over the condition. My re- 
 port was encouraging, and we decided that I should re- 
 main among the people for a time, going to Walesca oc- 
 casionally for relief from the strain. 
 
 Helping the world is trying work ; he who under- 
 takes the smallest portion of it finds much to discourage^ 
 feels his own insignificance and need of help; grows 
 weary, falls, rises, is strengthened, falls again. Oh I 
 the weariness of trying; and yet he who does not under- 
 take to bless the world in his day and generation is 
 a failure. Be encouraged, laborer for humanity, faint 
 not. 
 
 Day struggles with the gathering shades of night. 
 Great banks of clouds form as fortifications, like walls 
 of granite, with battlements of fury and bases of dark- 
 ness. Battalions march in line in their uniforms of pur- 
 ple and crimson and blue and gold, with trimmings 
 of pink and silver and cream and emerald. They salute 
 the retiring sun in his jeweled armor of light-beams, 
 scintillating in marvelous brightness, and the battle in 
 the clouds begins. Back and back and back the forces 
 of day are driven, until their colors blend in one gor- 
 
so DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 geous, nameless hue. They yield, salute earth, slowly 
 retire, and "good-night" is flashed by a rare beam upon 
 the army's banner. Sometimes a low murmur of thun- 
 der beats time for the march. My soul catches the last 
 faint strain of the marshal band of this strange army in 
 the clouds; "Glory to God in the Highest," and in rap- 
 turous, reverent praise my soul answers, "Amen." 
 
 In wonderful peace I turn from day to the hastening 
 shades of night, and the watch of the evening star. And 
 so stars are born of struggle; and hope has the same par- 
 entage. 
 
 "Do not w^eary in well doing, for ye shall reap if ye 
 faint not, " my friend said when I told him that I was 
 already tired of the work. 
 
 "If ye faint not!" I felt ashamed. 
 
 Although I had been so discouraged by the sudden 
 revelation of the people's condition at old James Collins' 
 funeral, yet when I thought of Bill the prospect seemed 
 encouraging. I thought that the young crackers might 
 be persuaded to better their existence, if the old ones 
 might not. In Bill great lumps of character lay hidden 
 and latent, which a chance circumstance now and then 
 revealed as mighty possibilities. When he spoke of not 
 allowing Mol to work, how encouraged I had felt! And 
 when he had shown a quieter spirit than the rest of the 
 crackers after his father's death, how hopeful I had 
 been! Then the thought of the arbutus blossom; I 
 could not forget that, with its happy omen. Bill would 
 yet rise to a higher life, and with himself elevate 
 his companions, and the foundation of substantial good 
 would be laid. 
 
 I asked him about the occupations of the people ; I 
 knew they were not industrious as a rule. They were 
 farmers and gold-washers and saloon-keepers and dis- 
 tillers. I determined to visit every one of them in that 
 section, if possible, and told Bill so. He could easily go 
 with me, he said. I thought from his tone that he 
 expected to have a good deal of fun at my expense, but 
 he was very polite, and seemed really to like me. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 21 
 
 I waited some time after his father's death, both out 
 of respect to the family and to learn more of the 
 Collinses. My friend had said that they were a fair 
 type of the cracker. They were thoroughly ignorant 
 but not altogether bad people. With all Bill's boasts of 
 cheating, I could not but believe that it was more 
 for fun than for profit that he practiced it. I might 
 have thought him' a sharp, shrewd rascal but for his 
 boasts of meanness. Conceit was his most prominent 
 characteristic. He firmly believed himself the smartest 
 individual in his section, and wanted everyone else 
 to think so. He would not have cheated, as he regarded 
 cheating; his open way of exercising his shrewdness re- 
 lieved his conscience of blame. "Every man should be 
 able to take care of his own affairs," was his law. 
 
 "Ef they can't help my cheatin' 'm, it's thur look- 
 out an' not mine," he said; "I's lookin' out fur Bill." 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "Bill, I want to go to see some of your friends. Will 
 you take me?" I asked one day. 
 
 He cheerfully consented. 
 
 *'My nex' neighbor's er grocery man." 
 
 **Then why don't you get your groceries from him 
 instead of going to Pine Log or Walesca? His place is 
 nearer, and you would not have trouble with the store- 
 keepers. I suppose your neighbor is your friend?" 
 
 " 'Course he's my friend — that is, his boy is. Me 
 an' him wus raised t' gather. The man that keeps the 
 grocery's ole's dad wus. But you dunno what you talkin' 
 'bout. Folks can't drink liquor fur breakf as' dinner an' 
 supper. They'd be drunk all the time. I didn't know 
 you 'proved of drinkin' 'tall; thought you wouldn't 
 want to go ter see er man that kep' liquor." 
 
 "I understood you to say a grocery." 
 
 *'You understood right. Grocery's er place whar 
 folks sells whiskey; thought you know'd that." 
 
 I did not know it, but when I visited the place Bill's 
 words were verified. 
 
 On the way we talked of the change in the home 
 life that his father's death would make. 
 
 "The craps ain't goin' ter suffer, fur dad didn't 
 make 'm, an* the house ain't goin' ter fall no sooner,but 
 it'll fall in 'bout er week ef I don't steady it, an' t'bacco 
 '11 cos' less; an' what kin I do that I couldn't er done 
 ef dad had er lived?" 
 
 "There's one thing, Bill. You spoke of not allowing 
 Mollie to work when you marry. Could you not help 
 your mother now?" 
 
 "Bless you, stranger ! I hadn't thought o' that. 
 You see, I'se so used ter seein' mam out in the field that 
 
 22 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 23 
 
 I hadn't somehow thought she couldn't be thar. I 
 s'pose I must wuk; wuk's purty hard, though. You see, 
 the steer gits co?itrary,an' the sun gits hot, an' I gits mad. 
 I tried 't wun day, an' I didn't git over 't fur er month. 
 I sed thin if the family wanted enny corn an' cotton an* 
 sorghum, mam'd have ter raise 'm. I could live on 
 blackberries in the summer an' rabbits in the winter. 
 We don't raise no sorghum now, 'caize the steer ate so 
 much wunst that it died, an' it cos' like ever'thin' ter 
 git er 'nother wun. Dad sed 'twus sorghum; I think 
 'twus old age and starvin' that kilt the steer. You see 
 dad was 'sper'mentin' on how little the steer could eat, 
 and the steer objected to the 'sper'ment. Well, I reckin 
 I'll have ter help mam, an' then Mol'll be better satisfied 
 ter see how I's goin' to treat her. Women's cur'us 
 folks. Somethings they b'lieves 'fore you tell 'm, and 
 somethings you have ter prove. I'll plow that steer ter- 
 morrer." 
 
 We had reached the neighbor's home. Above the 
 unpainted door was the word, "Grocery." Bill walked 
 in. 
 
 "Mr. Jones, this is er bad mornin' fur customers. 
 Here's er pro'bition man. Don't offer him no groceries, 
 'caze he don't want none; an' don't offer me none, 'caze 
 he won't drink." Turning to me, he said, "Ain't that 
 right — never drink out'n yer f rien' '11 drink." 
 
 "Honor among thieves, and courtesy among crack- 
 ers," I thought. Bill prided himself upon being polite, 
 and he was. I spoke very cordially to Mr. Jones. He 
 was grum in his reply. 
 
 "Why do you call this a grocery?" I asked. 
 
 " 'Caze it means the same thing as grog, an' sounds 
 better. You must not have no larnin'." 
 
 I had not in those matters, and 1 did not like my 
 teacher. The shop was full of barrels, and the floor was 
 wet with dripping whiskey. The odor was deadly to a 
 man unaccustomed to it. I wanted to go, but I asked 
 some questions first. 
 
24 DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 
 
 "Does your business pay?" 
 
 "Pays me. Don't reckin it pays nobody else, 'caze 
 I keeps the money. But folks can't keep drunk; the 
 more liquor they buy, the less they got to buy with. I 
 makes 'em pay purty high, too, don't I Bill? Can't 
 make whiskey furnothin'." 
 
 "Do you make your own whiskey?" 
 
 "Naw ; but I tetches it up er leetle arter I gits it — 
 goes further." 
 
 •'How do you do that?" I asked. 
 
 "Well, it's none er yer bizness ; guess you wants 
 tu larn how, though; pro'bition folks can't be trusted. 
 You'd like ter git into some o' them barrels now ef you 
 thought you could do 't 'out my knowin' 't. Thar's er 
 empty wun thar, an' you kin see what's in the bottom; 
 thin you kin go down ter the spring an' see ef 'tainH 
 agoin' dry, an' you'll know jes' how the thing's did." 
 
 I went out to see the barrel. The bottom had a green 
 circle around the margin, and was covered with a hard, 
 brown crust. I succeeded in breaking the crust. It wa& 
 four inches thick, and of a mean quality of tobacco. 
 The green ring was arsenic. I asked what he did with 
 the empty barrels. 
 
 "Use 'm fur this as long as they stand; use ter try 
 ter use 'm as washtubs arter that, but the clothes pizened 
 me." 
 
 This was the effect upon the cuticle. What was the 
 effect upon the stomach? 
 
 "Law, Bill, I furgot you wuz thar." 
 
 "I thought you'd furgot it. That's the way you 
 cheats me, is it? Very well; I gits ahead o' you." 
 
 "It won't hurt you. Bill. I jes' likes ter disgust 
 pro'bition men. They don't come ter see but wunst; I 
 allurs skeers 'm off." 
 
 I told him that I was glad to have met him, and 
 would be glad to call again. We went out . The man 
 came to the door and called: 
 
 "Bill, what'd you say that chap's name wus?" 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 25 
 
 "I didn't say," replied Bill; and we walked on. 
 *'You see, I didn't tell 'im yer name, 'caze it ain't safe 
 fur er man ter come foolin' 'round er grocery er still 'less 
 he 'proves of the bizness. You needn't be 'fraid, though, 
 I knows jes' how to git 'long in this country." 
 
 Truly he did, and if he should be grateful to me 
 for any effort of mine to raise him to a higher plane of 
 living, I should be grateful to him for my life more than 
 once. The crackers are a quiet, harmless people unless 
 you antagonize the whiskey traffic; moonshiners and 
 their confederates are desperate. 
 
 "Say, don't yer want er lot er fun?" said Bill. 
 **Dad'8 so recent dead I dunno whether 1 orter try 't er 
 not; but that won't 'sturb dad. I's got er rooster 
 what'U fight, an' thar's er boy down here's got 'nother. 
 I see him comin'." 
 
 A tall, lank boy approached. 
 
 "Bob, this is my friend, Mr. Ramla. He wants to 
 see our chickens fight. I'll bring mine down this ev- 
 enin'." 
 
 I said I did not care to witness the chicken fight, 
 but I should be glad to call on the young man. 
 
 *'Bob, he jes' tole me 'fore you come 'bout the 
 chicken fight, but he's modest, an' don't want ter tell 
 you. These folks," he explained to me, " '11 think you's 
 crazy; ever' man here goes ter er chicken fight." 
 
 We went. Bob had collected quite a crowd. 
 
 "What's the bet. Bill?" 
 
 "Chaw 'g'inst chaw." 
 
 "Aw! I got plenty o' t'bacco." 
 
 "Well, ef my rooster beats, I'll take yourn ; an' ef 
 yourn beats, you'll take mine." 
 
 "That's er goner. I gits er 'nother rooster this 
 day." 
 
 And so the fight began. Bob's rooster advanced 
 and presented his spurs in quite a military manner. 
 
 "Hu ! Bob, he must er been goin' ter the college." 
 
 "I's the college," he said, touching himself with 
 pride. 
 
26 DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 
 
 "Very well; go it," cried Bill; and the roosters 
 fought. 
 
 When the sight became sickening, I said : 
 
 "Bill, stop! — this is barbarous." 
 
 His roopter just then happened to be master of the 
 fight, and of course Bill was willing to stop, but Bob was 
 not. 
 
 "Let 'm rest er minute, thin," said Bill. 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Bill took his rooster in his arms, boasted a good 
 deal, and made the other boy so mad that he proposed 
 to fight. 
 
 "Naw, we never come here fur that. This ain't er 
 feller fight; this is er cock fight." 
 
 "Let 'm fight, thin." 
 
 *'A11 right; 'go it, boots, 'ith yer spurs on.' " 
 
 Bill's rooster struck his antagonist a deadly blow 
 with a steel spur that had not been noticed before. The 
 poor thing reeled, gasped, and died. 
 
 "Say, Mr. Ramla, is fightin' chickens good ter eat.?" 
 
 I felt perfectly outraged at Bill and disgusted with 
 the crackers as a whole. Bob struck Bill a hard blow, 
 and hissed: "You cheated me," between his teeth. He 
 had been cheated by the wily Bill, who, while he held 
 the rooster in his arms, and busied himself making his 
 friend angry, had, unobserved, put the steel spurs on. 
 
 Bill had been knocked down, but now arose with 
 little show of anger. There was one good thing about 
 Bill; he kept his temper. 
 
 "You'll be sorry fur foolin' 'ith me ; I ain't cheated 
 you ; nothin' warn't said 'bout steel spurs in the con- 
 tract fur the rooster fight, an' thar'fore they was 'low- 
 able. What's ter day?" (to the crowd). 
 
 "Friday." 
 
 "I has you before the jestice ter-morrer," and pick- 
 ing up the dead chicken he walked off. 
 
 I felt more like taking the next train for home than 
 returning with Bill. The thought of having to appear 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 27 
 
 in a justice's court as a witness in a cockfight certainly- 
 lessened me much in my own opinion. But more than 
 that, I feared it would prevent my gaining an influence 
 over the crackers. 
 
 At nine o'clock the next morning we entered court, 
 which was held in the yard of the justice. Bob was 
 called upon to testify first. 
 
 "Bob Smith, you are called upon to testify in your 
 own behalf against Bill Collins for cheating in a rooster 
 fight. Do you solemnly swear upon this Holy Book to 
 tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
 truth?" 
 
 "I do. You see, I wus '' 
 
 "Hold on," exclaimed the magistrate; "I'll fine 
 you for contempt of court. I haven't asked you to 
 
 "You did. You made me swear that I'd tell the 
 truth, the whole truth, and nothin' but the truth. How 
 you 'spect me ter do 't 'out speakin'? I can't write." 
 
 "I expected you to wait until I called on you to 
 speak. Now, relate the whole atfair." 
 
 "Well, I wus comin' 'long home; I'd been ter town 
 an' had er bucket o' provisions." 
 
 Justice: "I don't care what you had." 
 
 Boh : "Oh! I thought mebbe you did, you was so 
 powerful pertic'ler 'bout the whole truth. Well, I wus 
 walkin' 'long, and I see Bill Collins comin' 'ith that 
 dude chap over yonder, an' he ses, 'Bob, this 's my 
 friend, Mr. .' What's yer name, mister?" 
 
 Justice: "Never mind that now. Goon." 
 
 Bob: "That's what I wus doin' when you stopped 
 me. 'He wants ter see our chickens fight; I'll bring mine 
 down this evening.' Say, chap," addressing me again, 
 "warn't that 'zactly what he sed?" 
 
 Justice: "Stop!" 
 
 Boh: "Yes; but whin I ses I'll tell the truth I 
 means ter tell it. What did you make me swear fur? I 
 ain't goin' ter swear ter no lie. Now, will you tell me 
 
28 DOWN AMONG THE CEACKEES 
 
 jes' what you want me ter do?" folding his arms and 
 looking at the justice. 
 
 Justice: "Describe the cockfight and the manner of 
 the cheating." 
 
 Boh: "Well, you orter er sed that at fust. I kin 
 'scribe the cockfight, but I dunno the manner o' the 
 cheatin', 'caze I didn't see Bill put the gaffs on, an' I 
 dunno how he done 't. Whyn't you ax him 'bout that?" 
 
 Justice: "Because you are testifying now." 
 
 Boh: "I's tryin' ter, but you won't lemme. Kin I 
 perceet/?" 
 
 The justice said nothing. 
 
 Boh: "Kin I perceetZ?" 
 
 Justice: "I will give you just ten minutes to tell 
 the whole thing." 
 
 Boh : "The roosters fit an' fit an' fit. You kin tell 
 how much by that. They was purty tired by that time, 
 an' that feller what you wouldn't let me ax his name 
 sed, *Stop, 'twas er shame;' an' Bill wanted ter stop, but 
 his rooster wus on top; I know'd he warn't goin' ter 
 stay thar long; so I wouldn't give up the fight. Thin 
 Bill sed, 'Let 'm rest fur er minit;' an' 1 let 'm rest. 
 Thin Bill made me so mad that I wanted ter fight, but 
 he sed, 'This ain't er feller fight; this 's er cockfight;' 
 an' thin I sed, 'Let 'm fight, thin;' and Bill's old rooster 
 bit mine 'ith er iron spur, what he hadn't had on 'fore, 
 an' my rooster keeled over an' died. What time is it?" 
 
 Justice: "Five minutes gone." 
 
 Bob had spoken very rapidly after he had been lim- 
 ited in time. He now drew a long breath. 
 
 "Thin I needn't be in sich er hurry 'bout the rest, 
 Arter that rooster died I — jes' — knocked — Bill — Collins 
 blind." 
 
 Justice: "Was there any agreement beforehand as 
 to the steel spur?" 
 
 Boh: "None 't all. I thought Bill wus goin' ter 
 fight fair." 
 
 Justice: "That will do." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 29 
 
 The other witnesseB on Bob's side were called, and 
 after much haranguing, dismissed. 
 
 Bill was then placed on the stand. He took the 
 oath and stood silent. The justice said, "Proceed." 
 
 Bill: "Well, I thought I'd wait till you called on 
 me, 'caze I didn't want ter be fined fur speakin'. I's 
 sorter like Bob 'bout that, though — I thought we 
 wus here ter speak." 
 
 He then related substantially all that Bob had relat- 
 ed , more quietly, however. The justice asked several 
 questions : 
 
 *'Do you keep chickens for the purpose of fight- 
 ing?" 
 
 Bill : *'Naw ; I keep er fightin' rooster ter 'com'date 
 Bob. He likes ter fight chickens. I never seed much 
 fun in 't. Reason I put them spurs on yistiddy wus ter 
 stop the fight; 't won't no pleasure ter me." 
 
 Justice: *'Do you know it is unlawful to keep 
 chickens for fighting and to bet on them?" 
 
 Bill: "I sed I didn't keep 'm fur fightin' ; 1 keep 
 'm ter 'muse my friends. The fightin' causes the 
 'musement; but that's got nothin' ter do 'ith why I 
 keeps 'm. Naw, an' I don't bet on 'm." 
 
 Justice : "Did you not bet on them yesterday?" 
 
 Bill: "Naw; Bob wanted ter bet, an' I sed, 'Chaw 
 'ginst chaw.' He owed me er chaw o' t'bacco, an' I 
 thought 't wus er good way ter git it. But Bob won't 
 satisfied 'ith that; so I sed, 'Chicken 'ginst chicken.' 
 That won't no bettin' ; I didn't have er dollar ter 
 stake." 
 
 Justice: "Was there anything said about using 
 the steel spurs?" 
 
 Bill: "Nothin' ; tharfore 't wus right to use 'm." 
 
 Justice: "Allow me the right of deciding that." 
 
 Bill: "I ain't interferin' 'ith your rights; I's sayin' 
 what I know 's fair." 
 
 Justice: "That will do." 
 
 I was then called on, and never before or 
 
30 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 since have felt so outraged by the world and 60 in- 
 dignant with myself. Of all little, low things, to be 
 brought into a justice's court about a chicken fight is 
 the most trying. To this day T abhor the sight of 
 a game fowl. I made a plain, short statement against 
 both Bill and Bob, as the truth in the case necepsitated. 
 The justice fined both for betting on fighting chickens. 
 
 The boys had no money, and I said : 
 
 **Boys, if you will never engage in the low business 
 of fighting chickens again, I will pay for the entire 
 thing." 
 
 As we went out I asked the justice how much 
 he made by such practices. The sum he named was 
 a pittance. I thought his chief gain was in the devel- 
 opment of patience. No man acquires more of this than 
 a school teacher and a justice-court lawyer in the 
 **back woods" districts. 
 
 When we reached the door Mol met us. She had 
 heard of her lover's trouble, and had come to fight 
 his battle if necessary. The love of woman in every 
 condition is wonderful. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 I rested the next day. The enthusiast rests little, 
 but now and then a sober thought of himself comes 
 to him, and he remembers that he is flesh and blood, and 
 not all enthusiasm. The most intense Enthusiast that 
 ever blessed the world took some earnest, tired laborers 
 into the mountains "to rest awhile." 
 
 On Pine Log, on that peaceful, quiet day, I saw 
 visions of the new future and of coming human perfec- 
 tion. But we cannot live *'in the mountain." The 
 valley is as surely the correlate of the mountain in spir- 
 itual life as it is in physical formation. 
 
 The day following I took up again the round of vis- 
 its. Never did matrimony seem a greater blessing and 
 a more natural law than the absence of it caused it 
 to appear that day. 
 
 We visited first the home of a bachelor. In a typi- 
 cal cracker cabin we found him at breakfast at ten 
 o'clock in the morning. The sole article of food was 
 blackberries, served in a wooden bucket. After intro- 
 ducing me in his usual manner, Bill opened conver- 
 sation. 
 
 *'Say, Mr. Quinn, don't you eat nothin' but black- 
 berries?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I lives as well as enny man whin I ain't 
 got rheumatiz ;|I ain't been able ter git ter town ter sell 
 berries this week, though ; I's stiff whin I gits f rum the 
 field; kin hardly git berries these days. How's splin- 
 ters 'ith you?" 
 
 "Veryj good," answered Bill. "Mr. Quinn, pity 
 you ain't married." 
 
 "Married ! Ef enny man wants ter insult me jes' 
 31 
 
32 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 let him talk 'bout gittin' married. Tell you, I wouldn't 
 marry no 'oman on 'arth. Don't say no more 'bout it." 
 
 "But, Mr. Quinn, your place's all weeds. Corn'd 
 grow out thar 's well 's jim'son weed, an' ef you don't 
 want ter plow yerself, thar's no reason why the place 
 needn't be cultivate'. You could jes' set here an' smoke 
 an' chaw, an' you could send ter town whin you had 
 rheumatiz, an' have som'thin' fur breakfus' 'sides ber- 
 ries. You dunno how nice it'd be. Better try 't. 
 Here's Miss Jane an' Miss Betsy an' Miss Ann nex' door. 
 I's goin' over thar ter-day — might say som'thin' myself 
 ef I didn't have er gal. Want me ter tell 'm you 
 comin'?" 
 
 The old man arose with effort, raised his cane, and 
 said : 
 
 '*Bill Collins, I'll drive you frum my house ef you 
 say 'nother word 'bout marryin'." 
 
 Bill laughed heartily. He thoroughly enjoyed mak- 
 ing people mad. People who control temper well 
 often delight in such pastime. They play with the 
 world as a cat plays with a helpless mouse. 
 
 I was sitting near the door. A snake crawled from 
 under the house, trailed its slimy form across the path 
 and into the weeds, almost as tall as the old man's head. 
 Bill saw it. 
 
 *'Hu! Mr. Quinn, you lives on blackberries and over 
 snakes. Don't they pester you powerful?" 
 
 "Naw; plenty o' blackberries fur 'm ter eat. I 
 don't bother them, an' they don't bother me." 
 
 Accustomed to snakes. Wretched state. Along this 
 old man's soul the Serpent had trailed his slime 
 many a day unobserved. What wonder that the out- 
 ward form of a snake frightened him not? 
 
 '*Mr. Quinn," I said, ''you have a beautiful view 
 from your door." The slopes and shades were beauti- 
 ful. 
 
 *'It is purty," he replied. **The days the rheuma- 
 tiz is bad I sets here and looks, an' somehow the rheu- 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 33 
 
 matiz gits better. Them things," pointing with feeble 
 :finger to all that made the scene lovely, "is better'n 
 medicine." 
 
 I was half ashamed of my thought a moment before. 
 Here was a spot where the Serpent had not left his 
 trail.* 
 
 Forlorn, desolate, even sad, we left the berry-gath- 
 erer. We then followed a narrow path to find another 
 extreme of single life. It was nearly twelve o'clock, 
 and two women were coming from the field, leading two 
 oxen. 
 
 "Farm's right here," said Bill. "Riches' folks in 
 this country; them old women's got er bag o' money 
 buried 'round here somewhar now; ef they don't mind, 
 somebody'll find it some o' these days. It won't do ter 
 let 'em know you come ter see 'em; they wouldn't let 
 you come in. I'll manage it, though. Miss Jane, we's 
 'most broke down, an' 'most starved. This gintl'man's 
 'bout to faint. Wish you'd let us come in er spell an' 
 rest an' git dinner with you?" 
 
 "Can't you git home 'fore dinner? Well, come in, 
 thin. I'll git er bit extra fur you." 
 
 She turned the ox into the yard and drew a bucket 
 of water for him and for us, and taking a large knife 
 from the well frame, went into the garden, cut a head 
 of cabbage, and walked into the kitchen. The other 
 sister, after caring for her ox, came in to entertain us. 
 I asked about her crops, and congratulated her upon her 
 skill in farming. She blushed ; a woman can always be 
 won by flattery; but I was honest in my praise. Bill 
 was a close observer. 
 
 "Miss Betsy, I's going ter be married nex' fall. 
 What d' yer think o' Mol Smith?" 
 
 "I think she'll be er plumb goose ef she marries 
 you. I don't b'lieve in marryin'. Bill; thar ain't no 
 good in 'it; I gits 'long better'n enny man I know. I 
 
 *Some one, I forget who, has said, 'There is in every man's soul a spot 
 where the Serpent has not left his slime." 
 
34 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEES 
 
 s'ports myself well, but I ain't goin' ter s'port no 
 man." 
 
 * 'That's right, Miss Betsy ; I don't b'lieve in wimmen 
 8'portin' men. Moll ain't goin' ter s'port me, but I's 
 goin' ter take keer o' her." 
 
 "Well, I never seed er man yit that did. I reckin 
 you'll be like all the rest whin the time fur wuk comes." 
 
 "Well, Mol's goin' ter try me ennyhow. Better git 
 married, Miss Betsy. Here's Mr. Quinn right by. He'd 
 enjoy this place powerful, an' he'd love you 's good 's I 
 I love Mol,mebbe; the ole man ain't never done nothin' ; 
 take him an' make him wuk; it'd be good fur his rheu-r 
 matiz." 
 
 Miss Betsy arose, took a pistol from the shelf, 
 pointed it at Bill and said : 
 
 "No man speaks ter me 'bout ole Sam Quinn." 
 
 Bill grew pale and quiet. The pause in the con- 
 versation was unpleasant. Then the third sister came. 
 She had been to Pine Log. A basket of stores was on 
 her arm, a knotted handkerchief in her hand; she thrust 
 her handkerchief in her pocket on seeing us, but I heard 
 the dollars clink. 
 
 We went to dinner. It had been about half an hour 
 since Miss Jane cut the cabbage. It was smoking on 
 the table now. 
 
 "Make er beginnin'," she said; and Bill handed me 
 the cabbage. 
 
 I felt obliged to eat it. I had pitied the old bache- 
 lor and praised the old maids, but I thought blackber- 
 ries were better for digestion than half-cooked cab- 
 bage. 
 
 Immediately after dinner the old maids went to 
 their work, and we were obliged to leave. I thanked 
 them for their kindness and said : 
 
 "No traveller need suffer along this road." I ven- 
 tured to add that I would be in that section some time, 
 and hoped to see them again. 
 
 They flushed rather angrily, but were gracious 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 35 
 
 enough to tell me to call again when tired and hungry. 
 As we went out I heard something fall. It fell from 
 Miss Jane's hair. She did not notice it. I stooped and 
 picked it up. It was a thorn. I looked and saw others 
 in her hair. They made sharp hairpins. I kept the 
 thorn as a memento. 
 
 The next day we visited the gold washings. The 
 business of gold washing furnishes a support to a num- 
 ber of people in some sections, though not many in the 
 neighborhood of Pine Log. The gold is principally sur- 
 face metal. The washers go to the little creek, wade 
 in its shallow water, and scoop the sand up in small ves- 
 sels. They separate the gold by washing, and carefully 
 place the few grains in goosequills kept for the purpose. 
 They keep up this work until tired — never after that 
 time ; then on the banks of the little stream one may see 
 half-a-dozen crackers lounging and lazily sleeping until 
 dinner time. Then they go home with their treasure, 
 eat their scanty meal, and go to the nearest store for 
 needed provisions and tobacco. They do not handle 
 coin at all. Their wealth is in goosequill gold. The 
 storekeeper wraps the provisions and tobacco, and they 
 hand him the quill. He pours out in his hand as much 
 as will pay for the purchases, puts this in a large bottle, 
 and when he has a sufficient number of full bottles he 
 Bends them to the mint. We visited one of these wash- 
 ings. The men were busy separating the gold from the 
 dross. 
 
 Bill addressed one of them: "Mister Downy, how 
 much gold'll you gimme fur erchaw o' t'bacco? I know 
 you ain't got none, an' it'll save you the trouble o' goin* 
 ter the store." 
 
 Mr. Downey stopped, waded to shore, poured out a 
 few grains from his quill, offered them to Bill and asked 
 for the tobacco. 
 
 *'Law, Mr. Downey, I's jes' foolin' .you; I ain't had 
 no t'bacco fur er week. 1 wanted you ter stop wuk, 
 though, an' come here ter talk ter my friend, Mr. Ramla. 
 
86 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 You dunno him, does you? Well, he's the best chap in 
 these diggin's: heap better talk ter him'n wash gold." 
 
 Mr. Downey looked as if he did not think so, but 
 came on shore, threw himself on the grass, and said : 
 
 "Well, stranger, what yer got ter say? Can't talk 
 here long." 
 
 I inquired about the success of his business and he 
 showed me two quills. 
 
 "This is how bizness is now." 
 
 "How much it that worth?" I asked. 
 
 '*'Bout ten pounds o' middlin', sack o' flour, and 
 two plugs o' t'bacco." 
 
 As I was not fond of middling, did not buy flour by 
 the sa(?k, and did not chew tobacco, his information was 
 not definite. 
 
 "Do you work here every day?" I asked. 
 
 "Naw; can' 'ford ter wuk ever' day; gits tired, an' 
 thin thar ain't no use in it. Whin pr'visions gits out I 
 comes an' washes 'nough gold ter buy more, an' thin I 
 rests 'till they gives out ag'in. Ain't that the way you 
 wuk? You 'pears ter be restin' now fur er spell. You 
 mus' have lots o' pr'visions." 
 
 I told him I was afraid my larder was not full, but 
 that I hoped my family was not suffering, and that my 
 visit in that section was not entirely for rest. I asked 
 if he bad children. He had two sons and five daughters. 
 I asked if they went to school. 
 
 "Naw; ain't goin' neither. Boys got ter go ter 
 washin' gold soon 's they're big enough, an' gals is got 
 ter plow an' hoe. Can't 'ford ter fool 'way no time; 
 ain't no use 'n goin' ter school. I never been ter school, 
 an' I gits 'long 's well as enny man in these parts. You 
 tryin' ter git er school?" 
 
 I told him no. 
 
 Bill exclaimed at this: "Mr. Ramla, you's fooled 
 me; I thought that wus jes' what you wus arter." 
 
 I told him that he should know soon what I was 
 after. Mr. Downey called Bill aside, and I overheard 
 him say: 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 3T 
 
 "Bill, you better let that feller alone ; he'll fool you 
 woree'n that." 
 
 ''I dou't know why he's goin' ter fool me," Bill 
 answered; "I ain't got no money, an' I ain't done him 
 no harm." 
 
 "Mark my word," Mr. Downey said, with empha- 
 sis and an air of superior knowledge of human nature ; 
 "I know's folks." 
 
 "I knows 'm too," answered Bill. 
 
 I wondered if I had made a mistake in asking Mr. 
 Downey about his children's education. Apparently I 
 had. But the subject had to be broached some time, 
 and I thought the manner in which Mr. Downey took 
 the matter was perhaps not so discouraging after all. I 
 had expected opposition. 
 
 Mr. Downey returned and said: "Mornin', stranger; 
 I can't waste no more time. Bill, don't never stop me 
 in my work ag'in unless you're on important bizness." 
 
 We bade Mr. Downey good morning and left for 
 home. 
 
 "Thinks he's so powerful smart," said Bill; 
 "wanted me not ter go 'ith you; he ain't got no knowl- 
 edge o' folks; nobody thinks so but him." 
 
 1 told Bill that time would prove all men. 
 
 Weary in mind, if not in body, I went that night 
 upon the mountain. Once before I had seen a strange 
 object when I had taken a night stroll there. It was 
 again visible, and though I am not afraid of ghosts or 
 phantoms, this apparition disturbed me. In thought 
 alone, however; it never came near in person. It stood 
 leaning against a tree some distance from me, but when 
 it saw that I had observed it, quietly walked off, and I 
 watched it out of sight. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Courtship is everywhere interesting, not les-s so 
 among the crackers than elsewhere. Different as classes 
 may claim to be, unlike as individuals may appear, oppo- 
 site as characteristics may seem, the discrepancy is in 
 method alone. Human nature is human everywhere. 
 The heart has its cravings, and they differ in different 
 beings only in the means of gratification. 
 
 The courtship of the cracker is not long. A week 
 sometimes is the extent of it, a summer season the usual 
 time; and rarely do a young man's addresses continue 
 longer than a year. The girls are like girls in other 
 circles, some of them too easily pleased ; but if, per- 
 <;hance, a young man finds one who exacts much, he 
 makes no effort to meet her demands, but comforts him- 
 self with the thought of the large number who make no 
 demands. Perhaps by the next Sunday he is married, 
 while the young woman may never marry. Some women 
 are old maids from necessity, no doubt; but some are 
 old maids because their lovers fail to measure to a high 
 standard of manhood. Blessings on such old maids! 
 
 Courtship and marriage, short and without love, is 
 not peculiar to the crackers. It is common because meet- 
 ing the needs of common hearts. I have seen many cases 
 of it, and wish I had been satisfied with the first sight. 
 But 1 have watched the two lives as they have gone on 
 even to the brink of eternity w^ithout knowedge of a 
 better way. 
 
 My friend at Walesca had described the ordinary 
 -cracker courtship and marriage to me. I remember one 
 or two cases he mentioned. He was talking to a young 
 man about his prospects in life. The young man had 
 
 38 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 39 
 
 been in school a short time, and my friend was hopeful 
 of him. "Well, I's (juit school: can't come no longer. 
 I 'spects ter git married 'n bout er week an' settle down 
 ter housekeepin'." My friend asked whom he was to 
 marry. ''Donno yit ; goin' ter see ter-day; want ter 
 'gage you ter tie us up, though; 'spect it '11 be nex' 
 Sunday." "What !" said my friend, "marry next Sun- 
 day, and do not know whom you are to marry? My 
 friend, there are many things to be considered before 
 marriage. First, are you able to take care of a wife? 
 Second, are you really in love with a certain young 
 woman? and is that young woman in love with you? 
 There are a thousand other things to be thought of, but 
 these are the most necessary." My friend was not a 
 married man. "How do you know? You ain't married. 
 'Spects I's got 'bout 's much right ter marry as you has 
 ter keep single. Ef I finds er gal ter day I'll write you, 
 an' you be prepared ter marry us within er week." 
 
 The next day the following characteristic note 
 reached my friend : 
 
 "Found er gal; be ready fur us nex' Sunday." 
 
 All day Sunday my friend expected the couple to 
 come, but they failed to appear. Just at dusk one of 
 the schoolboys told him that the young man was in the 
 road a short distance from his house, and wished to see 
 him. He sent the cracker word to come to him, 
 but the boy refused, and my friend went to see what he 
 wanted. Barefooted, and in his usual crackerish dress, 
 he stood in the middle of the road, anxiously waiting. 
 
 "Is this here the way you keep yer 'gagements? 
 Pity the gal you marries ef you don't come ter time no 
 better'n you does ter marry other folks. Won't 'gage 
 you no more." 
 
 "Where is the young woman?" was asked. 
 
 "She's over thar in the bushes. Wouldn't do fur 
 us ter stand here together, 'caze folks passin' 'long 
 might 'spect what's the matter an' stop ter see the job 
 well did. It kin be well 'nough did without nobody 
 
40 DOWN AMONG THE CKACKERS 
 
 lookin.' I don't want nobody, an' Becky don't neither. 
 Come along, Becky." 
 
 The young girl, with slat bonnet, blue calico dress, 
 and bare feet, emerged from the bushes. The minister 
 tried to persuade them to go to his house, but they stub- 
 bornly refused. He told them witnesses were necessary, 
 and with some difficulty succeeded in persuading them to 
 allow him to go for two of the schoolboys. They were 
 married, and both bride and groom thanked him for his 
 services. The boy said : 
 
 "I know'd Becky 'd thank you. She thanked me 
 when I axed her. 1 know'd I warn't going ter have no 
 trouble. She wus the fust gal I axed, an' she had me. 
 But, Fay, thankin' ain't 'nough fur you. I owes you 
 er bushel o' taters fur tuition now. Whin I pays you, 
 I'll put in er gallon more fur the marriage. Becky, 
 does you think you's worth er gallon o' 'taters an' er 
 dollar and er half fur license, too?" 
 
 He looked doubtful, and they walked oif man and 
 wife. 
 
 My friend sighed when he told me of this. It was 
 pitiful to him. Another instance I remember : in this 
 case he persuaded the couple to be married in church. 
 Great preparations were made. People assembled from 
 a distance. The night was warm, the windows of the 
 church were open, and a puff of wind blew the lights 
 out just as the ceremony was nearly over and the minis- 
 ter about to say, "I pronounce you man and wife.'* 
 When the lights were burning again, the would-be 
 bride and groom were not to be found. The minister, 
 almost angry, after his effort to make this a respectable 
 marriage, sent a messenger after the couple to say that 
 they were not married. They returned. The man said 
 it was the last time he would be married in church. 
 When the ceremony was entirely over, he asked: '*l8 
 we married now? Well, come on, Polly; don't reckin 
 they'll send fur us this time;" and they hurried to the 
 * Unfair." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 41 
 
 It is common for the cracker to marry so. The 
 young man buys ten cents' worth of candy on Saturday, 
 gets on an old gray mule on Sunday, rides over to see 
 the girl, and spends the day. They talk the matter 
 over, and under such circumstances love is so sweet that 
 they decide to marry; and what is the use waiting? — 
 far better consumate the affair at once. So the wed- 
 ding takes place the next Sunday, and the married life 
 is such as I have described in Bill's home. Each gener- 
 ation follows the example of the preceding, and so life 
 passes. 
 
 But I have to tell you of another courtship among 
 the crackers as it was told me. The world records not 
 many such cases in its annals — the life of a man whose 
 locks have grown white with the silver light of love. 
 Though I am told he was not old when he related to me 
 his story, I do not tell you that, for love ages sometimes 
 more than years, and men's steps grow unsteady and 
 their voices crack because their hearts beat too heavily. 
 
 Bill and I were walking on Pine Log one afternoon 
 just before sunset; I saw for the first time a grave, and 
 over it, looking sadly down, an old, gray-haired man. 
 His head was bare, and the gray locks were hardly heavy 
 enough to pro*;ect it. I turned in reverence from the sa- 
 credness of another's grief. We were tired though, and 
 Bill proposed to stop. He spoke to the old man, more re- 
 spectfully than I had heard him speak except to me. 
 We sat down on the moss-covered rocks ; the old man sat 
 down too. 
 
 "I comes here ever' evenin', stranger; I's come fur 
 twenty year. The snow is sometimes so deep that I 
 have ter wuk fur er long time ter uncover the grave ; 
 but I never leaves it covered at night, unless 't is 'ith 
 flowers. The dry leaves fall the last o' the year, and the 
 mountain 's covered, but the grave 's not. The wind 
 sighs 'round it; I can't help that. The rain falls; I 
 can't help that; but nothin' else shan't disturb her 
 rest." 
 
42 DOWN AMONG THE CKACKERS 
 
 I wondered that he did not put on his hat. He 
 saw that I wondered and said : 
 
 "I never put it on here, stranger; jou see, 't 
 wouldn't be respectful-like ter her. She wus er good gal. 
 Did you never hear her story?" and he looked reproach- 
 fully at Bill. 
 
 "No, I never told him, Mr. Brown; it seemed so 
 sad-like." 
 
 *'Yes, it does seem sad ter me. You see, stranger, 't 
 wus this way : She wus er purty child, shinin' blue 
 eyes an' yaller hair ; it looked like gold whin the washers 
 quills 't; face so white it looked fur all the world like 
 a lily what grows on the water under the shade o' the 
 wilier trees; her cheeks full an' round an' pink, lookin' 
 like er bunch o' blooms in the orchid; an' whin I told 
 her so, she turned her head like er fairy and looked so 
 tickled kinder, an' show'd teeth whiter'n the snow. 
 An' I loved her, stranger, from the time she wus er leetle 
 gal till now, an' I loves her more now 'n I did thin. I 
 wus out gittin' splinters wun day whin I wus 'bout ten 
 years old. (I used ter be er splinter boy, aa' she used 
 ter come ter pick up the splinters whin her mother'd let 
 her, an' she'd want ter carry some ter town an' sell 'm, 
 too, an' she'd get mad 'caze I wouldn't let her, but I'd 
 alius give her er penny er two fur her help.) That day 
 I told her, 'May, does you know that me an' you'll be 
 grown 'fore long?' And she nodded her head; an' thin 
 I sed, 'Don't you think that you an' me better git mar- 
 ried thin. May, 'caze I love you!' An' she nodded her 
 head ag'in; an' I sed, 'May, why don't you speak? 
 Don't you love me?' But she jes' nodded her head ag'in, 
 an', as ef ashamed o' that, run off in the woods; an' I 
 followed her, an' I got her ter talk 'bout what we wus 
 goin' ter do. The nex' day I went ter town, an' whin I 
 come back May wus settin' here on this rock waitin fur 
 me. I looked up, 'caze somehow it seemed brighter, an' 
 I saw her. She smiled such a happy smile it seemed 
 like er angel hidin' 'round the bushes. 'May,' I sed, 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 43 
 
 Hake this; don't you never lose it; it means that I's 
 goin' ter do all I told you yestiddy.' It wus er leetle 
 ring that I got out'n er prize box; an' thin she handed 
 me er leetle paper. It wus wrapped 'round er t'bacco bag 
 she'd made out'n blue flannel, but she sed. 'I don't give 
 it ter you ter use, 'caze I don't wan't you ter smoke; 
 jes' keep it.' An' I's kept it, stranger," he said, 
 showing me the little bag, carefully wrapped. He 
 took it from near his heart. "And she kept the leetle 
 ring ; we buried it 'ith her. So we wus fotehed up 
 together. We tried ter prepare ter marry 'fore we 
 did. I had built er leetle frame house, an' sh« 
 had made her quilts, an' ever'thing wus ready, an' 
 we wus goin' ter marry the nex' Wednesday. She was 
 down 't the wash-place washin' clothes, an' I come 
 by ter tell her somethin'. That's the sweetes' talk I 
 €ver had 'ith her ; an' I kissed her, 'caze it wus so near 
 the time, you know, an' started 'cross the creek on 
 er leetle log. The log wurn't very steddy, an' I turned 
 'round ter kiss my hand ter her, an' she laughed so 
 sweet, an' her cheeks bloomed more, an' thin I fell. 
 Thar'd jes' been er rain, an' the creek wus high, an' I 
 couldn't swim. She know'd it, an' she screamed so loud 
 it frightened me fur her ter be frightened, an' thin I 
 tried ter swim, an' I sunk. She jumped in while I wus 
 under the water; I hadn't thought o' her doing it, an' 
 thin I jes' riz in time to see her sink. Some men come 
 an' took me out, but her clothes wus heavy, an' kept 
 her down too long. They brought us ter the bank 
 an' laid us on the green grass. 1 wus strong 'nough ter 
 rally soon, but May never wus strong, an' she jes' 
 opened her eyes wunst, tried ter smile, an' sed, 'Jack, I 
 love you ; be er good man.' An' I have tried ter be 
 good, stranger; I have, indeed. We buried her here, 
 'caze I know'd she'd want ter be buried here, whar I 
 found her waitin' that day, now thirty year ago, an' I 
 try ter keep her grave as fresh as she used ter look. 
 After we put her away, I went ter her mother. She 
 
44 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 WU8 the onliest leetle one, jes' like Bill's sweetheart is 
 now, an' I tuk her mother ter the leetle frame house, an* 
 she's been thar ever seiice, an' whin she's able she 
 comes here, too. We of 'n talk o' leetle May, an' wonder 
 ef she knows. Stranger, I b'lieve she does." 
 
 I put my arm around the old man as tenderly as I 
 could, raised the other hand and asked the Great Sym- 
 pathizer's benediction. Somehow my voice was not 
 clear, and I was glad the Master hears in the heart. 
 The old man shook with emotion, as he had not done be- 
 fore, and waved us to leave him. We walked oif, and 
 when we had reached the foot of the hill I looked back. 
 The figure was near the grave ; but it was kneeling now. 
 
 1 told Bill to go home, that I would stay out a while 
 longer. I walked up and down the road perturbed in 
 spirit. I looked once more up to the spot where we left 
 the old man. He was gone. Just where we had sat 
 stood the strange white figure that had caused me 
 uneasiness before. Its head could not be seen. It wore 
 a white hood. 
 
 I walked toward Bill's home; this unusual phenom- 
 enon on the mountain alarmed me. I heard the report 
 of a pistol; a bullet fell just in front of me. Bill heard 
 it and ran to meet me. I did not care to tell him of the 
 apparition, for fear he would not go with me to many 
 places I had yet to visit. So I ssid: 
 
 *'Someone must be hunting on the mountain." 
 
 *'Hu! don't hunt nothin' but folks 'ith er pistol." 
 
 When we reached the house I found a note from my 
 friend awaiting me : 
 
 *'Come to-night; I need you." 
 
 I saddled my horse , and went five miles across the 
 mountain to Waleeca that night. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I found my friend troubled. 
 
 "I have hard work for you," he said. "We must 
 stop the liquor traffic here. There is no hope for the 
 crackers until it is stopped. These still-men and 
 ^grocery' men ruin the school. They come here, hide 
 out in the woods, and the schoolboys buy whiskey from 
 them. To-day I found two young men drunk, and half- 
 a-dozen bottles behind old stumps. I shall have to give up 
 the school and not make another effort in this mountain 
 section, unless something is done immediately." 
 
 He was despondent, and I did not wonder; how 
 hopeless the work seemed ! I tried to encourage him, 
 but he knew more than I did, and had stood more. 
 
 *'You must visit the blind stills as soon as possible. 
 Bill knows where they are, and if you have gained his 
 confidence, he will take you to some of them. Win the 
 esteem and affection of the distillers. Do not let them 
 know that you know they are moonshiners. Persuade 
 them to come to church, and it may be that we can 
 gradually break up the traffic. I will try to interest the 
 government more. I have just written to a revenue offi- 
 cer to come at once. Old friend, I hate to put the hard- 
 est part of the work upon you." 
 
 I thought he had the hardest part to stay quietly in 
 the schoolroom and labor day by day in the same way ; 
 my work was at least exciting. But the labors of both 
 seemed slow to accomplish results. Our hopes were like 
 the hopes of the stream that in time only can wear the 
 rocks away. 
 
 I returned that night. The next morning I asked 
 Bill about the still-keepers. He at first refused to give 
 
 45 
 
46 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 me any information ; but finally consented to take me to 
 the home of one of them. We went that day about three 
 miles from his house, through the woods and by by- 
 paths to a little hut. 
 
 Just before we reached it Bill said: 
 
 "Now, yonder's the still, but don't 'pear ter see it, 
 'caze Nicely may be thar, an' ef he sees us looking our 
 heads won't be worth no more'n the powder an' shot it'd 
 take ter blow 'm off. He don't know I know he's got er 
 still, or he'd think nothin' o' buryin' me in er ditch 
 down here. They don't run the still in the day, but 
 thar's giner'ly somebody 'round ter watch fur the reve- 
 nue men." 
 
 We were in hunting dress, and by way of precau- 
 tion had killed some birds on the way. The distiller 
 was sitting in front of his door, smoking. His wife was 
 in the garden working. 
 
 "That looks nat'ral-like," said Bill; "reminds me 
 o' dad." 
 
 Nicely arose to meet us. I saw he looked uneasy, 
 though he tried to appear very composed. A gun was 
 by his side. Bill told him we had been hunting, and if 
 he would allow us, we would like to take dinner with 
 him. He had just been hunting, too, he said, but we 
 saw no sign of game. Bill told me afterwards that Nicely 
 always carried a gun, and that on his return from the 
 still in the early morning he would kill a rabbit or par- 
 tridge , so as to deceive visitors as to the hunt. 1 no- 
 ticed he kept his hand on the gun all the time, apparent- 
 ly unconsciously leaning on it. I was afraid not to do 
 the same at first, but when we went in to dinner I put 
 my gun down , determined to show him that I had no 
 hostile intentions. He had cleared the land well, and a 
 fine crop evidenced his prosperity. I congratulated him 
 upon this crop. He looked suspicious, but said : 
 
 "Yes, the crop's fine this year; I raise 'nough corn 
 fur use an' er bushel or two ter sell. It's not as much 
 trouble ter wuk as cotton, an' grows better here. I 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 47 
 
 have er big orchid back here, too, (pointing back of the 
 house), an' we live purty well on the profit o' corn an* 
 fruit an' on the game 1 kill." 
 
 This was doubtless true, as distilling corn and fruit 
 is a money-making business. I asked him where he sold 
 his crops. He answered in Atlanta. Many of che farm- 
 ers of that section carry their crops and small barter for- 
 ty miles to Atlanta. I asked him if he worked his farm 
 alone. 
 
 *'Naw ; Belle an' my son Jim does mos' o' the work. 
 I oversees the bizness." 
 
 Jim, I supposed, was then at the still. He inquired 
 who I was, where I lived, and what was my business in 
 that section. 
 
 Bill said: "Law, Mr. Nicely, didn't I introduce 
 you? 'Scuse me ; I was so tired I clear forgot it." 
 
 He then introduced me, mispronouncing my name, 
 and continued: 
 
 "He's from the city, an' he's been huntin' an' 
 fishin' ; he's been stayin' 'ith me fur the las' two 
 months." 
 
 We left soon after dinner, and as we walked off Bill 
 said to me : 
 
 "We'll have ter hunt like good fellows now, an' 
 don't you say er word 'bout the still. Jes' talk 'bout 
 how nice Mr. Nicely is, an' what er good farmer." 
 
 We hunted in earnest, and I enjoyed the sport. I 
 looked back once, and saw the still-keeper stealthily fol- 
 lowing us. Bent double, with gun lowered he was 
 creeping through the bushes. We hunted all the way 
 home, and all the way the moonshiner followed us. I 
 saw him not twenty yards from Bill's door when we en- 
 tered it. 
 
 I thanked Bill for his admirable guardianship 
 through the perils of the day, and asked him if he would 
 risk as much again ; that I must visit the homes of other 
 still- keepers, and, if possible, a still itself. 
 
 " 'Twon't do ter go no more fur er month now. 
 
48 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 Give 'm time ter find out all about you, an' that you 
 ain't er revenue man." 
 
 During the next month I continued my visits through 
 the neighborhood, making friends where I could and 
 clinching the friendship by some slight kindness. I met 
 Nicely more than once. 1 was glad to meet him, hoping 
 to make an impression for good upon him, though I was 
 confident he was following me for no good purpose. 
 Truly, a life of sin is an unhappy life. Men become 
 suspicious, and every movement is nervous and uneasy. 
 I went on the mountain many times in spite of the 
 apparition there. I saw it often, but it never sought to 
 disturb me or seemed hostile after that one shot on the 
 day that the old man told his story. I wondered if it 
 was a moonshiner^ I began to think again of visiting 
 the moonshiners, and I determined to go to a still, that 
 I might learn all about the life of these people. 
 
 Bill said: '*A11 right; we'll go 'possum huntin' to- 
 night, and go by Plunket's still, 'bout four miles from 
 here. You'd better carry er pistol an' plenty o' cart- 
 ridges, an' ef they gits arter us an' we have ter run, no 
 matter 'bout gittin' separated, jes' go fur home 's fas' 's 
 you kin; but hide somewhar near; don't go ter the 
 house 'fore day, or they'll git you sure." 
 
 We started about eleven o'clock,caught an opossum, 
 which Bill carried , and then went to the still. The 
 moonshiners were at work, and there seemed to be many 
 of them. Evidently their work that night was something 
 besides distilling. They seemed to be holding a confer- 
 ence. We heard many voices in subdued tones, dis- 
 cussing the probability of the revenue officer's coming 
 in a day or two. They had heard in some way that he 
 was coming. The oaths were fearful. I have never 
 anywhere else heard such. 
 "Bill, this is dreadful." 
 
 "Hush!" he said, "they're talkin' 'bout you." 
 "I believe this man that's pokin' 'round the coun- 
 try here 'ith Bill Collins 's er revenue man; looks like 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CllACKERS 49 
 
 '*I think so, too; an' I think we'd better git rid of 
 him." 
 
 "Be quiet fur yer life," said Bill to me. 
 Then came a familiar voice from the still. Nicely 
 spoke : 
 
 "Well, you fellers, I guess, don't know 's much 
 ^bout that man 's I do. He came ter my house 'ith Bill 
 Oollins 'bout er month ago, an' I thought fur certain he 
 wuz er revenue man. I followed him home that day, an' 
 I've watched him ever sence ; met him all 'round the 
 neighborhood, an' he ain't no revenue man; I know he 
 ain't. I dunno what he's here fur. He says 'tis ter 
 hunt, but I think 'tis ter do good. I ain't seed him do 
 nothin' else. He nurses sick folks, an' gives money ter 
 poor folks, an' sech 's that. He's er likely feller ter 
 talk ter too. I wish he'd come ter see me ag'in." 
 
 It was the first time I was ever grateful for flattery. 
 "Well, we'll let him alone, ef you say so," some 
 one replied. 
 
 "I think you'd better," replied Nicely. 
 Then, as near as we could gath3r, they seemed to 
 be planning to take the officer's life. When the confer- 
 ence seemed about to close, we left as quietly as we had 
 come. I had not been in the still, and though my peri- 
 lous visit may have seemed useless, I learned more of the 
 desperate life of the moonshiner that night than I could 
 have learned in a lifetime without it. The very perils I 
 passed through impressed me more than any surmise 
 could have done with the depravity and desperation of 
 these people ; a highway robber is not more desperate 
 than a moonshiner. 
 
 We reached home just as the gray sky presaged the 
 morning. We had not left the still too soon, for the 
 moonshiners' voices were heard not far behind us. I 
 threw myself in my hammock and fell asleep, despite the 
 excitement of the night. 
 
 The revenue officer was coming that day, my friend 
 told me when I went to Walesca. I stayed and told the 
 officer of his danger. 
 
50 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 "Thank you," he said, and laughed; "I amused to 
 the plots of the moonshiners. Three times before my life 
 has been plotted against, and it is always in danger. 
 Your information will be very helpful to me, however.'* 
 
 He telegraphed immediately for three other officers 
 to come and accompany him on his visit to the stills. 
 
 I said: "If possible, have no trouble with the 
 moonshiner. Nicely;" and he promised as much clem- 
 ency as the law allowed. 
 
 The other officers came, and the four started out to- 
 gether. I felt anxious all day and stayed with my friend 
 awaiting the men who possibly never would return. 
 Just at morning on the next day, two days from the 
 time I had visited the still, they came. One was 
 wounded, and stayed with us ; the other three went to 
 Atlanta with five moonshiners as prisoners. Another 
 moonshiner had been badly wounded but had escaped. 
 One had been killed. Nicely had escaped unhurt. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I questioned the wounded officer as to their experi- 
 ence, and he related it as follows : 
 
 "We reached the section of the stills about ten 
 o'clock last night. Every still was deserted. We went 
 to the homes of the moonshiners, but no one but their 
 wives and children were there, and we rode from the 
 last place without having seen a moonshiner. Riding 
 towards Cartersville, where we had decided to stay un- 
 til the next night, and then surprise the distillers, we 
 heard voices in the woods to the right of the road. The 
 thought immediately came to me that they had expected 
 us to come from Cartersville, and intended waylaying us 
 before we could reach the stills. We had, however, 
 come the other way from Walesca. We listened a mo- 
 ment. One man said: "The revenue men won't git 
 here ter-night. Let's rest er bit and go home. 
 We'll try 'm on the Warleeky road ter-morrow 
 night. Guess they'll be thar by thin." We waited 
 a few minutes, and then surprised them. Riding 
 quickly up, we put handcuffs on two before any 
 of them awoke. There were eight in the party. They 
 fought like tigers when awakened, and we did too. We 
 killed one. With an oath he said, in dying: 'We in- 
 tended ter kill you ter-night.' Then the firing became 
 desperate. Two men ran. We wounded one of them, 
 but could not follow. He made good his escape. They 
 missed fire at every shot except the one that wounded 
 me. I manacled one while he was loading his pistol. 
 One of my companions did another the same way. The 
 ammunition of the remaining three gave out, and they 
 started to run, but we took them all. One of the moon- 
 
 51 
 
52 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 shiners who escaped was Nicely, the other was the des- 
 perado of the mountains, McCabe. They saw that we 
 must overpower them by force of arms, though they 
 outnumbered us. McCabe ran, and I shot him. He 
 stopped, and above the firing and the storm of curses, I 
 heard him swear that with the same bullet that I had 
 wounded him he would kill me. The two moonshiners 
 whom we first manacled of course fled, but they were 
 helpless, and were easily retaisen. They were brought 
 in this morning. As we came to Walesca to-day I saw 
 posted on a tree this notice: 'I have tuk out the ball. 
 Some day it will cost the revenue officer w^ho shot me, 
 his life. — McCabe.' He was then in the mountains, 
 past arrest. There is scarcely an officer in the state who 
 w^ill attempt to take him. He has killed two revenue 
 men already." 
 
 I was told afterwards that this man was the best and 
 the bravest revenue officer in the state, and really the 
 only one that would attack McCabe. 
 
 I asked him what would be done with^the moonshin- 
 ers who were taken to Atlanta. He replied that men 
 who run blind stills are usually only fined, but that 
 theFe would be tried for attempt to murder revenue of- 
 ficers. I asked if I would have to testify as to the plot. 
 I really had only heard enough to know that some kind 
 of a plot was on foot. My information could not be 
 positive. He answered that he supposed I would have 
 to appear at any rate. I was disheartened at the pros- 
 pect of my hope of helping the cracker being entirely 
 dissipated. I told the officer that I would not evade the 
 summons of the law, but that if I should be^subpoenaed 
 to appear in court to testify as to the plot,^it^would cer- 
 tainly destroy the little influence I then had with the 
 crackers, and interfere materially with [the^efforts and 
 influence of my friend's school, and possibly cost my 
 life. He said that, if there should be sufficient evidence 
 without mine, he would ask that I be relieved from tes- 
 tifying. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 53 
 
 As soon as he was well enough to return to Atlanta 
 the case was called, and Bill Collins and I were sub- 
 poenaed as witnesses. We went, of course, but the rev- 
 enue officer had arranged to have us examined privately 
 at a conference of lawyers first: and this conference, in 
 consideration of there being sufficient evidence without 
 ours, and out of respect for the cause I was laboring in 
 and the aid that Christian work in the section of the 
 stills would be to the United States, excused us. We 
 returned without the moonshiners having any knowledge 
 of our having been summoned. 
 
 The case was tried, the verdict was guilty. 
 
 Some years afterward my friend was sent for to see 
 Nicely die. He repented at the last, and said he would 
 be willing to meet the fate of his fellows if he should 
 live to give himself up to justice, but he died at home, 
 repentant, and my friend hoped, saved. It is one of the 
 sweetest thoughts of my life that he said at the last that 
 the watch he kept over me for so long had been a bless- 
 ing to him. Nicely's widow lives with her son at the 
 same place where Bill and I found them. The corn and 
 the fruit jet testify to their prosperity, but the distill- 
 ery no longer stands. 
 
 The morning after our visit to the stills, BilPs 
 sweetheart came to his home. She had seen us and the 
 moonshiners pass, and suspected where we had been. 
 Mol came to the door, called Bill out, and I heard her 
 say: 
 
 "Look here. Bill Collins, ef you 'spects ter marry 
 me, I want yer to stop goin' whar you'll git murdered. 
 I don't want no moonshiners comin' 'round an' swingin* 
 my sweetheart up ter er tree. I know jes' whar you 
 wus las' night. You dares too much now, an' that man 
 what's takin' you 'round the country 's got no bizness 
 takin' you in dang'rous places. He ain't goin' ter keep 
 nobody from killin' you. What ef he did buy er corfin 
 fur yer dad? He may buy wun fur you, too; but you 
 won't 'preciate it much then.'* 
 
U DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 *'No, Mol, I'll 'preciate it now, 'case I know he'll 
 do that or ennythin' else fur me, an' I'll do ennythin' 
 fur him. You dunno what you're talkin' 'bout. We 
 went 'possum huntin' last night. You see this?" show- 
 ing her the opossum which we had really brought home. 
 ** J caught him; bring you er piece ter-day. And you 
 thought I went ter er blind still.? You know I don't 
 drink, Mol. What makes you think I went thar?" 
 
 ** 'Caze I seed you pass this mornin' 'fore day, an' 
 right arter you passed I seed half-er-dozen moonshiners 
 come Btragglin' 'long. They had bags, too, jes' like 
 they'd been'possum huntin'. I b'lieve you did go." 
 
 *'Then, mebbe you thinks I keep's er still. Say, 
 Mol, ef you wus ter see me pass along ter-morrow morn- 
 in' 'bout day, an' in about half er hour you wus ter see 
 «r cyclone breezin' by, would you think I'd been ter the 
 beginnin' o' that cyclone?" 
 
 ''Naw, Bill, you know I'se got sense." 
 
 *'Jes' as much reason in your b'lieven' that 's I 
 went ter the still. You got sense 'bout ever'thin' but 
 me. Say, Mol, is you goin' ter be that way when we's 
 married?" 
 
 She burst into tears. *'Bill, you knows I wus jes' 
 lookin' out fur yer safety." 
 
 "I knows it, Mol, an' I knows you's the bes' gal in 
 the world. Now, don't cry. I'll say you've got more 
 sense 'bout me 'n ennythin' else ef you won't cry. Mol, 
 you know I loves you, and that's better'n all my teasin'. 
 Forgive me, Mol, an' I won't fret you no more." 
 
 I was in my hammock; Mol's coming had awakened 
 me, and I had to lie still to keep from disturbing them. 
 Bill, in all he said, had not revealed the fact that he had 
 really been to the still. He thought it best not to reveal 
 it. Women tell everything to their sweethearts; men 
 seldom tell dangerous facts to any one, even to their 
 wives; but then men are not burdened with dangeroua 
 knowledge as women are, and it is no relief to them to 
 tell it. They believe that it is best for them not to tell. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 56 
 
 Men tell their troubles only to obtain help. Women tell 
 theirs to receive sympathy. And then there is a feeling 
 with a woman that she is sacredly bound to tell her 
 sweetheart everything. Is it that she feels the sacred 
 nees of an engagement more than a man? However it 
 be, Bill was wise in telling no one of our going to 
 the still. He had really not neglected Mol, but he had 
 not gone to see her as often lately as she possibly ex- 
 pected him. I felt partly responsible for this; he had 
 been with me a great deal, and I did not want the girl 
 to feel that I had taken her beau from her. So after I 
 heard Bill say: "Mol, I'd go home with you, but I's 
 goin' ter bring you some 'possum fur dinner, an' your 
 mother won't lemme come twice in one day," I arose, fol- 
 lowed her rapidly, and went home with her myself. 
 
 "Miss Mollie," I said, "you must not think that I 
 am keeping Bill with me too much. He is helping me 
 in a great work, that I will tell you of soon." I asked 
 her pardon for saying that T thought Bill loved her very 
 tenderly. 
 
 She seemed to appreciate my thought of her, and 
 my conscience felt relieved. 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Ramla," she said, "I bet Bill's clear for- 
 got ter tell you that er man come here the other night 
 an' axed mam an' me 'bout you, an' what you wus here 
 fur. He wouldn't come in, though, an' I didn't know 
 who he was ; he 'peared mighty interested an' I don't 
 'spect he meaned you no good." 
 
 I asked his height. He was very tall. The appa- 
 rition was also very tall. Was this incubus to oppress 
 me always? 
 
 I took my usual walks on the mountain, and seldom 
 went without seeing it. I wondered if it could be the 
 desperado, McCabe. I spoke to my friend about it. He 
 only laughed and said a man who would visit a blind 
 still should not be afraid of ghosts. 
 
 "You are tired," he said, "and gloomy when you go 
 on the mountain, and the shadows mingle with your 
 
56 DOWN AMONG THB CBACKEES 
 
 gloomy thoughts, and form strange images. It is the 
 ghost of the day's difficulties and discouragements." 
 
 *'But the pistol shot?" I said. 
 
 "Some one shooting at a mark." 
 
 "Then the mark was very near me." 
 
 *'0r," he added, "some cracker boy trying to fright- 
 en you. The crackers delight in such sport, without 
 meaning the least real harm. They are happy when they 
 can make some one else uncomfortable. It is a species 
 of conceit; they are gratified when they are the means 
 of accomplishing anything that is not actually wrong." 
 
 I knew this was true, and felt better satisfied about 
 the appearance on the mountain. But what of the man 
 I had seen several times following me? I had never 
 been able to see his face. He never came near enough. 
 
 "Once since McCabe fled I have seen this strange 
 man following me," I said. 
 
 "Then it is not McCabe," said my friend. "He 
 would be afraid to appear anywhere in this country;" 
 and he changed the subject. 
 
 I thought my friend was a little disgusted with me, 
 but I found later that he was very anxious about my 
 safety, but wisely tried to reassure me. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 One Saturday when I was thoroughly worn out with 
 work and worry, I told Bill that I would go to Walesca 
 to spend the day. 
 
 He said: "I'm glad you don't want ter go nowhar 
 else; thar's 'zaetly whar I wants ter go. Ain't been ter 
 Warlesky in er long time on Sat'day, an' I's goin' ter 
 have er good time thar in the store this day." 
 
 I asked what would constitute the good time. 
 
 "Oh, jes' foolin' the store people and the boys 
 'round thar. Them schoolboys thinks I'm the greates' 
 man in these parts. I can't say so much fur them. 
 They ain't got much senye. Say, you jes' come in the 
 store ter-day an' see me down 'm." 
 
 I told him that I was not well, and thought I had 
 better rest. 
 
 "Ain't laughin' 's good 's res'? You'd laugh 'til 
 you'd furgit you was tired." 
 
 We went, I to my friend's house, and Bill to the 
 store. My friend was not at home, so after a half hour's 
 rest I went to the store to be refreshed by the cracker 
 wit. The merry laughter of the schoolboys could be 
 heard some time before I reached the store. Lounging 
 about the town was a great fault with them for a long 
 while ; it was impossible to make strict laws in the 
 school in its first years. 
 
 When I went into the store Bill was sitting on 
 a goods box, and the boys were congregated around him 
 in every shape in which merriment seeks expression. He 
 folded his arms as I entered, straightened himself, 
 and was perfectly silent. The boys tried to get him to 
 speak. He would not say a woid. They insisted upon 
 knowing the reason of his sudden silence. 
 
 57 
 
58 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 ** 'Caze I's got r'spect fur folk's feelin's. Mr. Ram- 
 la tole me jes' 'fore we come that he didn't want ter 
 hear no laughin' ; he wanted ter rest ter-day. T thought 
 laughin' 'd be the same 's res', but he didn't think so, 
 so I considers his feelin's. Y'awl ain't got no 'sid'ra- 
 tion fur folks." 
 
 I told him not to let my presence interfere with 
 their pleasure, that I should not stay long. 
 
 "All right; I'll perceed. B'lieve I wus tellin' you 
 'bout my fust courtship. Well, I wanted ter go ter see 
 the gal; she'd done sent me word fifty times ter come. 
 So I sold splinters an' bought pep'mint candy ter take 
 ter her, an' rid my donkey over thar 'bout five miles. 
 The gal didn't know I wus comin' , so she warn't ready 
 fur me. She was in the garden; I seed her fly 'round 
 the house in her old ragged skirt; her hair wus tangled 
 an' I dunno how she ever got it loose; but arter er 
 while she come out in er red calico frock, blue rib- 
 bons a streamin', an' her hair flowin' 'round like high 
 water, kinder unsettled like, an' standin' out like er 
 haystack arter the wind's done twisted it 'round. 'I's 
 so glad ter see you, Mr. Collins' (I won't more'n 'bout 
 fourteen;) 'I's looked fur you all this summer. I's 
 sorry you couldn't git here sooner.' 1 told her I'd been 
 tryin' ter come harder'n than I tried ter trade donkeys 
 when I had wun that wouldn't wuk. It warn't so; I 
 never tried 't all ; come jes' 's soon 's I wanted ter. 'Oh ! 
 I's so glad you thinks so much o' me. I alius liked you, 
 Mr. Collins. I said ter mam jes' the other day, 'Bill 
 Collins 's the bestest boy in these parts." ' I know'd 
 that b'fore, an' she thought she wus tellin' me er power- 
 ful piece o' news. 'Thin I ses ter mam, too, "Mam, 
 he'd make er good husband." Thin mam sed, "Ax him 
 over." I's 60 glad you's come, Mr. Bill.' " 
 
 "I suppose you gave her the peppermint candy about 
 that time?" said one of the boys. 
 
 "Naw, sir; couldn't 'ford ter waste pep'mint candy ; 
 cost too meny splinters — 'bout two splinters er stick. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 59 
 
 That gal wus too anxious. Did you ever go in the or- 
 chid arter apples, an' hear 'm drap, drap, an' think you 
 warn't a-goin' ter have the trouble ter shake the tree? 
 Jes' pick up wun, an' you'll git fooled. The apple 
 what ain't strong 'nough ter stay on the tree till you 
 shake it, ain't the apple fur m^^. Same way with gal^. 
 But I thought I'd have er leetle fun ennyhow, bein' 's 
 how I'd come so fur. You know thar's er big oak tree 
 down here er piece what the lightnin' struck an'* 
 knocked in ten hundred pieces. I wish it had er been 
 pine; it 'd made fine splinters fur me. Well, I tole that 
 gal how I loved her harder 'n the lightnin' struck that 
 tree, an' she sed, 'Why, darlin' Bill, how you do talk. 
 How would you prove that?' I proved it in the usual 
 way, an' she said, 'The tree certainly must 'a felt com- 
 fort'ble like whin the lightning struck it.' " 
 
 A peal of laughter here drowned every other sound. 
 Bill did not even smile, but he spoke to the storekeeper 
 and quietly sprinkled something out of a small jar on the 
 counter. 
 
 "Well, Bill," the boys began, "tell us about your 
 next courtship." 
 
 "Oh, yes; it wus that same day. I lef soon arter 
 dinner, an' tole that gal I'd come the next Sunday an' 
 we'd fix the day. I went like I tole her, an' jes' rid up 
 ter the gate an' called her out an' I sed, 'Now, you know 
 we must agree on the day, can't marry 'less both par- 
 ties is agreed as ter the time. The only time that'll 
 suit me is the day arter my third wife dies; couldn't be 
 no sooner 'n that, 'caze the other gals would object.' 
 Thin I rode off fast ter keep her frum throwin' er brick 
 at me, an' called back, 'Does that suit you?' I didn't 
 hear what she sed. Well, the same evenin' what I 
 promised that gal ter come back an' name the day I 
 went ter see 'nother wun. Warn't nobody at home but 
 her. She wus sorter shy-like, an' I thought she wus 
 the gal. I felt in my pocket fur the candy, but some- 
 how it didn't feel right. I tuk it out, an' it had broke 
 
60 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 into half-inch pieces, knocking 'ginst the saddle ; an' 
 like it wus 'shamed o' breakin', it had all tried ter git 
 t'gether ag'in, an' wus jes' er big cake. But she sed 
 'twas nice. Well, I waited fur her ter interduce the 
 subject, but she wouldn't do it. So I tole her how I'd 
 alius loved her, loved her harder'n er cyclone kin blow; 
 but she didn't like that kind of love, 'case er cyclone 
 blow'd her home 'way wunst. So I sed, 'Well, I love 
 you better'n you loves the arbutis what blooms along the 
 mountain, an' lies so close ter the ground that the cy- 
 clone can't tech it — jes' blows over it.' An' she 'lowed 
 how she reckin'd that warn't true, an' I made her b'lieve 
 'twus, an' she sed she liked that kind o' love, but she'd 
 have ter ax her mam. I left purty happy, an' thought 
 I'd come ag'in; an' so I did, but 'twas arter I'd forgot 
 ter love her enny more; you see, I seed 'nother gal I 
 liked better. She wus standin' on the porch^ an' her 
 mam had come home, an' she jes' tickled me on the 
 cheek, an' she sed, *Bill, dear, does you love me 's much 
 's you did? Mam's ses she's willin' ;' an' I sed, 'Naw, I 
 don't love you er bit now,' an' I ain't never been thar 
 eence. But somehow that gal wus nice." 
 
 **Tell us another experience. Bill," said one of the 
 boys. 
 
 **Ain't you never courted no gals yerself? Don't 
 you know how 'tis? I'll take you ter see er gal some 
 Sunday. But naw; Mol 'd think I wus goin' ter see her 
 myself; can't do that." 
 
 "Take us to see Mol," they exclaimed. 
 
 Bill pulled off his coat and picked up a crowbar 
 that was near. *'Miss Smith's her name; you call her 
 by it." 
 
 *'But you called her Mol. We didn't know she had 
 any other name." 
 
 '*Thin why didn't you ax me? I calls her Mol 'caze 
 she's my sweetheart. I ain't goin' ter tell you but wun 
 more, 'caze you needn't 'spect me ter entertain you all 
 the time. I w^ent ter see another gal. She was mighty 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 61 
 
 dignified, an' she wus er 'ligious gal. I axed her to 
 marry me ; she sed she'd go out an' think 'bout it er 
 while. She stayed out 'bont er hour, 'an thin she come 
 in; she'd been goin' ter er school over here, an' she 
 could read purty fair. She had the Bible in her hand, 
 an' she p'inted ter er place fur me ter read. I tole her 
 the room wus dark an' my eyes won't very well, an' 
 she'd better read it, an' she sed she 'lowed how 
 she'd open the Bible an' whatever she saw furst wus go- 
 in' ter be her answer; an' whin she opened it she saw: 
 'An' it came to pass,' an' that was her answer. I 
 axed her what made her stay so long, 'an she sed she 
 thought mebbe wunst wouldn't do, so she kep' openin' 
 the Bible, an' ter keep from losin' her place, she kep' her 
 finger 'tween the leaves, an' no matter whar else she'd 
 open it it'd alius turn back ter that place. So she 
 thought she'd better have me." 
 
 "Then what did you do, Bill?" asked the boys. 
 
 "What do you reckin? I won't a-goin' ter tell her 
 
 I wus much obleeged; so I jes' " and he extended 
 
 his arms. 
 
 Of course the boys laughed. 
 
 I said: "I think she must have been the right sort 
 of girl, Bill;" and he said : 
 
 "I thought so, too, but she jes' lived in here," 
 (touching his head.) "These boys been mighty int'r- 
 «sted, an' thar ain't er word I sed been true; couldn't 
 a'ford fur them ter have all the fun." 
 
 "Well, tell us about your courtship of Miss Mol. 
 We know that is true." 
 
 "Nc'um; that's jes fur Mol an me ter know." 
 
 The boys had been so interested that they had not 
 noticed the powder that Bill sprinkled on the counter. 
 
 "Mr. Storekeeper," said Bill, "does you sprinkle 
 sugar 'round like this? Must be rich; certainly 's 
 good;" and, of course they all tasted it. 
 
 It was quinine, and it was now Bill's time to laugh. 
 
 "You see, I's considerate o' folks. I had er chill 
 
62 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 yistiddy, an' wus afraid I'd bring it ter y'awl; chills 
 mought be ketchin' ; so I give you this ter count'ract it; 
 don't guess you'll have the chills arter this." 
 
 "Now, Bill," they said, "you must tell us another 
 experience for that." 
 
 "Well, I ain't a-goin' ter talk 'bout no more gals. 
 I's so tired I don't wanter see er gal in er week. Let's 
 talk 'bout boys. You remember that boy Snipes what 
 wus here las'year? Well, I had more fun out'n that boy; 
 bet he never tole you nothin' 'bout it, though. I tuk 
 him out 'possum huntin' wun night; 'fesser sed he might 
 go. I heard er owl movin' 'round in er tree, an' I tole 
 him it wuz er 'possum. He climbed up, an' the owl 
 kept flyin' frum limb ter limb, an' Snipes couldn't find 
 it. Trectly the owl sed, 'T'whoo,' an' skeered Snipes 
 so bad he let go an' fell ter the ground. 'Twarn't er 
 very tall tree, or it certainly would 'a' kilt Snipes. I 
 don't think he ever heard er owl 'fore, 'caze he 'lowed 
 it must be wrong to go 'possum huntin,' or that 
 ghost wouldn't 'a' hollered at him. 1 axed him whoever 
 heard o' er ghost talkin'; 'twas er owl; an' he wouldn't 
 b'lieve me. Thin we come ter er tree what had er sure- 
 'nough 'possum in it, an I tole Snipes ter try it a'gin, 
 an' he did. He climbed an' caught him by the tail, an' 
 I wus tellin' him er great joke 'bout votin' here on 'lec- 
 tion day, an' Snipes wus slowly comin' down with the^ 
 'possum, awful proud o' ketchin' him. Arter er while 
 the 'possum jes' twisted 'round an' caught Snipes right 
 through the finger, an' he dropped down 'nother tree an*^ 
 like ter 'a' broke his neck, an' of course the 'possum got 
 'way. He vowed he won't goin' with me no more; but I 
 dressed up one Sat'day night an' come over an' axed 
 him ter go visitin' 'ith me, an' he dressed ter kill; it 
 tuk him 'bout er hour ter git ready, an' we started. I 
 tuk him 'round by the Meth'dist church, through the 
 woods, an' back ter the graveyard. I tole him the folks 
 'd be mighty glad ter see him, but they wus quiet an'^ 
 might not tell him so 't fust. I tole him we wus goin' 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 63 
 
 ter see the Huffstetlers, an' you know thar ain't nobody 
 but the HuflPstetlers in that graveyard. I had got Bob 
 Smith ter come 'round an' be standin' thar ready ter 
 'pear like he was goin' ter murder Snipes. He called ter 
 us ter halt, an' Snipes got down on his knees ter him. 
 I did, too, ter fool Snipes, an' presently Bob let us off, 
 an' I whooped. The moon 'rose 'bout that time, an' 
 Snipes wus as white as er sheet. He wanted ter fight 
 whin he found out how 'twus, an' pulled out er pistol I 
 didn't know he had, an' Bob an' me had ter git down on 
 our knees ter him in earnes'. I tole him the onliest way 
 that the Huffstetlers could be glad ter see him wus fur 
 him ter be skeered ter death, but he said he reckined 
 they'd be jes' 's glad ter see us. Snipes wus er coward, 
 though, an' 'bout that time er bird what all the noise 
 had skeered 'wake, flew out o' the bushes in the grave- 
 yard, an' Snipes run. You heard from that feller lately? 
 certainly would like ter see him." 
 
 Bill's wit was running low, and he knew it. Turn- 
 ing to me, he said: "Ain't you rested enough? Let's 
 go home." 
 
 I was tired of his harangues. My heart was bur- 
 dened with the desire to take hold of a mind that was 
 really capable of better things, and develop it. I told 
 him that I would stay with my friend until the following 
 Tuesday, and he went home alone. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 "Well, old friend, we have labored a long time to 
 do some good, and there are signs of promise in the sky. 
 I see the dawn that heralds a glorious day." 
 
 I was glad to see my friend so hopeful. 
 
 **No, you are closer to the Source of Hope than I am 
 to-day. While 1 recline here, I will libten as you out- 
 line the future, and will try to catch inspiration from 
 your inspiration." 
 
 As if, indeed, lifted to the clouds, he began: 
 
 *'l am conscious of the darkness of a night that has 
 been so long that its dampness has become thick and 
 chill. The ground is reeking with pollution, and the 
 nostrils of human beings contract as if to keep the 
 deadly malaria from reaching the lungs. But human 
 beings have caught the contagion, and their brows 
 sweat death. Oh, for light and life! While all earth 
 is still dark and deathly, I look toward the east, and 
 I see the black turned to a leaden gray ; and then, as if 
 colors were chasing each other, I see the gray become 
 purple; and the purple has a glow of red under it, 
 which struggles to show itself, and now and then bursts 
 into view. The rich, dark colors fade, and the east is 
 now tinted with pink and silver and blue. They blend 
 into a glistening white. The belated sun rises, and I be- 
 hold a glorious dawn. The whole sky is^ ablaze, the 
 whole world in resplendent view. The curtain of mois- 
 ture has risen, the death dews have been clarified, and 
 now upon each spear of grass the drops sparkle in trans- 
 parent beauty. The cool, fresh, fragrant air is healing 
 to human beings, and the brows that sweated death now 
 bear the stanp of life that is akin only to that which 
 
 64 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 66 
 
 follows the resurrection. When night began, I saw a 
 figure sitting listless, inert, awaiting the coming dark- 
 ness, but unconscious of the night's freight of woes. I 
 watched the shades approach, and saw them enclose 
 him. When the dawn came, I looked and saw again 
 the figure, but it had shaken off its inertnesss as the 
 night had shaken off its fonl disease; and now, erect in 
 the blaze of a perfect day, the figure stands firm and 
 strong, looking up through the ephemeral ether to the 
 Eternal, and the light of heaven shines on his counte- 
 nance." 
 
 Wonderful hope! My soul had caught the inspira- 
 tion, and I also saw the cracker pass through the perils 
 of his early existence into the higher and better life, 
 stronger and more useful for all he had been, standing 
 as a living, lasting monument to the efforts of years, and 
 as the highest incentive to future labors. 
 
 "Ah! my dear old friend," he continued, "it is 
 good for me to have you when the labors become weary- 
 ing and the discouragements wearing. What is the 
 most practical present effort that will aid in bringing 
 about this result? You have visited nearly all the fam- 
 ilies in thi^ and the adjoining counties?" 
 
 "Yes, I have been with you five months now, and I 
 believe I have seen nearly all phases of the cracker life, 
 and have personal acquaintance with nearly every indi- 
 vidual. At first they all wished to know my intention in 
 visiting them. Now they seem to regard me as an old 
 friend, and make no inquiries. Some of them, I think, 
 will be grateful for our intentions, but I fear that all of 
 them, even my faithful friend Bill, will regard our efforts 
 as mistaken kindness. The crackers are thoroughly ig- 
 norant of their needs, so fully satisfied with themselves 
 and their life that to convince them of their mistakes 
 eeems almost a hopeless task. I think, though, that we 
 had better approach them with an appeal to their minds. 
 Assemble them at the first opportunity and insist upon 
 their patronizing the school. Tuition has been entirely 
 
66 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 free. I do not believe it should be so. When it is so 
 they feel as if they are conferring a favor in going to 
 school. When a slight charge is made, they regard it as 
 a business transaction and seek to get the worth of their 
 money. What do you say to charging fifty cents a 
 month?" 
 
 "It would not be collected from a dozen of them, 
 but some will value the school, and education as a whole, 
 more if they are charged something. But it will not do 
 to make the effort too patent; they will consider it a 
 scheme for self-aggrandizement. Bring it about as quiet- 
 ly and as easily as possible. Do you know of any meet- 
 ing that they will have soon?" 
 
 Bill had spoken of the candy-pulling party that he 
 had expected to have on his birthday, and we decided to 
 wait until that time, and have a meeting of the young 
 people to discuss this question. It was better to address 
 them collectively than individually, especially as Bill 
 was leader among them, and we hoped that others, 
 seeing his consent to go to school, would follow his ex- 
 ample. 
 
 We had been in earnest conversation all the morn- 
 ing, and as we went out to dinner a slip of paper was 
 handed me by a servant. No name was signed to the 
 strange note: "Secret conferences are dangerous." 
 
 "Who gave this to you?" I asked of the servant. 
 
 "A boy brought it ; he didn't know who gave it to 
 him, but said a tall man down the road." 
 
 I handed it to my friend, saying, "What does that 
 mean?" 
 
 He frowned, and said: "Our hopes are too high 
 now to be shadowed by anything of this kind. Some 
 cracker who amuses himself by seeking to worry you, has 
 written it. It is not worth a thought." 
 
 "I wish I could regard it thus," I said. Some day 
 I would work out this mystery. 
 
 In anxiety to find out the date of Bill's party I hur- 
 ried home that afternoon. It was bitterly cold, and I 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CKACKERS 67 
 
 did not start until late. A light snow was falling, but 
 I paid little attention to it until the ground was covered. 
 The flakes fell faster; it was growing dark, and I saw 
 that I must quicken my horse's gait or run the risk of 
 losing my way. 
 
 I could keep in the main road very well, but the 
 path to Bill's house was narrow and winding, and by 
 this time was hidden. Turning where I thought I rec- 
 ognized landmarks, I rode carefully through the bushes. 
 My horse stumbled, and finding that I had not struck 
 the track, I tried to find my way back, determined either 
 to return to Walesca, or to go to the village of Pine Log. 
 The snow was blinding; it was impossible to reach the 
 road. Not knowing whether the next step of my horse 
 would be over a precipice or not, I held a firm rein and 
 tried to think what was best. We could not stand still 
 long in the cold and snow; my horse was champing and 
 pawing impatiently, and yet to right or left, front or 
 back I was afraid to turn. Snow, nothing but 6now,and 
 it was drifting about us like the folds of a death- 
 shroud. 
 
 My friend at Walesca would think that I was with 
 Bill ; Bill would think I was at Walesca, and they would 
 not search for me; but the old man would come to re- 
 move the snow from his sweetheart's grave, and would 
 find me if the drift should not be too deep. I felt the 
 soft flakes almost to the saddle. My horse made a lunge ; 
 it was deeper still. Hope seemed vain. I took my note- 
 book from my pocket, and wrote a note to my wife and 
 one to my friend at Walesca. With a small cord I tied 
 the notebook to the highest limb I could reach, think- 
 ing I might be found by this sign. 
 
 I then made one more effort to escape from the hor- 
 rors of my situation. I did not carry a pistol as a gen- 
 eral thing, but had borrowed one at Walesca before 
 leaving this time, because the queer note I had received 
 had made me apprehend some mischief from the man of 
 the mountain. I now fired twice in the air and listened. 
 
68 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 I thought I heard a rustling sound. I shouted and fired 
 OQce more. I heard a voice. 
 
 "Stop firing!" 
 
 I stopped and the figure approached. It was the 
 appirition, taller and more ominous than ever. A shud- 
 der crept over me. It spoke again : 
 
 *'There are other things than secret conferences 
 that are dangerous." 
 
 He took hold of my horse's rein ; is was well he was 
 tall. The snow came to his waist and would almost have 
 covered a smaller man. He made an eflPort to move for- 
 ward, but stumbled. I caught him just as he was going 
 in the drift. 
 
 ' 'My horse is strong, ' ' helping him on in front of me. 
 *'If you will guide him he can carry us both." 
 
 He took the bridle, and with a brave effort my horse 
 breasted the drift, while the figure in front of me guided 
 him to the path. Silently we rode the short distance to 
 Bill's house. The man dismounted. 
 
 •'Whom shall I thank?" I asked. '*I am indebted to 
 you for my life ; I hope I may be able to render you ser- 
 vice someday." 
 
 "You have done so to-night," he said. ''I could 
 never have arisen from the drift if you had not caught 
 me. We are even now ; I have saved your life and you 
 have saved mine." 
 
 "Your words are as generous as your deed," I said. 
 "But you have not told me who you are." 
 
 "The apparition upon the mountain." 
 
 I asked no more, bat insisted on his staying all 
 night, or if he would not do that, riding my horse back. 
 He would do neither. 
 
 "The horse could not stand another trip to-night. 
 Care for him and yourself. Good-night." 
 
 Bill of course, was surprised to see me. 
 
 "What does this mean? How did you git here in 
 the snow? Didn't know nobody but me could find the 
 path 't night in the snow. Cur'us you did. You look 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 69 
 
 kinder tired. 'Peftrs to me that somethin's happened 
 ter you." 
 
 I told him that my horse had got into a drift, and that 
 I had some trouble in getting him out. 
 
 I was up a good part of the night caring for my horse ; 
 he was stiff from standing so long in the cold, and pant- 
 ing like a human being from his efforts in pulling 
 through the drift. 
 
 We went to the White Cliffs, always white, now 
 glistening. I spoke of my dangers the night before, but 
 they were soon forgotten in the magnificence of the 
 scene. The snow looked harmless now, and only a thing 
 of beauty. Untainted by contact with pollution of any 
 sort, unbroken by track of man, it reminded me of being 
 "unspotted from the world." A snow-covered mountain 
 is a fit emblem of goodness untainted with evil. The 
 whole looked like a sheet of purity tenderly let down to 
 cover the stains of the world. The entire mountain was 
 of pure whiteness, and the eye could not look upon it 
 with comfort; the glare was such that each crystal 
 seemed to reflect the prismatic colors as the noonday sun 
 shone upon them. So it is that we cannot gaze upon 
 perfect purity sometimes, and good people are not al- 
 ways popular. 
 
 "Well, if mountain apparitions are life-savers, they 
 are as good as the monks that live on the Alps; so 
 you need feel no further fear," said my friend. 
 
 *'I am greatly relieved, but the mystery is a mystery 
 still." 
 
 We were going home, when I thought of my note- 
 book, and we went to look for it. On the way we found 
 the old man shoveling the snow from the lone grave. 
 
 "Oh!" I said, "the show is so soft and beautiful, it 
 seems to me she would like it to cover her." 
 
 But he went on with his task. He seemed so tired 
 that we offered to help him. 
 
 "Naw," he said, "she wouldn't like fur nobody ter 
 do 't but me." 
 
70 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 When the enow was all off, he covered the giave 
 with small, delicate cedar twigs laid so smoothly that 
 they looked as if they had grown there. It was beauti- 
 ful, this green mound on a mountain of snow. 
 
 We tried to find the note-book, but it was gone — 
 €ut away. A note hung in its place: "The note-book 
 will be returned some day." 
 
 "Was there anything of importance in it?" 
 **A11 my notes and plans regarding the crackers." 
 "Too bad, too bad; but you can formulate your, 
 plans again." 
 
 "Yes, but you know we did not wish the crackers to 
 know anything of our efforts. They will appear to 
 them too much like a scheme." 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "Well, Bill, when will the party be now?" 
 
 "Ter-morrow night; snow don't matter; done been 
 knocked out o' this thing wunst ; ain't a-goin' ter wait 
 no longer. Mol don't live fur, an' I don't keer 'bout the 
 others, 'caze Mol an' me kin have jes' as good er time by 
 ourselves." 
 
 I did care, because I wanted to broach the subject 
 of the school to a number. 
 
 A few came — very few — but each boy brought his 
 sweetheart. The dressing was unique. They were in 
 their best clothes, and these were of all colors. It might 
 almost be called a rainbow party. The girls all had 
 their dresses fastened wath pins, which seemed to serve 
 the two purposes of use and ornament. "Pin-money" 
 evidently meant something to the cracker girls. There 
 must have been two rows down each dress. Mol wore a 
 pink calico skirt, blue calico basque trimmed with red, 
 and yellow ribbon in her hair. 
 
 Bill announced them in his original way : 
 
 "You's been interduced ter all these gals and boys, 
 but you dunno how they pairs off." 
 
 He made them all stand in a row, with Mol and 
 himself at the head. 
 
 "This 's Bill Collins and Mrs, Bill Collins what's 
 ter-be. We done put off our weddin' like we've done 
 put off this party, but we ain't a-goin' ter put 't 
 off much longer. This 's Bob Smith, an' likewise Mrs. 
 Smith what'^ a-goin'-ter-be. She's Miss Polly Hopkins 
 now. This is Mr. Jim Brown and his gal, Miss Silla 
 Hystepper. This is Mr. Owens Huckett an' Miss Betsy 
 Nustiner. Whin y'awl goin' ter be married, Owens? 
 
 71 
 
72 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 This 's my hon'r'ble friend, Mr. John Pettydo an' his 
 gal, what's 'bout five years older'n hira. John says that 
 don't make no diff'rence, an' of course she don't think it 
 does. Does you, Miss Bell? She's Miss Bell Phue." 
 
 The young woman blurted out in the usual boister- 
 ous cracker way. Bill took no notice of her, but kept 
 on : 
 
 "This 's Mr. Bob Barrow an' Miss Delia Doolittle. 
 This 's Mr. Arnold Catlin an' Miss Jess Nicely. You 
 knows 'm all; but, you see, I didn't think you know'd 
 'm in pairs. Well, it's jes' like I said, an' I thinks we'll 
 all be married 'fore next month." 
 
 They all looked as silly as possible, but pleased with 
 Bill's manner of announcing them. I had made friends 
 of most of these young people, and my presence did not 
 seem to be an embarrassment. 
 
 "Come, mam, let's bile the 'lasses." 
 
 Each boy had brought a little bucket of molasses^ 
 and Mrs. Collins emptied it into one large vessel. The 
 fun then began, girls crowding around to stir the molas- 
 ses, and boys crowding around the girls. I am sure they 
 could not have breathed with comfort, and I thought it 
 was well that no more had come. When the candy waa 
 ready to pull, they divided it and pulled it. Then it 
 was put out in the snow to cool. When cool the candy- 
 cracking began. A piece of candy was suspended from 
 the ceiling, the young men and women were blind-fold- 
 ed, and each knocked at the candy. The one who first 
 knocked it down was supposed to be the one to be mar- 
 ried first. 
 
 About the time the knocking began, three young 
 men from the college at Walesca came. They were 
 strangers to everyone there. They had simply heard of 
 the candy-pulling, and had come without an invitation. 
 They looked like doubtful characters, and I thought it a 
 shame to have the innocent fun of the cracker boys and 
 girls broken in upon by their presence. They were 
 dudish in appearance, and came for no other purpose 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 78 
 
 than to guy these mountain folks. They asked to par- 
 ticipate, and Bill very generously allowed them to do so. 
 He said, however: 
 
 "Why n't you come sooner an' bring yer 'lasses!" 
 
 One answered in a supercilious manner: "We 
 thought there were lasses enough here." 
 
 "Well, thar ain't; reckin' you kin knock, though." 
 
 I knew what they meant; Bill did not. The girlH 
 were delighted with these young men. They introduced 
 themselves as George Gaines, Robert Callaway, and 
 Frederick Lewis. Callaway was blindfolded and he 
 asked if he could kLock first. 
 
 "Naw," said Bill, "I 'lows I's a-goin' ter do that 
 myself." 
 
 He knocked, and strange to say, missed the candy. 
 Bill rarely missed anything, but he was angry this time. 
 Callaway next struck the candy and knocked it down. 
 Bill was furious, and wanted to knock Callaway down, 
 claiming that he could see through the blindfold. ^1 
 thought so too, but persuaded Bill to say nothing more 
 about it. Callaway went immediately to where Mol was 
 sitting, gave her the candy and entered into conversa- 
 tion with her: 
 
 "That fellow Collins is 'most too much of a boas- 
 ter. He does not always know who he is pitting 
 against." 
 
 I expected Mol to resent this, and even feared 
 she would make a scene, but she only laughed and 
 said : 
 
 "Yes, Bill does think he's smart, an' he needs ter 
 be tuk down." 
 
 I was surprised at her ; but women are foolish some- 
 times. Callaway talked to her all the evening, and Bill 
 could scarcely stand it. I felt sorry for Bill, and dis- 
 gusted with Mol. The candy-pulling which he had 
 looked forward to with such delight for so long was end- 
 ing unhappily for him. Faithful Bill and faithless Mol! 
 The other two college boys attempted to monopolize 
 
74 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 two other girls, but they were not such heroes as Calla- 
 way was, and not so popular. 
 
 *'Miss — ah ! t«ll me your name," said Callaway to 
 Mol. 
 
 "Miss Smith," I said. 
 
 "Thank you," to me. 
 
 "Your first name. Miss Smith! I never call young 
 ladies by their surnames; it is so formal." 
 
 "Mol," she said. 
 
 "Ah! you don't allow people to call you that? Miss 
 Mary, of course. I'll just say Mary; it's easier, you 
 know." 
 
 Mol rallied here: "Mam always calls me Mol, an' — 
 ever'body else does, an' I reckin I can't change it now." 
 
 "And who did you start to say just now? Not 
 everybody — just 5ome6ocZi/, who calls you Mol, and you 
 wouldn't like to change it on his account?" 
 
 "Bill alius calls me so." 
 
 "What, that boastful fellow that knocked the candy 
 before me a while ago.? Why; you are too nice a girl 
 and too pretty to have that rude, rough man call you by 
 that name. The first thing you know he'll be boasting 
 that he calls you so." 
 
 "'Taint nothin' ter boast of," she said; "I reckin 
 Bill never thought o' that. He's alius called me so ever 
 since I wus er leetle gal." 
 
 "Well, it's a shame. I expect I'll have to settle it 
 with him some day;" and then the conversation became 
 less personal. 
 
 I was glad it did. I had been disgusted with Mol a 
 little while before, but, taking everything into consider- 
 ation, she had done better than many girls do in such 
 cases. The insolence of a man like Callaway is so easy 
 that few girls would think they could resent it; it would 
 seem a redection upon them to notice it. Never, young 
 ladies ; a woman must notice and show that she notices 
 such insinuating, appropriating conversation. Danger 
 is insidious, and no matter how young men may try to 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 75 
 
 laugh off a thing of the kind, as Callaway would cer- 
 tainly have done if Mol had been more decided in her re- 
 buff ; and no matter if i;hey even seek to cast reflection 
 upon you for noticing it, be sure that your doing so will 
 be right. A woman must resent the slightest familiarity 
 at its inception. Trust me. I shall soon be an old man. 
 I have seen the world and know it is so. 
 
 "Well, the candy's all pulled an' knocked. Let's 
 tell tales now. Whoever can tell the biggest yarn I'll 
 give 'm er prize; ain't goin' ter tell you what the prize 
 is, but it's the nicest thing yer kin think of. You kin 
 have the fust pop this time," said Bill, speaking to Cal- 
 laway. 
 
 I felt relieved to know that the entertainment w^ould 
 be general, but it did not become entirely so. Callaway 
 sat by Mol all the time, and commented upon those who 
 w^ere trying to entertain, though his own effort was a 
 signal failure. 
 
 He began: "I am entertained pleasantly enough 
 without telling what you call yarns. That's a very in- 
 elegant word anyway. I saw a cow once, with two 
 heads, and she was eating through both of her mouths. 
 I don't guess you can tell anything more wonderful than 
 that." 
 
 ''Oh, yes," said Bill; "this ain't my tale now, but 
 I's seen men with er thousand heads — er head fur ever'- 
 thing, an' each one stronger and bigger an' more sensi- 
 ble than some men with wun head an' no manners." 
 
 Callaway laughed affectedly, and said: "Nothing 
 personal meant, I hope?" 
 
 "Naw, 'tain't meant fur nobody 'cept what the cap 
 fits — no more'n er bundle 'o paper drapped in the road 
 fust day o' April 's personal." 
 
 "Stop now, Bill," I said; so he stopped, and the 
 story-telling went on. 
 
 Bob Smith said he had seen a chimney so crooked 
 that you could look out of the west side of it and see the 
 sun rise in the east. 
 
76 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 * 'Now, that ain't nothin' ; I'e seen er chimney sa- 
 straight you had ter stan' on your head to see out'n it," 
 said Bob Barrow. 
 
 "Well, I don't tell chimney yarns," said Owens 
 Puckett, "but I've seen a man jumped from the top a* 
 Pine Log mountain an' not git kilt." 
 
 "That'll have to be ruled out, because it couldn't 
 be so," said George Gaines. 
 
 "Nawr, 't won't be ruled out neither. I didn't say 
 the man jumped ter the bottom o' Pine Log. I said he 
 jumped from the top — jes' jumped on the nex' rock^ 
 'bout four feet," said Puckett. 
 
 "I've seen six ye'rs o' corn on wun stalk — good 
 long ye'rs, too," said John Pettydo. 
 
 "You must have made a lot of whiskey that year,'* 
 replied Lewis. 
 
 John's father ran a blind still. John did not deny 
 it. 
 
 *'Naw, whiskey's better fur standin', they say, an' 
 I thought I would let this stan' 'fore 'twus made, an' see 
 how it 'd be. The stalk didn't have but wun ye'r on't, 
 but I kept it for five years, you see, an' that made six 
 ye'rs on the stalk, an' likewise on the corn. We ground 
 it thin, an' it jes' made wun glass o' liquor. Fred Lewis 
 come ter the still that day and drank it. That's the rea- 
 son he ain't got no sense now, 'twas so strong. 
 
 "Well," another began, ''I's eaten er ham ten years 
 old. Dad alius keeps the pigs ten years 'fore he kills 
 'm." 
 
 This was growing tiresome, and Bill began : 
 
 "Y'awl tired o' yarns now. I's goin' ter tell er 
 show 'nough tale. Better listen keerful. I know er boy — 
 he's 'bout five feet tall — got white hair an' blue eyes, an' 
 er head that don't hold er nutful o' sense. He's awful 
 dudish, an' he goes whar he ain't wanted. He went ter 
 another boy's house wun night, an' acted mighty upish ; 
 tuk the other boy's sweetheart off an' talked ter her,an' 
 said more mean things 'n the other boy could stand, so 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 77 
 
 he jes' p'lightly axed him out'n his house, an' the little 
 dudish feller thought it 'd be big terstay. So the boy 
 whose house 'twas jes' got his shotgun an' fixed that 
 dude so he wouldn't bother nobody else. Thar warn't 
 no trial 'bout it, neither." Turning to Callaway, he 
 continued, "I hope you knows the feller?" 
 
 "The cap doesn't fit this time ; I don't know him." 
 
 "Thin, it's like I tole you. Takes shotguns ter 
 teach some folks who they is." 
 
 Callaway pulled out a pistol and fired, but I was 
 near enough to throw up his arm, and the bullet went 
 w^hizzing across the room, rebounded, and furrowed the 
 floor. The excitement was terrible, but Bill's friends 
 were in the majority. I told the three young men from 
 Walesca that they had better leave at once, that Calla- 
 way's was already a case for the grand jury, and they 
 had better not make it one for a criminal jury. He looked 
 like a bully, but was afraid of the crowd, and he and 
 his companions left. 
 
 Before doing so, however, he turned to Mol and said : 
 ^'I'll see you again." 
 
 She answered nothing. 
 
 I told Bill that I was ashamed of him, a boy who had 
 such fine control over his temper when he chose to exer- 
 cise it. I felt sorry for Mol. She was angry with Bill 
 and indignant with Callaway, and was conscious of hav- 
 ing herself been .the cause of the trouble. There was 
 loud talking about what must be done with Callaway, 
 and in the midst of it all came a knock at the door. 
 No one was brave enough to open it at first. It was 
 thought that Callaway would fire into the room and run. 
 I finally asked who it was. The door was pushed ajar 
 and my note-book thrust in. I picked it up and opened 
 the door wide. The apparition of the mountain was 
 walking slowly off. 
 
 "Stay here," I said to the boys and girls, and I fol- 
 lowed the man. 
 
 He was just going out of the gate, and I soon over- 
 took him. 
 
78 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 "Won't you tell me who you are?" 
 
 "No; don't ask that again." 
 
 "Who was that?" asked Bill when I returned. 
 
 "Only someone who came to return my note-book, 
 I left it on the mountain the other night. I don't know 
 the man's name." 
 
 I told them that Callaway could be indicted for car- 
 rying concealed weapons, and asked them not to have 
 any trouble about it. 
 
 I then asked when they, with all their friends 
 who were not then present, could assemble to talk over 
 some matters with me. Two weeks from that night wa& 
 fixed as the date, and they dispersed. 
 
 Bill, of course, took Mol home, though they were 
 very angry with each other. When he returned we had 
 a quiet talk, and Bill was sorry for his rash conduct. 
 
 "Whin you sees er feller tryin' ter steal yer gal, what 
 you's loved so long, it's hard ter keep quiet," he said; 
 and I agreed with him. 
 
 Callaway was indicted and fined ; he was also sent 
 home from school, as were Lewis and Gaines ; but they 
 were told that they might return if their future conduct 
 warranted it. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I went the next day to see Nicely's child, who was 
 ill. Bill went with me. He was fond of children and 
 was good to his little brothers. He took the little fellow 
 some of the candy left from the night before. We found 
 the child better, and even able to eat some of the candy. 
 Mrs. Nicely was worn out with nursing, and Bill said : 
 
 "Let me play 'ith him while you rest." 
 
 The woman lay down and slept for two hours, while 
 Bill amused the child. He made a snow man just in 
 front of the window, where the little fellow could see it, 
 and I watched with delight his generous eflPorts and their 
 happy reward. When the child grew tired of this, Bill 
 and I snowballed to please him. Bill was unlike most of 
 the crackers in one thing; he was industrious enough to 
 engage in some amusements. Most cracker boys will 
 lock themselves indoors to keep from snowballing; it is 
 too hard work. The little boy was rosy with glee, and 
 his mother fresh from rest when she awoke. 
 
 "Mam, I wish Bill 'd come ever' day," said the 
 boy ; and Bill looked repaid for his trouble. 
 
 On our way home he said: "Mr. Ramla,what makes 
 folks feel good an' happy whin they jes' help other 
 folks er leetle bit? They don't feel so when they help 
 theirselves." 
 
 "What do you think of it, Bill?" I asked. 
 
 "Well, I'se thought 'bout it er heapsence I've been 
 helpin' mam plow an' keep the place. I's er lot happier 
 an' I'se watched other folks what helps people. This 
 here man over 't Warlesky what runs the school thar, 
 he's alius helpin' somebody, an' he alius looks happy. 
 
 An' you, Mr. Ramla " 
 
 79 
 
so DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 ''Everybody, Bill, who trie? to do good is happy. 
 Tell me what you think it is." 
 
 "Well, it seems terme they preach wrong enny how. 
 The preachers preach er lot 'bout what folks do, an' 
 don't say much 'bout what they don't do. I b'lieve dad'd 
 er been er heap better ef the preacher'd made him b'lieve 
 that he orter help'd mam, instid o' tellin' him all the 
 time that he ought not ter chaw'd an' drank, 'specially 
 ef he'd 'a' told him how much happier he'd erbeen, an' 
 nob how much happier he'd 'a' made mam. Thin, you 
 see, dad would er done it fur hisself, an' thin he'd er 
 learned ter do it 'caze 'twas right. It's jes' like makin' 
 er heap o' dollars, an' makin' wun dollar. Whin er man 
 wuks fur hisself all the time he's makin' jes' wun man, 
 but whin he wuks fur others he's makin' er lot o' folks. 
 The Lord wuks fur us all the time. I gits up in the 
 mornin'; I finds he's made the sun rise fur me; I gits 
 tired, an' I finds it gits dark fur me. The corn don't 
 grow, an' it jains fur me. I needs er leetle money right 
 bad, an' I comes here on the mountain an' finds some- 
 times 'fore I look fur it er great big fat pine tree ter 
 make splinters out'n." 
 
 He stopped short, faced me, and said : "Mr. Ramla, 
 do you want ter know why I think folks 's happier whin 
 they helps other folks? It's 'caze they feel more like 
 the Lord." 
 
 A poor cracker boy whose opportunities for knowing 
 the right had been few was surely not far from the 
 kingdom when he thought like this. I told him I agreed 
 with him ; and I repeated that little gem, "Abou Ben 
 Adhem," and told him of the poet that thought as we 
 did. 
 
 He said: "I want you ter I'arn that ter me;" and I 
 taught him the poem that night. 
 
 Crude as his expression was, Bill had more of the 
 spirit of Christ then than many who have professed His 
 name for twenty years and never demonstrated their belief 
 in the practices of their lives. I had watched Bill's life 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 81 
 
 for five months. It was almost anomalous. Sometimes 
 the rough, untrained cracker element would predominate. 
 At other times a beautiful Christian element would man- 
 ifest itself. 
 
 The next day we went again to see the child. It 
 was its wish that we should come every day. And so 
 for many days the little fellow was amused, the mother 
 relieved, and Bill's life made better and more beautiful. 
 
 At last the boy was well enough to go out, and he 
 enjoyed playing and romping with Bill. There was a 
 large dog about the place; the moonshiners keep the 
 fiercest dogs. Bill and the child were playing with this 
 creature one day, when the dog began suddenly foaming 
 at the mouth, sprang forward and was in the act of 
 grasping the child's arm, when Bill threw his own in 
 the way. He throttled the dog, and the struggle be- 
 tween the two was terrible. It was all in an instant, 
 or I could have prevented it; but at last I found a gun 
 and killed the mad animal, though not before he had 
 bitten poor Bill. 
 
 To wait even ten minutes before doing anything to the 
 wound might be fatal. I remembered the case of Gabriel 
 in Eugene Sue's wonderful book, "The Wandering 
 Jew." Poor Bill looked appealingly at me. I shall 
 never forget that beseeching gaze. 
 
 "Mr. Ramla, will I be jes' like him?" pointing to the 
 dog. "Must I die like er dog? I have tried not ter 
 live like wun." 
 
 "There is just one thing that will save you, Bill, 
 and that is to apply a red hot iron to the place immed- 
 iately." 
 
 An old hoe was leaning against the house. I put 
 it in the fire, told the poor fellow to lie down, and ap- 
 plied it. Bill closed his eyes, but held his arm firm 
 while the fire and the deadly virus burned and hissed 
 at each other. I stood at arm's length to keep the 
 foamed saliva from spewing upon me, and I told Bill to 
 cover his face. When the fire had burned out, having 
 
82 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 consumed the virus, 1 hoped, I uncovered Bill's face, 
 and the brave young cracker seemed to have passed be- 
 yond the reach of pain or danger. I did not know I 
 loved the boy so. As 1 looked upon the seared arm 
 and the pale, distorted face, this mountain boy seemed 
 very dear to me. I called and shook him. The crying 
 child climbed over him, and fear and hope battled. We 
 poured water over him and rubbed him, and at last he 
 opened his eyes. 
 
 ''Is it burned enough? 'Twas pretty bad, Mr. 
 Ramla; seemed 's ef I couldn't keep alive; but mebbe 
 it'll be all right now. Is the boy all right?" 
 
 The moonshiner's wife had gone for her husband, 
 and he came in grumbling about his dog having been 
 killed. After he saw Bill, though, he relented, and 
 helped to take him home on a litter, as Bill had been so 
 weakened by pain that he could hardly stand. We were 
 anxious about him a long time, but no sign of hydro- 
 phobia appeared, and he got well and strong again. 
 To this day, however, a deep scar bears testimony to his 
 heroism. 
 
 Not long after this occurrence, I met the strange 
 man whom I had not spoken of except to my friend. I 
 stopped him. 
 
 "You did me a great service not long since — the 
 greatest service that one man can do another. But you 
 follow me wherever I go; you seem to have saved my 
 life in the snowdrift to kill me by slower means. If I 
 come out on the mountain to rest, you are there. If I 
 go to see a sick person, you follow me there. If I visit 
 my friend at Walesca, you are there; and I will not be 
 hounded down in this way. What do you mean by dog- 
 ging me like this? Tell me now, and I will settle it with 
 you, or I will settle it anyhow. You shall not pass me 
 until I know who you are and why you are watching me." 
 
 I was excited ; he was perfectly calm. 
 
 "You have undergone a good deal since you have 
 been In this section. The strain of the last week or two 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 85 
 
 alone has been sufficient to try your nervous strength. 
 I do not wonder that you approach me in this manner* 
 Your charge is just, too. I have watched you closely 
 for five months. I know your business here ; I know, 
 too, better than you do the prospect of success or fail- 
 ure." 
 
 "Tell me, then," I said. 
 
 "Not yet. You must work out your own cause. 
 You say I have hounded you. Only criminals can say 
 this and mean it. In all my watching you, I have not 
 interfered with your work or your personal liberty. To 
 watch you is my right, and you must not object to it. 
 You do not know it ; I could not expect you to know it, 
 but I have saved your life from other dangers than the 
 snow-drift, and you have cause to be grateful for my 
 watch. I meant what I said; I wrote you that secret 
 conferences were dangerous. They a-re so everywhere, 
 especially here among suspicious people. Be as open as 
 you can, use wise council, don't fear me, and go on with 
 your work. I am dangerous only in defense. Do not 
 seek to know who I am. Reserve your threats, and I 
 will not harm you ; but persist in trying to discover my 
 aim and purpose in watching you, and you place your- 
 self in fearful peril. Ask no man my name or my busi- 
 ness. Remember." 
 
 He started off. 
 
 "Stop," I said. "If you know my purpose in being 
 here, help me accomplish it." 
 
 "I have said work out your own cause," was his 
 answer; and he left me more bewildered, if possible, 
 than ever. 
 
 On my way home I stopped to see Mol and her 
 mother. Mol had gone to town. The mother talked 
 very confidentially to me, as she often did. She was 
 anx ous for Bill and Mol to marry. 
 
 "Ever' since they wus leetle chil'luns, you see, 
 they's been lovin' wun another, an' it 'peared like 'twas 
 bound to be. Bill never thought o' no other gal, an' 
 
S4 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 Mol never thought o' no other boy. Now, 'twarn't 
 so with me an' my old man, an' 'twaren't so 
 with Bill's dad an' mam. We never thought much 
 'bout love; we thought we must marry, an' we married 
 'f re we ought ter, I reckin ; leastwise, 'fore we thought 
 o' who we was marryin'. Now, I don't mean no disre- 
 spec' ter my old man dead an' gone; he wus better ter 
 me 'n mos' men is ter thur wives; I tried ter be good 
 ter him too, but we warn't happy like Mol an' Bill alius 
 spears like they air." 
 
 "Well," I said, "I am glad you feel that thoj are 
 going to be happy." 
 
 "But I don't feel so now," she said; "I hardly 
 think they'll marry. Mol alius was superstitious kinder, 
 an' so wus Bill. They won't either o' 'm talk 'bout old 
 Mr. Brown an' his sweetheart what's buried on the 
 mount'in. Seems so much like them, they say; an' Mr. 
 Brown called 'm wun day whin they wus little wuns, 
 an' *fore he knew they loved wun 'nother, an' told 'm 
 'bout it, an' how they mus'n't have that 'sperience ; I 
 used ter laugh an' tell 'm they warn't bound ter be like 
 them. But I feel sorter superstitious now, too, it 
 seems." 
 
 I asked her why she felt so, and she said that since 
 Bill's party Mol and Bill had not been such good friends, 
 and she feared they never would be again. Callaway 
 had been to see Mol twice, and Mol seemed to like for 
 him to come, and phe was cross with Bill lately. Bill 
 did not know that Callaway had been there, but she 
 feared would find it out and have trouble with him. 
 
 I told her I thought Callaway had been sent from 
 school, and had not been in the neighborhood since. 
 
 He was there last week, she said, and she feared 
 would come home with Mol this evening. He was stay- 
 ing in Cartersville. She begged me to speak to Mol and 
 persuade her to have nothing to do with Callaway. 
 
 I remembered that the strange man had told me to 
 be very open in all my dealings with these people, and I 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 85 
 
 knew that, to get along in the world, it is best to be as 
 kind as possible to every one, to treat everyone as your 
 friend, but to have as little as possible to do with lovers' 
 affairs and family quarrels. But Bill had served me so 
 long and so well that I could not refuse to do him thi& 
 kindness. So I bade Mrs. Smith good-bye, and went to- 
 meet Mol. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Down the road a little ways she was coming — alone, 
 however. I felt relieved, and walked rapidly to meet 
 her. As I drew near I saw a man's form just passing 
 -around a curve in the road. It w^as Callaway's. 
 Though I had seen him only once, I ea«ily recognized 
 him b}^ his swaggering, lounging walk, characteristic of 
 his manner the night of Bill's party. 
 
 **You have had company. Miss Mollie. Why did 
 your escort not come all the way?" 
 
 **'Caze I didn't want him ter. Bill's sich er goose 
 he don't want nobody ter go 'ith me but him, an' he gits 
 mad an' makes er fuss. I'm gettin' tired o' Bill's fups- 
 in'. He better mind, or I won't marry him yit." 
 
 *'You might find a more quarrelsome man than Bill, 
 Miss Mollie , he is a good-natured boy, and brave and 
 true. Take my advice, and don't be unkind to him." 
 
 "I ain't never been unkin' ter him, but he is ter 
 me." 
 
 '*He does not mean to be, I am sure," I said. 
 ■**He's only worried when he thinks of your going with 
 an unworthy character." 
 
 *'I ain't been 'ith no unworthy character." 
 
 "You do not always know," I said. 
 
 '*I know's well as Bill. He thinks some's unworthy 
 what ain't." 
 
 *'Miss Mollie, boys are more apt to know than girls 
 whom it is best for girls to accept as escorts. I know 
 better than my wife with what young men my daughter 
 should go." 
 
 "Well, Bill don't know Mr. Callaway, but he tole 
 me the night o' the 'lasses stew that ef he ever saw me 
 
 86 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 87 
 
 'ith him he'd never have no more t^r do 'ith me, an' I 
 tole him I didn't keer ef he didn't, 'caze he didn't know 
 what he wus talkin' 'bout." 
 
 "He told you right," I said. "That night was 
 sufficient to reveal Callaway's character." 
 
 She flushed. 
 
 *'Mr. Callaway 's er nice man, as nice 's ennybody." 
 
 "1 am sorry you think so," I replied. "He did not 
 appear so to me. Miss MoUie, this fascination is strange. 
 Mr. Callaway was not very kind to Bill, you remember." 
 
 "Oh! he wus jes' teasin' Bill: he sed he wus, an' 
 Eill didn't hive sense 'nough ter see it." 
 
 "You do not like Bill's teasing sometimes. How is 
 it that you can like the trait in anyone else?" 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Callaway ain't been teasin' me, but 
 I wouldn't mind fur him ter, 'caze he's so nice." ' 
 
 "Miss Mollie, there is a flow^er that blooms in your 
 garden in the spring; it is very handsome and of bril- 
 liant color. In the East that flower is cultivated in 
 large gardens for the purpose of obtaining a deadly 
 drug, which will kill a person who is not accustomed to 
 taking it. Near where this flower is cultivated in the 
 East is another plant, not so attractive to the eye, but 
 from it is made a balm, so soothing and healthful that 
 •Christ likened himself to the balm of Gilead. Don't 
 wait until poison is distilled from the poppy to think of 
 this. Think of it now; and always, Miss Mollie, look 
 below the surface to find character. Callaway has been 
 saying pleasant things to you, and you like them. That 
 is natural, but the circumstances under which he said 
 some pleasant things to you at Bill's party and the man- 
 ner in which he said them did not please me. You are 
 a sensible girl. Do the sensible thing, and let Callaway 
 alone." 
 
 "But I'se tole him that he kin come ter see me ter- 
 night." 
 
 "Tell him when he comes that he cannot come 
 again. I mean no unkindness to Callaway, but I am in- 
 
88 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 terested in you and Bill. Be firm, Miss Mollie. The 
 trouble with young women is that they are not firm 
 enough with a man like Callaway." 
 
 When I got home Bill was getting ready to go and 
 see Mol. 
 
 "You dunno, but I ain't been very good ter Mol 
 lately. I got mad 'ith her 'bout that man Callaway, an' 
 sed what I ought not ter 'a' sed. I's goin' ter tell her 
 I's sorry." 
 
 "I want you to stay with me to-night, Bill, and help 
 me if you will, and to-morrow night, you know, all the 
 young people will meet here, and you can go early 
 to bring Mol, and make up your little trouble then. 
 Will that do?" 
 
 "I b'lieve it'll do better, an' wun day won't make 
 much diff'rence." 
 
 Generous fellow ' 
 
 The next night all the cracker boys and girls from 
 ^\e miles around came. Bill brought Mol early, and 
 they seemed to be in a good humor with each other. I 
 had an opportunity of asking Mol about Callaway. He 
 had come, and she had refused to see him again. She 
 looked happier, and I told her so. After a merry game^ 
 or two, and everybody looked fresh and happy- and ex- 
 pectant, I called them to order. 
 
 "My dear young friends, I have called you togeth- 
 er this evening to make a proposition to you. I have 
 been here among you five months. You have been kind 
 to me, and I have learned to love you. I came because 
 I was interested in your welfare, but I am a thousand 
 times more interested in it since I know you. I had 
 thought that you and your parents before you, and their 
 parents before them, had lived here in the mountains 
 without culture and without hopes. And more, 1 had 
 thought that you were a sinning people beyond what I 
 find you are. I think now that, though these things 
 may in part be true, yet you are a people worthy of 
 honor in many respects, strong in some in which other 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 89 
 
 people are weak. I find you with (3apacities, and all 
 that I could hope for any class I hope for you ; but you 
 need culture. In the valleys nowhere have I found 
 greater talent, but it is undeveloped; untutored genius 
 roams wuld; I beg you to direct it in given paths. At 
 Walesca you have a rare opportunity. The school there 
 is not a brush nrbor university; neither is it a make- 
 shift. It would be a thorough, broad, liberal Christian 
 inetitution if you chose to make it so. At its head is a 
 man whose life among you speaks for itself. Have you 
 thought of his discouragements.? He would make the 
 school equal to any in the State if you would support 
 him : but last year it closed with only seven students. 
 Do you think he is benefited by being here? There are 
 large places open to him now ; honor and fame stand at 
 his door constantly, and beg him to come out of the 
 mountains. But because he loves jou, because he ad- 
 mires you and honors you, because he hopes for you, be- 
 cause he has confidence in you, he stays. You think it 
 is his way of making a living, and that he must look out 
 for himself; it is his way of helping you. You think it 
 is exclusively his work, and if it does not prosper it ii 
 his fault; it is your work as much as it is his, and if it 
 does not prosper you are responsible. Did you ever re- 
 gard it as a great work depending upon you? Would 
 not such a feeling as that inspire you? I have been 
 with you a long time without your knowing the purpose 
 for which I came. I came to help you and to help my 
 friend at Walesca — not to help him make money, but to 
 help him in his work for you. The second term 
 of the school for 1880-81 opens January 2nd. How 
 many of you will go to school and bless it and be blessed 
 yourselves? I think you are my friends — do this for 
 me." 
 
 "I's 't goin' ter be free?" asked some one. 
 
 "Not entirely," I said. "There will be a tuition 
 fee of fifty cents a month for students over eighteen. 
 You will value it more for paying something." 
 
90 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 The comments began. 
 
 ''I don't have fifty cents er month ter spend in 
 t'bacco, an' I ain't a-goin' ter give no school that." 
 
 "I's goin' ter be married this winter, an' I ain't got 
 no fifty cents ter give 'way. I have ter buy candy fur 
 my gal." 
 
 "I got ter git splinters ter sell." 
 
 *'I ain't a-goin' ter walk three miles and set in er 
 room all day an' hold er book up 'fore me; I've got 
 more sense now 'n that teacher. He come home 'ith me 
 wun day, an' ever' tree on the way he axed me what 
 'twas; he didn't have no more sense 'bout trees 'n er 
 goat — not 's much, fur er goat knows whin he's eatin' 
 oak leaves, but he didn't know er oak from er sweetgum. 
 I stopped an' looked at him an' axed him how 'twus he 
 wus teachin' school." 
 
 "Well, I's been thar ter school wunst, an' I didn't 
 lam nothin', an' I don't want ter go no more." 
 
 **I like you mighty well, Mr. Ramla, but I can't do 
 that fur you." 
 
 Bill arose. "Well, I'll tell y'awl what I think. I 
 think Mr. Ramla's right. He's been here er long time, 
 an' he's been mighty good ter us. He wouldn't tell 
 us nuthin' that ain't fur our good. I know I don't 
 know nothin' in books, an' I kinder think I orter. We's 
 used ter lyiii' out on the mountain an' havin' er easy 
 time, an' it'd go hard ter set in er room an' be still an' 
 Bteddy all day; but we need it. Now, I's under dues 
 ter Mr. Ramla, an' ef I don't go fur no other reason I'd 
 like ter go ter please him." 
 
 "Bill, ain't you paid fur your dad's corfin yit? 
 Pretty dear price!'* 
 
 "Well, I ain't under no dues ter no man fur nothin', 
 an' I ain't a-goin' ter do nothin' what I don't want ter 
 do." 
 
 "You're right, Jim; life's short; take it easy. 
 Dad'U have ter be buried in er pin© box 'fore I'll go ter 
 school ter piy fur his corfin." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 91 
 
 *'Mr. Ramla's done more fur me 'n pay fur dad's 
 <?orfin. He kep' me out o' one jes' the other day." 
 
 "I do not want pay for any little thing I may have 
 ■done for any of you," I said. "I only want you to p ly 
 yourselves your just dues. You owe yourselves an edu- 
 •cation." 
 
 "Don't have ter piy what I owe myself; ain't no 
 way o' coUectin' the debt; ain't a goin' ter sue myself: 
 never pay what you don't have ter, I say." 
 
 I was beginning to think that I was wrong in tell- 
 ing them they had hopes. 
 
 "Well, folks," said Bill, "I's made up my mind. 
 I 'spected ter be married this winter, an' it's er awful 
 disapp'intment not ter. My mind's made up the other 
 way though, now. I'll go ter school wun yearennyhow. 
 How many o' you will do the same.? Let's vote." 
 
 Six voted to go, four girls and two boys. Mol was 
 not among the number. Bill was making a sacrifice, I 
 knew. He walked over to where Mol was sitting. 
 
 "Mol, will you wait?" he said. 
 
 "Naw," was her unqualified reply. 
 
 "Thin, I's sorry Mol." His eyes flashed. Great 
 tears stood in them. 
 
 She looked at Bill for an instant, turned, and went 
 out. He followed her, but she sent him back and went 
 home alone. Bill walked close behind, however, and saw 
 that no harm befell her. 
 
 We separated for the night. I thanked them for 
 their presence, and arranged with those who voted in 
 favor of going to school to enter after the holidays. 
 
 When Bill returned I told him that he had done a 
 noble thing, but I was sorry it had cost him so much. 
 
 "Do you reckin Mol'll ever come 'round?" he asked. 
 ^*She didn't use ter be this way; ever'thin' I sed was 
 right; I don't know what's the matter 'ith hernjw." 
 
 "I hope she may be persuaded that you are right 
 and go to school with you. It would be a great thing 
 for you to be educated together, and then marry." 
 
92 DOWN AMONG THE CRA.CKERS 
 
 "I think so too," he said; "but Mol's mighty set 
 these days. I reckin she thinks I am too." 
 
 "To be set in the right way is a great thing, Bill. 
 It requires strength of character to stand by it. Strong 
 men alone move the world to-day, and you have proven 
 yourself strong to-night. To be set in the wrong way, 
 when you see that it is wrong, is only stubbornness, that 
 if turned in the right direction would be a power. Mol 
 must see some day that you are right and stand by you^ 
 and then you two will be potent forces. Wait, Bill, and 
 however it be with Mol in the future, be sure that you 
 are right not to change." 
 
 I went to see Mol the next day and tried to dissuade 
 her from her course, but it was impossible. Once she 
 seemed almost willing to go to school, and then she 
 said: 
 
 "Naw, Bill shan't treat me jes' like he wants ter. 
 I's waited long 'nough fur him now." 
 
 "Miss Mollie," I said, "you will not listen to me, 
 but go over to Walesca and talk to my friend or write to 
 my wife, and she will reason with you better than I 
 can." 
 
 "I can't write." 
 
 "My friend will gladly write for you." 
 
 She still remained stubborn, but I heard that she 
 went to Walesca that day. The real trouble was Calla- 
 way. He had made promises to her, extolled his own 
 worthiness and disparaged Bill ; and although she had 
 told him not to come again, in her inmost heart she 
 wanted him to come again, and believed he would. That 
 day I mei Callaway. 
 
 "Look here," he said, "what do you mean by med- 
 dling with my business? You've been to a young lady 
 and maligned me and advised her not to have anything 
 to do with me." 
 
 "I did advise her not to have anything to do with 
 you, but I did not malign you." 
 
 "Well, what do you mean by advising her not to 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 93 
 
 have anything to do with me? I'm as good a man as 
 jou are. I guess you've been speaking for yourself in- 
 stead of for Bill." 
 
 "Mr. Callaway, you have revealed yourself and 
 justified my advice to Miss Smith in your last remark. 
 Your accusation shows clearly your own purpose. I am 
 a married man. I am here solely to do these people 
 good, and such conduct as yours at Bill Collins' party, 
 and since that time, retards the work I am engaged in 
 -and interferes with the happiness of two honest, upright 
 souls, whose hearts have been linked from infancy, and 
 w^hose lives are too pure to be marred by contact with 
 you." 
 
 "Who interfered with their happiness last night?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "I advised them for their good last night," I re- 
 plied, **not for my pleasure, except as entirely second- 
 ary. One was wise enough to see that I was right; the 
 other, owing to your wily influence, was not. 1 have in 
 no way interfered with their happiness." 
 
 *'Well, you had better stop meddling with my af- 
 fairs, or I'll tell this man that's watching you so closely 
 a few things." 
 
 "Tell him the truth, and I shall be glad for you to 
 tell him many things." 
 
 Callaway knew, then, that I was watched. I was 
 sorry for this, for I wds fully persuaded that Callaway 
 was a mean man and would not hesitate to do me the 
 greatest injury in his power. I was no longer afraid of 
 the apparition, but I did not know how Callaway might 
 use it to my hurt. 
 
 That night Bill said that he would go to see Mol 
 and try to close the breach between them. It was wider, 
 he said, than it had ever been before. The poor fellow 
 was much distressed. 
 
 "Bill, what you mopin' 'bout?" I heard one of his 
 friends ask him. "I wouldn't keer ef my gal did go 
 back on me; thar's plenty o' other gals, you know." 
 
94 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 ''Yes, but not like mine," Bill replied. 
 
 The next day Bill told me that Mol had utterly and 
 finally rejected him. 
 
 "I dunno what I'll do, she's the onliest gal fur 
 me," he said. 
 
 "She'll be sorry some day, Bill ; wait and see," I 
 replied. 
 
 "Well, I ain't a-goin' to change nohow. I'se goin' 
 ter school." 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 At the beginning of the term I went over to Walesca 
 hoping that by this time many crackers had determined 
 to enter school. There was a larger number than ever 
 before, but they were from a distance. At eight o'clock 
 on the morning of the opening I saw Bill with slate and 
 book, and with his lunch in a small tin bucket, coming 
 over the mountain. But he was alone — a solitary 
 cracker. All the others who had agreed to come had 
 failed to do so. I went to meet Bill and walked into the 
 schoolroom with him. Many of the boys and girls snig- 
 gered and giggled, as silly school-children will do, and 
 Bill said : 
 
 "Mr. Ramla, what's the matter with these folks? 
 Didn't they never see nobody 'fore? I don't see nothin' 
 ter laugh at." 
 
 Without being so personal as to allow Bill to feel 
 that he was alluded to, the president rebuked the students 
 in a manner so mild^but firm, that I almost wished I was 
 a schoolboy again and under the tutorage of such a man. 
 Surely he was the man to mould the characters of these 
 young people. Bill was in good hands. 
 
 The time for examining new students came. 
 
 "Bill, what class do you wish to apply for.?" the 
 president asked. 
 
 •*How many yer got?" 
 
 The president explained that there was a primary, a 
 preparatory, ^f re shman, sophomore, junior and senior 
 class. 
 
 "Which^is the^bes'? I giner'ly takes the bes' goin'." 
 
 They*were[equally good ; everything depended upon 
 the capacity of the student. 
 
 95 
 
86 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 **What do you mean by that?" asked Bill. 
 
 *'What the student knows." 
 
 **I thought you come here ter I'arn somethin' ; 
 didn't know you 'spected folks ter know er lot 'fore they 
 <jome. Cur'us college. I know er lot though. Bet I 
 kin take you out here in the woods and Parn you more'n 
 you ever heard 'bout trees an' snakes an' one thing an' 
 another. Say, won't that pay you fur my I'arnin' enny- 
 how. You I'arn me five days in a week, an' I'll I'arn 
 you on Sat'day. You dunno how ter plow an' how ter 
 drive steers an' how ter manage er donkey." 
 
 "He will do pretty well if he manages you," I heard 
 a boy say. 
 
 "Look here; I ain't talkin' 'bout managin' me now. 
 This here is Bill, boy; this ain't Bill, donkey. 'Fesser, 
 I'll I'arn these boys somethin' too, but it won't be like 
 I'll I'arn you. Now, I reckin I'll enter the class that'll 
 put me through fust, 'cize I don't want ter stay in col- 
 lege long. Ever'body's 'posin' me now 'cept you an' 
 Mr. Ramla, an' my gal's gone back on me. You know 
 better'n me whar I ought ter go, but you better put 
 me whar I won't have ter stay but one year. How 
 much kin I I'arn in that time?" 
 
 He was told that it depended upon himself entirely. 
 
 "Reckin not; somethin' 'pends on you, too. I kin 
 I'arn as much's you kin teach." 
 
 He was put in the primary department. 
 
 " 'Fesser, how long would it take me to get through 
 ef I kep' on?" 
 
 "Six years, and I hope you will keep on, Bill," the 
 professor answered. 
 
 "Six years! Naw, sir. You think I'd spend six 
 years in this place. Mol'dfurgit she evor know'd me, 
 an' I 'spects ter win her back some day. Thin I'd fur- 
 git how ter plow^ an' git splinters. The splinter trees 'd 
 jes' pine fer me, an' the cedars 'd jes' stretch out their 
 limbs, p'intin' ter the pines, an' tellin' me ter 'seedar;' 
 an' mam 'd have ter work the place by herself, too. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 97 
 
 N»w, can't stay no six years; better I'arn me all you 
 kin this year. Don't 'spect I'll be here no more arter 
 this." 
 
 The professor tried to reason with him, but Bill 
 would not be persuaded to stay longer than one year. 
 
 ' 'I'll see how much I know by that time, an' thin 
 I'll tell you more about it. Who's goin' ter teach me? 
 You? I's ready ter go ter wuk." 
 
 He was told that a lady would teach him, and that 
 it would be impossible to hear any lessons before the 
 next day on account of the number of students to be 
 classified. 
 
 "Thin, I'se goin' home. Look here, Mr. Ramla, 
 this here place ain't what folks says 'tis. I don't want 
 no 'oman teachin' me. I know mor'n wimmen folks 
 now, an' I can't 'ford to lose no time, neither; ain't no 
 sense in takin' er whole day ter tell folks what class 
 they b'longs in. You think 't is?" 
 
 I tried to explain the necessity for the loss of the 
 first day of study, and told him also, that many ladies 
 were better teachers than many gentlemen, especially in 
 the department he had entered. I was afraid he would 
 not come back the next day, but I went home with him 
 and tried to encourage him. 
 
 We went to Walesca together the next morning. 
 Mi&s Blackwell received Bill kindly, but she told me af 
 terwards that she was thoroughly indignant at the utter 
 want of confidence in her which he plainly manifested. 
 
 "It was amusing as well as provoking," she said. 
 
 She tried to teach him to read by the word method. 
 She spoke of her efforts thus: "Now this is 'and', and 
 you must never call it 'but' ; it always looks like this, 
 and you may ever after this know it if you impress it up- 
 on your mind now." 
 
 "Of course I ain't a-goin' ter call it 'but' ef it's 
 'and.' You 'spose I'd call er calf er horse? Is that the 
 way you do.? Don't want you ter teach me ef 'tis." 
 
 The next day Bill brought his donkey. He called 
 Miss Blackwell to the door. 
 
98 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 "You see that animule? Well, it's er donkey. 
 The nex' time you see it, don't call it er cow. Now, 
 look at 't right good an' 'press 't 'pon your min' an' 
 you won't furgit it's er donkey. You ain't a-goin' ter 
 charge me nothin' fur yietiddy neither, 'caze I's 
 Famed you 's much 's you has me." 
 
 He heard her teaching a little boy by the object 
 method. The child was absent-minded. There was a 
 picture of a girl pulling fruit from a vine somewhat re- 
 sembling a cymbling vine. He read: "Girls is cur'us 
 things; they grow on a vine like squashes.' " 
 
 Bill gave a long whistle- ''I alius know'd they wus 
 cur'us, but I never know'd they growed like that 'fore. 
 Is that the w^ay you growed, Miss Teacher? No wonder 
 they's plent'ful. Squashes is mighty easy raised. I'll 
 stop school this day an' plant squash seed." 
 
 The teacher checked him. She laughed, however, 
 and told the child that girls usually had clinging pro- 
 clivities, but not that strong. Bill was very disgusted 
 with the word method, however, and really wanted 
 to stop school. 
 
 "I kin Ftay at home an' look at pict'rs, an' I alius 
 did know er cat an' er dog when I seed 'm." 
 
 One day Miss Blackwell was teaching Bill's class an 
 object-lesson in primary language. She held up a chest- 
 nut burr. 
 
 "Class, what is that?" 
 
 "A chestnut burr," the children all replied. 
 
 *'What has been in it?" 
 
 "A chestnut." 
 
 "Where is the chestnut?" 
 
 "I et it," said Bill. 
 
 "What is the shape of the burr?" 
 
 "Round." 
 
 "Where does it grow?" 
 
 "On a tree." 
 
 "When does it grow?" 
 
 *'In the summer and fall." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 9& 
 
 "What is the use of the burr?" 
 
 About that time the teacher pressed the burr too 
 hard. 
 
 "It's good ter stick the hands o' school teachers an* 
 idjuts," said Bill; and he picked up his books and left 
 the room. 
 
 "What'd you fool me an' try ter git me ter come ter 
 this place fur, Mr. Ramla? I didn't think you'd da 
 that." 
 
 The poor fellow was almost crying. He seemed to 
 feel as I have felt many a time when I found myself mis- 
 taken in a friend. It is not so much the injury that one 
 feels as the sense of confidence shaken. 
 
 "I thought you wus er good frien' o' mine, an^ 
 I didn't b'lieve you'd 'stroy er feller's hap'ness like this 
 out'n 'twus fur his good. I thought I wus goin' ter 
 I'arn som'thin' an' could write ter you mebbe when you 
 go away." 
 
 I felt almost like a criminal. 
 
 "Why, Bill, what is the matter?" I asked. "I 
 have not deceived you. This is an excellent school, and 
 the best place for you just now. Are you not learning 
 as fast as you expected? Education is a slow process. 
 Do not be discouraged." 
 
 " 'T ain't that. Thar ain't nothin' here ter I'arn. 
 That 'oman can't teach me nothin'. This object biznes& 
 ain't worth nothin' ter me, an' so 's I's goin' home;" 
 and he went. 
 
 It was some weeks before I could persuade him to 
 go back and make a suitable apology to Miss Blackwell. 
 He finally went, however. 
 
 "I's sorry ter treat er lady disr'spectful-like, but I 
 ain't sorry I sed what I did 'bout the teachin'. Thar 
 ain't no sense in that." 
 
 To accomplish what we so much desired for the 
 crackers, the method was much modified for Bill, and he 
 became more interested and more studious. He refused 
 to pay tuition for the first month, and the matter wa& 
 
100 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 not pressed. It was a long time before so old a boy 
 <30uld be trained to study with profit. His faculties of 
 mind were as wild as the deer upon the mountains, and 
 had to be harnessed before they could be driven. Both 
 he and Miss Blackwell would become discouraged at 
 times, and marks of care began to appear, but they were 
 both brave and faithful. Several times during the year 
 Bill left the school in disgust and anger, but before he 
 reached home he determined to try another day. He 
 learned to read and to write, also something about arith- 
 metic and grammar. He was proud of his knowledge, 
 too, and displayed it upon every occasion. It would, 
 indeed, take vast learning to suppress Bill's boasts, and 
 to teach him how little he knew. Conceit is the great- 
 est trouble with the crackers. 
 
 Bill sought to make Mol envious and arouse her re- 
 gret by his wonderful display of information. 
 
 "Mol, you don't know what yer missin*. I's goin' 
 ter be the smartes' man in Georgy; better take me 'fore 
 it's too late. I'll be too smart fur you arter er while. 
 Now, lemme show you how much I know. Gimme some 
 paper." And he wrote : "Mol, I love you, but Callaway 
 don't." Then he said: "Now, you don't know what 
 that is. But the nex' time that man Callaway comes, 
 ax him. I reckin he kin spell 't out." 
 
 Callaway went that evening . Mol showed him the 
 slip of paper Bill had left, she told me, but he refused to 
 tell her w^hat it was. 
 
 "It's something unkind about you. Miss Mary. I 
 always told you that fellow was a rascal, and this proves 
 him such." He tore the paper into bits and threw them 
 away in apparent anger. 
 
 Mol was mortified beyond measure. She came to 
 me the next day with the pieces of paper that she had 
 collected after Callaway left. For her gratification I 
 pasted them on a card, and after some effort deciphered 
 the sentence. 
 
 "I am glad of this," I said. *'I hope now that you 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 101 
 
 will never believe Callaway again. He is deceiving you, 
 as he has probably deceived many a girl before, and 
 I think you have cause to fear him. Whether you ever 
 care for Bill again or not, I beg you to have nothing 
 more to do with Callaway ." 
 
 She had never ceased to care for Bill. I knew 
 it then; but she was a stubborn girl. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Of course Callaway heard of her coming to me, and 
 one night not long afterwards, when Bill and I were out 
 walking, we became conscious that some one was follow- 
 ing us. I thought of the apparition, but had become so 
 accustomed to it that I feared it little now, though a 
 shudder would sometimes creep over me when I saw it 
 stalking in gloomy stride upon the mountain in its pecu- 
 liar white attire. Strange to say, Bill had never seen it. 
 
 "Who is that behind us, Mr. Ramla?" 
 
 "Some one out for a walk, as we are. We must not 
 •question the movements of persons in public places." 
 
 *'No, but nobody don't walk here but us, an' I 
 kinder thinks that man Callaway 's meanin' some harm 
 ter me. Ef he don't, I do ter him. He's been ter see 
 Mol lately." 
 
 Just then a bullet whizzed by us, so close that it 
 struck my hat. To run would be futile, so we crouched 
 in the bushes, hoping the assailant would lose sight of 
 us. Two men in masks came in sight. 
 
 *'We have them now," one said, "and will shoot 
 them like dogs." 
 
 They came toward us, and I felt sure they had not 
 lost sight of us. They seemed to be searching, however, 
 and we waited. Soon they passed us, but they seemed 
 to know we were somewhere there, and I thought they 
 would soon return, so 1 whispered : 
 
 **Let us catch them, Bill, and wrest their pistols 
 from them." 
 
 We sprang upon them, and almost before they 
 knew it, the pistols were in our hands. They ran. We 
 iired, but a turn in the path hid them for a moment, and 
 
 102 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 103 
 
 they escaped. Their masks had prevented us from seeing 
 who they were ; but neither one was the apparition; I 
 knew by their size. 
 
 I went to Walesca immediately and had a warrant 
 issued for Callaway. I suspected that his companion 
 was Gaines, but the only evidence was his size, and I 
 did not feel justified in having him arrested. The pis- 
 tol that we took from one of them was of the same cal- 
 ibre as the one Callaway used the night of Bill's party. 
 The officers found Callaway at home near Cartersville 
 that night. Though he had ample time to get there 
 while I was going to Walesca, he proved an alibi to the 
 satisfaction of the court. I was still confident, however, 
 that the man who had attacked us was Callaway; and 
 so was Bill. Of course Callaway was a bitterer enemy 
 now than ever before. We had him sworn to keep the 
 peace, but an oath was nothing to such a man. Calla- 
 way was a coward, too. If he had been a brave man, 
 who would not have tried to shoot his enemy in the back, 
 there would not have been such cause for fear. 
 
 Bill was doing so well in school that I tried to per- 
 suade others to attend, but it seemed useless. I thought I 
 would visit the old crackers and talk with them about it, 
 though that had always been considered the least effec- 
 tual method. My friend urged me to make an effort 
 anyway, and I did so with some hope. I went to the 
 old gold-washer who had refused once to even talk about 
 sending his children to school. 
 
 "Mr. Downey, how is the gold business now? I hope 
 you are doing well." 
 
 ''Oh! fine. I kin buy more t'bacco'n I kin chaw 
 these days. How's bizness 'ith you?" 
 
 "Well, you know," I said, "I have not paid much 
 attention to my financial affairs for nearly a year now. 
 I have been with you people trying to advance your in- 
 terests." 
 
 "Well, I dunno how you could have ennything ter do 
 'ith what's in the ground without you come here ter pour 
 
104 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 er bag er two o' loose gold fur us fellows ter git out. I 
 know we're gittin' it, though." 
 
 I told him that it was not to enrich him in dollars 
 that I came, but to do more for him — to persuade him 
 to send his children to school, that they might be qual- 
 ified not only to make money, but to make better and 
 more useful men. 
 
 "You mean ter say I ain't no 'count in the world? 
 Like ter know what this country'd be 'ithouC me. Ef I 
 wus ter die ter-night, thar'd be five hundred folks her& 
 screamin' an' cryin'." 
 
 I thought there had been almost that many when 
 old James Collins died. 
 
 "I do not mean to say, Mr. Downey, that you do- 
 nothing for the world, but I do say that you co«ld do a 
 great deal more if you had taken advantage of such op- 
 portunities as are now otfered your children." 
 
 "I never had no sech chances, an' I's glad I didn't^ 
 'caze sombody mought 'a' fooled me inter goin' ter school 
 an' wastin' time. Mebbe I mout 'a' been lyin' 'round 
 like you, doin' no wuk fur er year. You're er good fel- 
 ler," he continued. "I think you means us well but 
 thin you bother er man talkin' ter him 'bout doin' some- 
 thin' what he knows ain't best. You see, I's tried not 
 foolin' with schools, an' I gits 'long all right. You 
 ain't never tried it, an' you dunno what you's talkin^ 
 'bout." 
 
 I laughed and told him that I thought the same 
 thing of him. 
 
 ''Now, don't git mad; I wants you ter come ter see 
 me ag'in, but don't say no more 'bout schools. I see er 
 quill o' gold lyin' right yonder in the water; I mus' ga 
 an' wash it out. Hurrah fur er man what 's gittiu' 
 rich ! Good-bye, Mr. Ramla ; git all the chillen that 
 will ter go ter school, but please stop by the house an' 
 tell mine ter come an' help thur dad git gold." 
 
 I left laughing, but sick at heart. 1 went next to 
 see another of the gold-washers, a brother of Nicely, the 
 moonshiner. I found him at home. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 106 
 
 "Mr. Nicely, how is it that you are not at the wash- 
 ings? I hear that gold is plentiful now." 
 
 "Well, Bill Downey ees he gits er heap, but Bill's 
 er powerful boaster. I don't git more'n 'nough ter live 
 on. I've been makin' money, though, in 'nother way. 
 I had er old steer that warn't doin' no good on the patch. 
 I don't raise much cotton or sorghum, you know. Most 
 o' my livin's gold an' I tole my old 'oman that we could 
 borrow er steer wunst er twict er year ter plow, an' she 
 could do the rest hoein' ; she's er pow'ful good 'oman 
 ter 'tend ter craps. So I sold that steer, Mr. Ramla, an' 
 what do you think I got fur him? He wus fifteen year 
 ole, an' he couldn't eat grass. Ter tell you the facts in 
 the case, I thought that steer wus goin' ter die. So I 
 tuk him down ter the branch an' made him drink fur er 
 hour. The quill men thought he'd drink all the gold, 
 but I tole 'm 'twas all the same ter me ; that I wus goin' 
 ter git gold fur him, an' he won't drinkin' no more'n my 
 sheer. Thin I drive him ter town. 'Here's the bes* 
 plowin' animule in these diggin's,' I sed ter er man; 'I 
 wouldn't sell him fur nothin' I knows of.' 'I's sorry 
 fur that,' he said: 'I wus goin' ter offer you er big price 
 fur him.' 'Well,' I led, 'ef you need him very much, 
 I's er 'commodatin' man, an' ef you's ohleeged ter have 
 er steer I'll let you have him ef you can't do better. 
 How much'll you gimme?' 'Twenty dollars.' 'Whoop! 
 you reckin I'd sell my steer fur that? I can't talk ter 
 you. Here, let me git in the store an' buy what I'b 
 goin' ter an' git home.' 'I thought you wus -goin' ter 
 let me have him fur 'commodation?' he sed. "Commo- 
 dation sells higher'n that in this country.' 'Forty 
 dollars, thin/ he sed. 'That sounds more like it.' 
 'Will you take that?' he axed. I shuck my head. 
 'Fifty dollars, thin?' 'Yes, ter help you 'long I'll take 
 that," 'caze I' wus afraid the ole steer'd 'die 'fore he 
 could go enny higher. But ef I hadn't been ekeered o' 
 the steer that man 'd 'a give er hundred dollars fur him 
 'fore I let him go. He pulled out the cool cash an* 
 
106 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 handed 't ter me an' walked off 'ith his steer, an' 1 
 walked off too, 's fast 's possible. I was anxious^ you 
 know. The next day the man come over. He'd been 
 all day tryin' ter find me, an' he wanted his money back. 
 *Bring me the steer,' I sed. 'He's dead,' he sed ; an' 
 talked pow'ful mean. 'Thin I don't give you the 
 money.' 'But you'll have ter.' 'Well, I don't reckin 's 
 how I will. See here; I give you er live steer, an' you 
 give me fifty dollars. Ain't that so?' 'Yes.' 'Well, 
 you bring me back the live steer an' I'll give you back 
 the fifty dollars.' He had er shot-gun, but I did, too, 
 an' wus er leetle quicker on the trigger 'n hini ; so he 
 went off growlin', sayin' he wus goin' ter litigate. He 
 kin litigate, but he can't git that fifty dollars. I don't 
 have ter wash gold now, you see ; I kin live on that two 
 year; but I go down now an' thin ter keep my hand in. 
 You been ter Be« the washers ter-day?" 
 
 "Mr. Nicely, I have come to see all the gold- wash- 
 ers that I can to-day about sending their children to 
 school. Do you not think you should send yours?" 
 
 "Well, Mr. Ramla, I dunno ; I could be teachin' 
 my chilr'n how ter sell steers while they're goin' ter 
 school, an' it'd be er heap more prof't'ble. Bill Collins 
 's goin' ter school, an' he'd er heap better be gittin' 
 splinters, 'pears ter me." 
 
 "He does get splinters to pay his tuition. He fur- 
 nishes the college with kindling wood and goes to school, 
 and after a while he will be able to do more than get 
 splinters. Bill will be a great man some day ; he is do- 
 ing wonderfully well in school." 
 
 "Reckin he'll ever make enny money by it?" 
 
 "Money and fame, and, what is more, he will bless 
 the world with a useful life." 
 
 "Be more'n his dad did." 
 
 "His father made no effort to become such a man 
 as Bill will some day be. That is just what I am speak- 
 ing of now, Mr. Nicely. There is no telling what you 
 might have done and might still do for the world if you 
 had had advantages." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 107 
 
 ''But I don' want ter help the world; I want ter 
 help myself." 
 
 "We must not be all for self," I said. "But this is 
 true, the more we do for others the more we are helped 
 ourselves, and, of course," taking another line of 
 thought, '*the more we are able to help others the more 
 we are able to help ourselves." 
 
 "Now you hit the nail on the head; that's so. 
 Well, I's been thinkin' o' sendin' the chaps ter school. 
 How much do they ax over at Warlesky?" 
 
 I told him, and he promised to think about it more. 
 I tried to get him to say definitely then that he would 
 send them, but he would not commit himself, and I 
 would not irritate him by pressing the matter. 
 
 I next went to see Mr. Sims. He had just come 
 from Walesca. 
 
 "I's jes' been ter town, Mr. Ramla. I tell you 
 they're makin' er heap o' fuss 'bout that college over 
 thar. I never heard so much talk 'bout er place." 
 
 "That is v^hat I have come to talk to you about, 
 Mr. Sims. The college is doing better this year than 
 €ver before. The attendance is larger, and the manage- 
 ment could not be better. It is time you people were 
 taking a pride in the school and supporting it." 
 
 "I ain't got no money ter give it. I's proud thar's 
 sech er thing 'bout here, though." 
 
 "I do not mean that you should support it with 
 money, Mr. Sims. I should rather have said, let it sup- 
 port you. Send your children to school and let them 
 have all the advantages it oflPers." 
 
 "Seems 'most like I'll have ter. A feller '11 be 
 thought cur'us arter er while fur not sendin'. It us'ter 
 be thought, though, that er man warn't no 'count 
 that'd send his chillun ter school ter git rid o' 'm, but 
 now 't 'pears ter be the fashion ter send 'm." 
 
 "The world is more enlightened upon those subjects 
 than it used to be. Will you not send the children right 
 away?" 
 
108 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 **Mr. Ramla, ef it's fur thur good I want 'm ter go, 
 I tries ter do what's right by my chillun. But they 
 don't want ter go. They'd er heap ruther wuk." 
 
 I called a little boy and asked him. 
 
 "Naw, I don't want ter go ter school. Dad never 
 went ter school, an' you reckin I want ter be smarter'n 
 dad?" 
 
 I tried to explain to the child, but he would not un- 
 derstand, and the father said it was useless to talk to 
 him. 
 
 '*Now, I'll tell you ; I ain't tried ter git 'm ter go 
 much, but I'll see what I kin do an' let you know. I 
 'spect it's er good thing." 
 
 Not long after this I returned to see if Nicely and 
 Sims were not ready to send their children to school. 
 
 "By no means; I ain't er goin' ter send," said 
 Nicely. "That man litigated me out er the fifty dollars, 
 an* I had ter pay fur cheatin' an' swindlin' besides." 
 
 Sims said he had not persuaded the children yet. 
 He had spoken to them once only. I begged him to 
 speak again and to send them, even against their will,, 
 rather than not at all. 
 
 "Naw, that wouldn't do, "he protested. 
 
 Well, they say the rock is worn little by little. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 It was April. I had been among the crackers nine 
 months. I had stayed with Bill most of the time, and 
 though he and his family had been as kind and thought- 
 ful as they could be, and had given me the best they 
 had, their means were meagre, and their manner of liv- 
 ing, though mine had been humble enough, was differ- 
 ent from mine. I had not felt like myself for a long 
 while. The strain of the experience was telling on me. 
 A gloom, whose influence I had never felt before, settled 
 over me, and I realized that he who tries to help the 
 world sometimes wears out in the effort. I had hardly 
 thought before of leaving an unfinished work. In hope 
 and expectation I had always seen my labor completed. 
 Alas ! such hopes and expectations are visions only. No 
 man leaves a finished work ; the most that any man can 
 do is to contribute his little with a thousand others be- 
 fore and after him. Thus comes the saying: "Other 
 men have labored, and we have entered into their la- 
 bors." 
 
 One day I said to Bill : "Bill, do you not think I have 
 done about all I can for this section? I'm thinking of 
 going home and leaving the work to better hands." 
 
 "Who you goin' ter leave in yer place?" 
 
 "Oh ! some good man will come and take the work 
 after a while. I do not know of anyone just now." 
 
 "Thin you ain't a-goin'. Look here, Mr. Ramla, 
 you done er lot fur us folks, an' we ain't ready ter give 
 jou up." 
 
 "That is largely due to your attachment, Bill; but 
 it is kind in you to say it. I should be delighted to stay 
 with you, and it was my hope to do so, but there is a 
 
 109 
 
110 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 greater obstacle than we can remove in the way. Mj 
 health is failing, and I do not think I shall be able 
 to do further work for a long while — probably never." 
 
 •'What! Mr. Ramla, you ain't goin' ter die? Well, 
 you look bad. I been so bizzy I'arnin' I ain't thought 
 'bout it. But you lemme go fur the doctor, an' he'll 
 fotch you 'round in a day or two." 
 
 *'I do not think it is medicine I need so much as 
 rest. I must go home for awhile anyway." 
 
 Bill said nothing, but when he came from school 
 that afternoon he brought the doctor with him. 
 
 *'Now, Doctor, I jes' want you ter make Mr. Ramla 
 well. He's kinder onto' heart. Tell him he ain't er go- 
 in' ter die, an' 'it'll help him wonderful." 
 
 I felt glad that Bill had been so thoughtful. Dr. 
 Wells could, at least, advise me what to do. 
 
 "You are broken down from the rough life and the 
 worry of your arduous task. You have contracted ner- 
 vous dyspepsia. You should have treatment for this at 
 once, and to regain your wonted health and strength 
 you should not attempt any labor that will excite or try 
 you for six months at least." 
 
 Why was not my own constitution as robust as other 
 men's? My friend at Walesca worked much harder 
 than I, with a great deal more to worry him, and he had 
 not broken down after ten years' test. I went over to 
 see him and told him of my necessity for leaving the 
 work to him for a while, until some one else could take 
 my place. 
 
 "I shall wait for you to return; no one else could 
 take your place just now. It would take him as long as 
 it has taken you to know the people and to gain influ- 
 ence with them." 
 
 It was well for my friend that it was decided thus. 
 The worry of assisting a new man in the work would be 
 too much for him. I looked at him now. Strange that 
 I had not noticed it before. He was pale and thin, and 
 looked so worn it was pitiful. He knew my thoughts. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 111 
 
 "I can stand it a long time yet, and if I should 
 break down no one will greatly suffer by it. You must 
 go to your family." 
 
 I thought it due to people who had received me so 
 kindly to see them all before going, and it was due to 
 the work that I should again urge them to think of it. 
 They all seemed sorry to have me go ; it was gratifying 
 to hear their kind expressions. 
 
 I went up on the mountain : it was an old friend, 
 and I had some sentiment about it. The old man was 
 by the grave. We had grown accustomed to seeing each 
 other there. He was just through with his work. The 
 mound was covered with arbutus blossoms, and looked 
 like a lovely bouquet. The revolting thoughts connected 
 with the grave had almost lost their force since I had 
 seen this one. The life was not gone. Its influence was 
 yet hallowed, and the very mortality that once enveloped 
 it seemed living, too, as the evening sun cast its last 
 beams upon the fresh, fragrant mound. 
 
 "I feel that she and I are nearer together now, Mr. 
 Ramla, than we wus whin she lef me. 'Twon't be long 
 'fore thar'U be two like this," touching the grave, "an' 
 thin we'll finish up yonder the life we begun here. 
 Won't you come here sometimes thin an' see that the 
 flowers cover her? — don't matter 'bout me." 
 
 I promised. The old man was a Christian, safe in 
 his hopes of a new life with his sweetheart in the be- 
 yond. 
 
 "I dunno what we'll do up thar, but somehow 
 'twouldn't be nat'ral ef we couldn't gether flowers an' 
 sit on the mountain an' talk like we useter. They talk 
 er heap 'bout heb'n bein' gold an' pearls an' the like, 
 but I never had no gold nor pearls, an' 'twouldn't seem 
 nat'ral. You know I think it's somethin' like 'tis here, 
 but ever'body loves wun another ; an' thim that loved 
 so much here goes together an' thar ain't no trouble — 
 jes' peace." 
 
 I told him I thought there might be mountains cov- 
 
112 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 ered with flowers there, where he raight sit and talk, 
 and I was sure there would be love and peace. 
 
 He left me, and I sat alone with the grave and my 
 thoughts. It was possibly nine o'clock when I heard a 
 step approach. I did not move, though I thought it 
 might be Callaway. This time, however, it was the ap- 
 parition, in his weird dress. The man came and sat be- 
 side me. 
 
 "You have decided to rest," he said. "It is well; 
 you need rest. You have done a good work here and 
 gained many friends. In all my watch of you, I have 
 found no evil work, no selfish motive." 
 
 "I thank you for that," I said, "and I value it more 
 coming from you than from any other person, because 
 you have kept close surveillance over me." 
 
 "I have about decided upon my course with refer- 
 ence to a work that you will probably undertake when 
 you return." 
 
 "What work do you mean?" I asked. 
 "I cannot talk to you about it now; but here are 
 papers containing a summary of the dangers that you 
 will encounter in attempting it. Read them carefully." 
 1 thanked him, and he arose to go. He even ex- 
 tended his hand, and took mine in a firm, strong grasp. 
 I left, too, with strange feelings. 
 
 Upon reaching home I read the papers. They ad- 
 vised against the interference with blind stills. They 
 mentioned the secret meetings of still-keepers, their con- 
 stant guard against attack; and further stated that the 
 principal distilleries were owned by one of the most in- 
 fluential and strongest men in the county, and that any 
 man attempting to interfere with them would incur his 
 hatred and feel his power. 
 
 I left the next morning, leaving with Bill a small 
 package, and one for his mother. In a day or two a let- 
 ter with an almost undecipherable address reached me. 
 It was from Bill. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 113 
 
 "Warlesky, April 20, 1881. 
 •*'Dear Mr. Ramla: 
 
 ''We's sorry you lef us. i ain slep sence you went 
 fer wurrein. Mr. Ramla, you never had no bizness leaven 
 mam an me no monie. we never meant to charge you 
 nuthin fur board, mam's powerful put out, an' so is i? we 
 much obleeged to you tho. I's doing wonderful well in 
 school. Miss Blackll is got more sense then i thot she had ; 
 she kin lern me pretty well now. Callaway has ben hangen 
 round Mol agin. What you reckin I better do bout it? I'm 
 fraid she'll love him, an I know he don love her. i wish 
 gals had sum sense. What you think bout this letter, aint 
 it fine for me? jes tliink er year ago I couldn't no more a 
 rit this lettter than man can beet me tradin. You is the 
 cause of my ritin, Mr. Ramla, you an my sense, both of us 
 orter be proud, make haste come back. 'Scuse spellin an 
 ritin same as I'll do whin you rites to me. Be sure to rite. 
 
 Your bes' friend. Bill. 
 
 ''P. S. Fesser looks mighty bad. i think he'll be sick 
 fore long. I's goin ter speak at commencement, you mus 
 be sure to hear me." 
 
 I was more broken down than I thought. When I 
 gave myself up to rest I could not rest. I wanted 
 excitement and change all the time. There is no more 
 nervous state than this. My wife said positively that I 
 should not go back, and every other plea failing, resort- 
 ed to the one that would most affect me. It was due to 
 her, she said, that I should at least live, and she thought 
 it was due to her that I should regard her wishes and 
 contribute to her happiness by staying at home. I knew 
 her generous heart too well not to know that she wa^ 
 thinking of my good alone. But I felt the truth of the 
 argument, and almost determined to remain. I wrote to 
 my friend and told bim so, but destroyed the letter. I 
 told my wife what I had done, and then said to her : 
 
 "My brave, true wife, a man and his family must 
 both suffer sometimes for the good they may do; the 
 cause of the many is always greater than the cause of 
 the few. There is a country where no work can sepa- 
 rate us ; but here there must be partings and pain. I 
 will not sacrifice you more than you are willing to 
 be sacrificed; but you will stay here and care for the 
 home and the little one while I am gone. I know you 
 will." 
 
114 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 I wrote my friend that I would come back as soon 
 as I was physically able to do so. 
 
 My daughter, then sixteen years old, became very 
 much interested in the work and in my accounts of the 
 crackers. She was especially touched with the old 
 man's story; the sentiment of his life affected her as 
 sentiment always affects young people, and she wished 
 to visit the well-kept grave and its guardian. We de- 
 cided that she should go to the Walesca school. My 
 wife felt better satisfied on my account, but she was 
 fearful for our daughter. I told her that Katherine 
 could do a noble work there, and be in no danger of 
 contamination. 
 
 I did not return to commencement, but my friend 
 wrote me a very amusing account of Bill's effort. Bill 
 said he was too big to speak with the little folks, but 
 that he was going to speak on speakers' day anyway. 
 So, in order to please him, my friend consented, and ex- 
 pected to announce why it was so arranged before Bill 
 spoke. He had invited Colonel to deliver an ad- 
 dress, but Bill became so excited over the honor of 
 speaking during the commencement in which the 
 Colonel would address the school that he could not wait 
 for his time to come, and when the Colonel entered the 
 room, Bill rushed upon the stage and introduced himself 
 by saying: " 'Fessor has not told me it is time to speak 
 yet, but I think 'Fessor is so excited that he has furgot- 
 ten it, so I will interduce myself. I will speak first and 
 
 Colonel will follow." And before he could be 
 
 stopped, he delivered his speech. 
 
 This was not like Bill, but no dependence is to be 
 put in a man who is receiving his first honor; his 
 conduct cannot be judged by his past life ; he is an hon- 
 or man, and his actions in announcing this fact to the 
 public are sometimes Insane. Perhaps it was well that 
 Bill did not realize the real honor. He was the first 
 cracker in all that section to display a desire for learn- 
 ing. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 115 
 
 Bill himself wrote me of his debut as a speaker : 
 "Mr. Ramla, I acted the goose, but I made er good 
 
 speech; lots o' folki said it WU8. It wus better than 
 
 Colonel '8." 
 
 In six months from the time I had left I returned 
 
 with renewed energy to the work, taking my daughter 
 
 with me. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Callaway was the first person I saw on reaching 
 Walesca. He wore the military uniform of the school. 
 After I had seen my friend and exchanged greetings 
 "with him, I said to him : 
 
 "My dear friend, what does this mean? I see Cal- 
 laway here in the uniform of your cadets ; surely he is 
 not in school again?" 
 
 *'Yes, he is in school. You know we did not expel 
 him ; his return was conditioned upon his behavior after 
 he left here." 
 
 ''And do you offer a premium on vice? Has his be- 
 havior not been sufficiently vicious to debar him from 
 entering any respectable school in the United States?" 
 
 "I think not; I know of nothing except that I fear 
 he has tried to prejudice Mol against Bill. That has 
 been bad of course, but I think Callaway really loves 
 Mol." 
 
 "Do you remember that Bill and I had our lives en- 
 dangered on the mountain one night, and that Callaway 
 certainly must have been one of the men who fired at 
 us?" 
 
 **I remember the circumstance, but it could not be 
 proven that Callaway was the man, and there is very 
 great doubt of H; you must have been mistaken; he 
 proved an alibi." 
 
 "To the satisfaction of the court and to your satis- 
 faction, it seems." 
 
 "My dear fellow, you are prejudiced. Callaway has not 
 been the raical you think, though he certainly has been a 
 very corrupt boy. That is partly why I took him back, 
 to try to exert a good influence ; life is worth little if we 
 
 116 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 117 
 
 may not stoop now and then to lift a fellow- creature 
 from the slums." 
 
 "Reforming low characters is a good work, but 
 placing them where they may influence others for evil 
 and overthrow the work of years in a day is not wise. 
 Callaway can in a single term counteract all the good you 
 have done here in four years." 
 
 "That is true, but we will keep a close watch over 
 him. The crackers are not good people, and yet we are 
 bending every energy to bring them here." 
 
 "Their meanness is all open," I said, "and it is due 
 largely to ignorance ; they are not skilled rascals." 
 
 "I have never before known you to be so bitter 
 about anything. What is the matter, my good friend? 
 I am sorry if I have made a mistake in taking Callaway 
 back." 
 
 "You may have done right, I cannot tell. It is 
 somewhat a personal matter with me. A manlike Cal- 
 laway is attractive to some girls ; young girls are very 
 susceptible, and my daughter is here ; she will probably 
 be in Callaway's class, and I would not for the world 
 have a man of his caliber win her heart." 
 
 "I should have thought of that; forgive me. But 
 you need not fear ; your daughter could never fancy a 
 man of his stamp." 
 
 "That is kind, my dear fellow, but it is not comfort- 
 ing ; I know girls better than you do. But do not let it 
 worry you ; I can take Katherine home at anytime. It 
 has been foolish in me to speak as I have ; but the un- 
 expected sight of Callaway excited me." 
 
 The next day I went home with Bill. He was de- 
 lighted to see me, but I saw he was depressed. 
 
 "Mr. Ramla, what you reckin 'Fessor's thinkin' 
 *bout ter let Callaway come ter school? I'll have ter 
 quit, I s'pect. That boy an' me'll have er fight 'fore 
 two days. Mighty sorry o' it. Iwas jes' thinkin' 'bout 
 goin' clean through college." 
 
 "I hope Callaway will not give you any more 
 
118 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 trouble, Bill ; my friend tells me that he professes to 
 have changed his course of life, and it may be true. 
 Certainly I would not leave school until he gave me 
 cause." 
 
 **I don't think 'Fessor ought ter 'a' done that, 'caze 
 the school's fur us poor boys who never had no chance 
 'fore, an' Callaway kin go somewhar else ; he's got mon- 
 ey, they tell me." 
 
 ''I do not suppose. Bill, that there is another school 
 in the state where the influences are as wholesome as 
 here, and many with whom money is no consideration 
 will come to this pure, quiet place for the best things in 
 life. Callaway needs such a school as this, and if he 
 has no bad associates to keep him from reform he may 
 become a worthy man." 
 
 "But them fellers Gaines an' Lewis 's here too." 
 
 **I did not know that ; I do not understand my 
 friend." 
 
 After seeing Mrs.CoUins and the children I went back 
 to Walesca and talked to the president of the college 
 again. 
 
 "I have started out in the world to help it," said 
 my friend, "and with consecration to such a service in 
 my heart I could not refuse to take these boys. Gaines' 
 parents are dead; his sister is a poor girl who is teach- 
 ing to support herself and brother, and to educate him. 
 She is an ambitious girl, and very worthy. Gaines has 
 had to leave three schools, and his sister came to me in 
 tears to beg me to admit him here. What would you 
 have done?" 
 
 "What you did," I promptly replied. 
 
 "Well, Lewis' character has been vile; his mother 
 is almost in her grave on account of it. She would not 
 ask me to take him here because of the imposition upon 
 the school, but her pastor came to me and advised me to 
 try the boy again; he is here on probation, and knows it. 
 Callaway's parents are wealthy and people of some influ- 
 ence. His father told me plainly something of his life. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 119 
 
 He attempted to forge his father's name, and the crime 
 was with difficulty kept from the public. He has been 
 guilty of other offenses, and his father wants him kept 
 from temptation for awhile." 
 
 He arose and walked across the room with a nervous 
 tread. He looked so careworn that I was ashamed of 
 increasing his worries. 
 
 *'You are a thousand times better than I, my dear 
 fellow, and you are right. I am unworthy to fill your 
 place for a day. But you must have rest. Go, and 
 leave me here.'' 
 
 He refused to go, however, and I found afterwards 
 that it was on account of the three dangerous characters 
 who had just entered school. He had taken the respon- 
 sibility of having them there, and he must bear it alone ; 
 it meant personal sacrifice to him. 
 
 That afternoon I took my daughter to the grave on 
 the mountain. We found the old man and his charge, 
 and I left my daughter with him, so that I might not 
 embarrass him in telling his story, and when I came back 
 I knew he had told it. 
 
 I took Katherine to Mrs. Collins'. Bill called me 
 aside and said : 
 
 "Mr. Ramla, you certainly is got er purty daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 "Katherine," I said, on our way back to Walesca, 
 "what is your impression of the crackers? — and what 
 hope do you see for the work?" 
 
 "Every hope, father. They are susceptible of the 
 highest improvement. Nothing could be brighter than 
 Bill's wit, and his peculiar originality will certainly 
 make him prominent some day. I am confident of your 
 entire success here, and I want to help you if you will 
 let me." 
 
 We went the next day to see Mol. I hoped that my 
 daughter might have a happy influence over her. The 
 poor girl seemed subdued and looked not like herself. 
 
 *'Miss Mol, I hope you have had a happy, peaceful 
 life since I left." 
 
120 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 *'Thar ain't been much peace an' no hap'ness, Mr. 
 Ramla." 
 
 "What is the matter, child?" 
 
 **Well, Bill «n' Mr. Callaway ag'in. They don't 
 let me have no peace; an' now they's in school t'gether. 
 Ireckin wun o' 'm '11 be kilt soon. Miss Katherine, 
 does boys pester you?" 
 
 Katherine laughed in her girlish way, and her man- 
 ner told better than her words that she had had no ex- 
 perience with young men. 
 
 We went to see the old maids. I had been many 
 times gince that first visit with Bill, and they always re- 
 ceived me kindly. I was much surprised to see the old 
 bachelor sitting in front of the door smoking. 
 
 "I'm glad to see you, Mr. Quinn. Miss Betsy has 
 relented, I see, and allows you to visit her." 
 
 "Worser 'n that. Betsy, come here; Mr. Ramla's 
 back." 
 
 Miss Betsy, looking happier than I had ever seen her, 
 came to the door. 
 
 *'This 's my wife, Mr. Ramla." 
 
 *'Your wife! Miss Betsy, surely this is not 
 true!" 
 
 "Reckin 'tis, though it 'pears mighty strange; I 
 stop an' think sometimes what it do mean." 
 
 "Tell me, Mr. Quinn, how you won her," I said. 
 **But, first, Miss Betsy, I would like to speak to Miss 
 Jane and Miss Ann." 
 
 "Ah! that's how it come 'bout, Mr. Ramla. They 
 ain't no more." 
 
 "Why, Miss Betsy!" 
 
 "They done dead. They lef me two month ago. 
 Jane wus out in the field plowin', an' she wus jes' tuk 
 suddint-like, an' drap'd off. Me an' Ann brought her 
 ter the house, an' she had er sorter chill, an' yit 'twon't 
 er chill. Dunno what wus the matter; she jes' drap'd 
 off. An' thin 'bout er month arter, Ann wus tuk purty 
 much the same, an' she drap'd off too. They never lef 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CllACKERS 121 
 
 no word, an' I feel pow'fullonesonie. 'Pears ter me I'd 
 feel pearter ef they'd tele me somethin' 'fore they went; 
 but you dunno 'bout these things, Mr. Ramla ; you 
 dunno." 
 
 "Truly, Miss Betsy, we do not know the hows nor 
 the whys of these things now. Some day we shall know, 
 however, and I hope then we shall be satisfied with the 
 knowledge." 
 
 "Well, I won't satisfied much whin they lef , an' I 
 ain't yit, though I's better pleased. Wun evenin', while 
 I wus sittin' here mopin' an' wonderin' what I'd do, Mr. 
 Quinn come walkin' up, an' he looked kinder sorrowful, 
 like he sym'thized 'ith me, an' somehow I couldn't tell 
 him ter go off. Thin he said, 'Miss Betsy, I's been 
 livin' by you twenty year, an' I ain't never thought 
 it necessary to come over an' offer you no sarvice ; 
 'peared like you could take keer o' yerself . But now 
 Miss Jane and Miss Ann's done gone an' dead, 'peared 
 like ter me, Miss Betsy, you orter have somebody to 
 look arter you an' help you 'tend ter the place.' I said, 
 'I reckin' I kin 'tend ter the place, Mr. Quinn.' 'Well, 
 I ain't thinkin' much o' the place,' he said, 'but who's 
 goin' ter 'tend ter you?' 'Guess I kin take keer o' my- 
 self, too; I done it fur forty year.' 'Miss Betsy,' he 
 said, 'somebody '11 be here 'fore Sat'day night ter pester 
 you. You'll have ter wuk all day an' sit up all night 
 ter keep 'm from takin' yer money ; an' thin, not speak- 
 in' o' the place, but kin you plow an' hoe an' plant an' 
 gether corn an' pick cotton an' cut grass an' go ter mill 
 an' feed the steer an' cook an' go ter town an' wash an' sell 
 the craps, an' all by yerself? It's er mighty big thing ter 
 take keer o' er big place like this all by yerself.' 'Well, 
 I kno?vr that, Mr. Quinn,' I said; 'ain't I been helpin' 
 take keer o' it long 'nough ter know it's er big thing? 
 But what you 'spect me ter do? I don't mean ter sell 
 none o' it, an' I don't 'spect ter give it 'way, an' what's 
 more I ain't a-goin' ter employ nobody ter come here an' 
 waste what me an' Jane an' Ann work'd so hard fur. 
 
122 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 No use ter bother talkin' 'bout it.' 'Miss Betsy,' he 
 said, kinder stammerin'-like, 'I'd come over an' help 
 you fur nothin', an' I wouldn't waste nothin' neither.^ 
 'That's very kind, Mr. Quinn,' I said, 'but I don't want 
 nobody ter do nothin' fur me 'thout I pays 'em. Be- 
 sides, you ain't never had no 'sperience farmin'. What 
 you know 'bout it? You been over yonder pickin' 
 blackberries all yer life, an' you never see craps growin' 
 'thout you come ter the fence an' see mine.' 'Miss 
 Betsy, thar's some things folks can't have no 'sperience 
 'bout. I ain't much o' er farmer, it's so, an' it's neces- 
 sary fur good craps ; but kin er man have 'sperience 
 takin' keer o' er wife 'fore he marries the fust time? I 
 think he kin do 'bout as well 'thout 't 's 'ith it; least- 
 wise most wimmen folks 'd ruther have er bachelor 'n 
 er widower. Now, Miss Betsy, jes try me, an' I'll make 
 the bes' husband you ever seed.' 'Ef that's what you 
 come fur you'd better go home,' I said; but the ole man 
 got down on his rheumatic knees, an' he begged so 
 hard I didn't think I orter treat him bad, so I said, 'Ef 
 you think you kin be enny help ter me (I'm practical 
 like), I'll take pity on you Mr. Quinn, an' we'll marry, 
 I reckin'." 
 
 "Till him what I did thin, Betsy," said her hus- 
 band. 
 
 *'You made er goose o' yerself." 
 
 *'Law! I didn't think geese like ter kiss; but 
 Betsy's alius teachin' me somethin', Mr. Ramla," the 
 old man said. 
 
 His wife blushed. "You need ter be taught er lot 
 o' things. He ain't much help ter me. Well, he wus 
 so 'fraid I'd back out he went over an' got the preacher 
 the nex' day, an' we wus wed. Come in, you an' your 
 darter, an' rest er bit. I clean furgot you wus standin' 
 all this time. My old man makes me 'most furgit my- 
 self sometimes. Butl's tole you 'nough 'bout him." 
 
 "Thar's wun thing you ain't tole him, Betsy, an* 
 that is you wus mighty glad ter git me." 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 We left the happy pair. Mr Quian walked with us 
 to the gate. 
 
 "I can't help Betsy much, you know; rheumatiz 's 
 too bad, but I kin 'vise her 'bout the place ; I kin take 
 keer o't whin she's gone, an' help her whin she's here; 
 an' I tell you it's better'n pickin' berries an' bein' all by 
 yerself. Mr. Ramla, thar ain't nothin' like havin' er 
 companion, 'specially sech er businesslike companion 's 
 Betsy." 
 
 We finished the round of visits. Katherine was de- 
 lighted. It was new to her, and she could even bo 
 amused by the ignorance of the crackers, while I was 
 pained. She became more serious afterward and was 
 the greatest help to me. 
 
 Katherine entered school in the sophomore class. 
 Callaway, Gaines and Lewis were all in the freshman 
 class. They gave no trouble, my friend told me. Bill 
 became accustomed to their presence and all went on 
 smoothly. But Katherine one day said to me: 
 
 "Father, I wish those boys were not in school; I 
 believe they are deceiving the president, and he is too 
 good a man to suffer in this way." 
 
 I asked if she knew any way in which they had de- 
 ceived him. She said no, it was more an impression on 
 her part than actual knowledge; other students shared 
 the impression, however. I told her that they had been 
 somewhat dissipated, and I supposed that was why 
 cveryon*^ suspected them. 
 
 *'I did not know they had been wild," she replied. 
 
 She had little time for visiting with me now. But 
 sometimes on Saturdays she had permission to go with 
 
 123 
 
124 DOWN AMONG THB CRACKERS 
 
 me, and was a wonderful help. People learned to know 
 and to love her. They expected her every Saturday 
 and always complained if she was not with me. 
 
 "Katherine," I said, "you are doing more good 
 than I;" but she only Kughed. 
 
 I thought she might persuade Mol to enter school, 
 but Mol was very hard to influence. She loved Kather- 
 ine, though, and liked to be with her. She told her all 
 her troubles with Bill and Callaway, and really gave a 
 reasonable excuse for not entering school : 
 
 "You see, I'd be thar all the time, and Mr. Calla- 
 way an' Bill 'd sure have er fuss. 'Twouldn't be 
 good fur us, an' 'twouldn't be good fur the school." 
 
 Katherine told her that she was wrong to care at 
 all for Callaw^ay, but she only said : 
 
 "I ain't never said I did," and would not commit 
 herself. 
 
 Bill was progressing with his studies. He had en- 
 tered the preparatory department and the corps of 
 cadets. He was very proud of his uniform and military 
 training. Cadets were required to salute members of 
 the faculty at thirty paces, and Bill was so careful in 
 the exercise of this courtesy that hardly one of the 
 faculty but would walk sixty paces off to keep from 
 constantly making the salute. Bill would invariably, 
 however, walk thirty paces to meet them. 
 
 One day he went to Canton, Georgia, and met one 
 of his acquaintances on the street. 
 
 "Good morning, Bill," the friend said. 
 
 Bill gave the military salute. The friend thought 
 it strange that he did not speak, and took no notice of 
 the salute. He met Bill again and the same thing oc- 
 curred. He met him the third time and said: 
 
 "Look here, Bill Collins. I have met you three 
 times to-day and said good morning each time, and you 
 haven't spoken yet. What's the matter with you?" 
 
 "Didn't you see me do this?" said Bill, making the 
 salute. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 126 
 
 ''Well, that means good mornin' at Warlesky ; I 
 thought you Canton folks had some sense." 
 
 One day Bill said to me: 
 
 "Let's walk out on the mountain; here's where I 
 fust met you, an' here's whar I's always settled things 
 fur good. I've been thinkin' lately, Mr. Ramla — doin' 
 erpow'ful lot er thinkin' — an' I 'bout come ter the con- 
 clusion that I ain't what I thought I wus." 
 
 ''What do you mean, Bill?" 
 
 "Well, the smartest man in this country. Plenty 
 folks 's got more sense 'n me, an' I's worried 'bout my- 
 self. I's been goin' 'bout the country thinkin' I wus 
 the smartest man in it, an' boastin' 'bout what I 
 know'd. I acted like er goose whin I spoke at com- 
 mencement last year, an' 'Fessor was so patient like an' 
 good ter me. 'Fessor gits up ever' day or two an' tells 
 us how every wun o' us orter bless the world, an' how 
 we kin do it. I'd jes like ter know how I kin bless the 
 world. I's lived twenty-two years, an' I ain't never 
 done nothin' fur it yet. I didn't use ter pay no 'ten- 
 tion ter 'Fessor whin he talked that way, but I's been 
 thinkin' lately 'bout what he's doin' an' you, Mr. R»mla, 
 an' I don't see no hope fur me ter never do nothin'; I 
 ain't fittin'. I I'arn purty well, they sey. 'Fessor eeys 
 thar never wus no boy here but me who went from the 
 alphabet ter the preparatory department in er year, an' 
 he's got great hopes o' me; but I think he jes' seys 't 
 'caze he's so kind an' can't help frum makin' people 
 feel good, an' 'caze he's so b'lievin' he thinks good o' 
 ever'body ; an' thin he's so hopeful-like he's alius 
 thinkin' thar ain't nothin' but good comin'. I really 
 think 'Fessor 'd be s'prised ef we didn't all git ter 
 heaven. Now, I want you ter tell me how I kin be er 
 better boy an' how I kin bless the world." 
 
 "Have you forgotten what you said to me coming 
 home from the moonshiner's when his child was sick?" 
 
 "Naw, I ain't furgot that; an' I want ter be un- 
 selfish an' do things fur folks, but what kin I do? I 
 ain't fit ter do nothin'." 
 
Ii6 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 *'Your principle then was right. Self-sacrifice is 
 the basis of all help we may render the world. We can 
 give the world nothing but ourselves. But before 
 we can do this we must make the self a worthy gift — 
 have something to sacrifice. Your condition is much 
 better now than when I talked to you last." 
 
 And I outlined to him the life that he should live^ 
 according to my interpretation of life, and the specific 
 work I thought he should do. 
 
 Bill fully realized his condition and the condition 
 of his people, and determined not only to make a man of 
 himself, but to lift his class from their miserable condi> 
 tion to a higher life. 
 
 " 'Twouldn't seem right, you see, Mr. Ramla, fur 
 me ter rise above my folks, they must come 'long too." 
 
 He went with me the next Saturday to see a num- 
 ber whom we had seen many times before, and who had 
 always refused to consider the possibilities of their lives. 
 
 Bill said to one: ''John, you dunno nothin' 'bout 
 life; I don't know nothin' yit, but I's I'arnin', you see,, 
 an' that's the only dif 'rence between you an' me. You'd 
 better come 'long an' I'arn, too." 
 
 ''Bill Collins, you needn't come preachin' ter me 
 like you had enny right ter, like you's better'n other 
 folks. Ain't I been loafin' 'ith you all my life, an' ain*t 
 I beat you in meny er race, an' ain't folks sed I wus the 
 bes' man o' us two in er fight, an' ain't I sold more splin- 
 ters 'n you, an' got more money, an' chawed more t'bacco? 
 an' thin you come tryin' ter teach me. — :Git 'way, boy." 
 
 "You rascal, naw, 'tain'tso," said Bill; "ever'body 
 knows I's been the bes' man all the time, an' ef you. 
 want ter prove it now, jes' git out in the road." 
 
 *'Easy," said the boy; "I never sed 'twus so. I 
 axed you, ain't what I said so. Don't you know it?" 
 
 "Naw," said Bill, "I don't know 'tis so." 
 
 "Thin, you dunno all that stuff you's tellin' me 
 'bout your I'arnin' an' 1 orter Tarn is so. 'Tain't been 
 proved. I don't see no dif rence in you; you jes' 's. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEKS 127 
 
 ready ter fight 's you uster wus, an' it don't 'pear ter 
 me that folks that don't hold their temper tight 's goin' 
 ter do much fur the world; an' the leetle bit er epellin' 
 an' readin' you kin do ain't a-goin' ter help it; it kin 
 git 'long jes' 's well 'thout it. But I jes' wanted ter se© 
 ef you really is changed, an' I know'd the bee' thing 
 ter git you on wus er fight. You'b er better man 'n me, 
 Bill, an' alius wus." 
 
 Poor Bill ! 
 
 "That's the way 'tis, Mr. Ramla ; I tole you I 
 couldn't do nothin', 'caze I ainH nothin'." 
 
 I tried to reassure him, and told him of the failures 
 that come to every life before it is strong and firm and 
 fixed. But he was easily disheartened. 
 
 **John, you's right; I ain't changed 's much 's I 
 thought I had, but the nex' time you see me you's goin' 
 ter see er dif 'rent boy, an' the nex' time I speak ter you 
 you'll think you orter hear me." 
 
 And Bill went home, somewhat gloomy, but hopeful. 
 
 I went to see some of the gold-washers, and Mr. 
 Sims had decided to send one of his children to school. 
 
 "I'll jes' try wun o' 'm an' see how 't wuks an' ef 
 't do all right I'll send t'others." 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 On my way home I sat down to rest and to think 
 over the work that had been accomplished among the 
 crackers. While I sat thus, I heard voices, and recog- 
 nized those of Callaway and Lewis. 
 
 * 'Lewis, I have done pretty well I think. I have 
 been here three months this time and haven't been 
 caught. I have done nothing really bad, though ; break- 
 ing a little rule now and then amounts to nothing, and 
 a fellow can't be bound down so tight. But, hon- 
 estly, I am surprised at myself ; I never was as good be- 
 fore. Professor is so good himself, and he talks so 
 sometimes that I almost feel like being a Christian." 
 
 **Callaway you talk like a girl; it doesn't effect 
 me so." 
 
 Lewis was worse than Callaway ; this was a revela- 
 tion to me. 
 
 * 'Professor is a good man, Callaway, but what of 
 this other fellow that is living among the crackers?" 
 
 "I have my doubts about him. He pries into other 
 people's affairs too much ; somebody else has doubts 
 about him too. A man has been watching him ever 
 since he has been here , and if he doesn't mind he'll be 
 trapped yet. Let's find out who the watchman is ; I'd 
 give a lot to know; he might watch us some day. 
 Ramla generally comes here in the afternoon, and this 
 man is always about when he is here. He must be paid 
 for his job, because he loses a lot of time. Suppose we 
 sit down a while and wait for the two;" and they sat 
 very near me on an old log. 
 
 I went to where they were sitting, and spoke to 
 them pleasantly, as if I had heard nothing. 
 
 128 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 129 
 
 *'We are resting from the hunt, Mr. Ramla. Pro- 
 fessor gave us permission to hunt to-day, and we have 
 had fine success," said Callaway, holding up a dozen 
 partridges. "How long have you been on the mountain?" 
 
 "An hour or more," I said; and he flushed. 
 
 I asked them about their progress in school, and 
 they spoke with interest of their studies, and kindly of 
 the president of the school. I was glad they did so, 
 and feorry that they did not like me. I was ashamed of 
 not having won their confidence; it was my fault; I 
 had not trusted them. Confidence begets confidence, 
 and nothing is such a lever in lifting a soul as simple 
 trust in it. How often had I heard my friend say, 
 *'Boy8, I trust you; I do not believe that you will do 
 this evil." 
 
 I talked to these young men a long while, and tried 
 to redeem the past. In my effort I forgot the watchman, 
 and I think they did too. But after a while, guided by 
 a slight sound, we all looked in one direction, and the 
 tall, gaunt figure was crossing the mountain and com- 
 ing towards us. 
 
 "Do you know that man, Mr. Ramla?" asked Lewis. 
 
 "No; I have seen him here often and spoken to 
 him, but I do not know him." 
 
 "I think he is watching you," said Callaway. "I 
 have seen him a number of times, always when you have 
 been here. Aren't you afraid of him?" 
 
 "If he is really watching me, I am not; I fear 
 those who know least about me more than those who 
 know me most, because if in my life there is some evil, 
 I trust there is some good also." 
 
 They both looked guilty, though what I stated was 
 a general truth, as applicable to all as to me. 
 
 The strange man passed us and said, gruffly, "Good 
 evening." 
 
 The boys saw a covey of birds just then and left me. 
 I eat watching the result. They killed two or three 
 partridges, and then turned toward the path the man 
 
130 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 had taken. They followed close, tracking him to his 
 home. The man turned several times, and they darted 
 behind trees or by the side of rocks. I was going to call 
 them and stop the chase, when the man turned square- 
 ly, caught them watching him, and fired. They both 
 ran, but were unhurt. Then the man came back to meet 
 me. 
 
 "Look here, stranger; you tell the president of 
 Reinhardt College that if he does not look after the 
 young scamps he has there, they will get killed some of 
 these days. I don't care about being known just now, 
 and I am too much engaged in other work to stop for a 
 courtroom scene, or I would have shot those boys this 
 morning. And let me tell you^ beware of them ; they 
 are the worst young rascals I ever saw. I think one of 
 them is engaged now in and about as bad a traffic as a 
 man can be engaged in." 
 
 **I think they are reforming," I said. 
 
 "Their history in reform is relapse," he replied. 
 "They have reformed before." 
 
 "Trust them this time," I said. "I think the 
 trouble will be cured under the wholesome influences of 
 the college." 
 
 "They are unworthy of your confidence," he 
 replied. 
 
 I told my friend what had happened. He ex- 
 pressed regret that the boys were so foolish as to follow 
 the man, but said: 
 
 "They meant no harm. I had rather trust the boys 
 than the man who has hounded you. There is some- 
 thing doubtful about him, I am sure. I would have 
 said so before, but hated to alarm you. Suppose we get 
 a detective to find him out." 
 
 "Upon the principle that it takes a thief to catch a 
 thief? I think he is a detective." 
 
 "Oh! he is simply watching you for personal inter- 
 ests. He is no employed detective." 
 
 "Yes, I think he is an employed detective," I 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 131 
 
 replied. "But employed or not, he could make a for- 
 tune in the business, and you had better take his advice 
 and keep even closer watch over your three young 
 scamps than you have done." 
 
 "Scamps ! You have even fallen in love with the 
 speech of your watchman." 
 
 "No, old fellow. I have more confidence in Lewis,. 
 Gaines and Callaway than I had when they entered 
 school this term, but I still think they are doubtful. It 
 would be easy to go back to their old habits." 
 
 "As easy as for Bill to go back to his old life and 
 his ignorance." 
 
 "Yes," I said; and related the occurrence between 
 Bill and the boy he was trying to persuade to come 
 to school. We both laughed. 
 
 "One would think that you were trying to reclaim 
 crackers and I criminals," he said; "we are like chil- 
 dren, each contending for his own, when both have the 
 interests of all at heart." 
 
 Bill was more hopeful of himself the next day. 
 
 "I think mebbe I'll do all right arter while, Mr. 
 Ramla. Now, I tell you, I believe I kin do somethin' by 
 goin' ter see Mol; I 'spectsshe thinks I have lef her fur 
 good this time, I ain't been thar fur so long. But 
 I don't believe I'll ever love no gal but Mol ; an' she'a 
 worth bein' true ter. Enny other gal'd run er way an' 
 married Callaway 'fore now, but I don't think ehe keers 
 much fur him, though she don't keer much fur me 
 neither." 
 
 "Yon suppose Callaway has ever asked her to run 
 away and marry him?" I asked. 
 
 "Mol said^he had three times," he answered. 
 
 Mol was stronger than I thought. Few girls in her 
 condition could^have resisted this. 
 
 Bill went and told me the result of his visit the next 
 morning. 
 
132 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 "I went in same 's I alius has, an' Mol, 'stead o' 
 meetin' me like she useter, sent word by her mother 
 that she'd jes' come back frum town, an' wus tired, an' 
 would I please 'scuse her. Did you ever hear o' folks 
 doin' that er way, Mr. Ramla? I never did, an' I tole 
 her mother I didn't reckin I'd tire her no more'n she 
 wus, an' ter please see me ennyhow, 'caze I was on very 
 important bizness. Mol come out thin. 'I'd like ter 
 know what important bizness you's got 'ith me, Bill 
 Collins. You ain't been ter see me fur so long, don't 
 'pear like you could have no bizness 'ith me now.' 
 *That's why it's important, Mol, 'caze I ain't been .fur 
 so long I wus 'fraid you'd furgit me; an' I don't want 
 jou ter furgit me, Mol, whether you love me enny more 
 or not. You musn't furgit the old times and Bill Col- 
 lins, an' how much he alius will love you.' Her mother 
 wus in the other room, an' she heard me, an' she jes' 
 cried out, an' thin Mol looked kinder-like she felt bad, 
 too, an' I saw tears in her eyes. *Mol, now don't cry, 
 but jes' tell me you love me like you did wunst, an' I'll 
 be jes' as happy 's I usedter, an' you will, too ; an' we'll go 
 out on the mountain an' gether flowers, an' talk an' plan 
 what we goin' ter do; an' thar won't nothin' else come 
 between us. An' you'll go ter school an' I'arn, too; an' 
 I'll help you, 'caze I's er leetle further than you, an' I'll 
 git through er year ahead o' you ; an' I'll go off an' find 
 somethin' to do that last year you're in school, an' I'll 
 come back whin you graduate, an' we'll marry an' live 
 so peaceable an' happy. Mol, I think folks ought ter 
 live fur good ter the world, an' we'll see bow much we 
 kin do, won't we, Mol?' 'Well, I thought 't wus time 
 you wus axin' that,' she said, *bein' 's how you's count- 
 in' me 'n all your calc'lations.' *0f course, Mol, it's 
 fur you ter eey, an' that's what I ax you now.' '*Naw, 
 Bill ; sometimes I think I'll love you like I useter, but 
 you don't consider me; you wants me ter go ter school, 
 an' I can't go over yonder whar you an' Mr. Callaway 
 is; wun o' you'd kill the other, I know. An' thar ain't 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 133 
 
 nowhar else here fur me ter go.' 'Well, I don't think 
 you need bother 'bout me an' Callaway bein' thar long 
 t'gether, 'caze he's goin' ter do somethin' soon ter keep 
 him frum stayin' thar.' 'It's no use ter talk that way, 
 Bill; Mr. Callaway ain't no more liable ter do nothin' 
 wrong 'n you or no other boy. But that's wun thing 
 why I didn't want ter see you this evenin', 
 'caze we always fuss 'bout Mr. Callaway, an' 
 thar ain't no use in it.' 'Mol, you're the only 
 gal I ever would er come back ter, an' I think you 
 might consider me. Talkin' 'bout I don't consider you^ 
 you don't pay no 'tention 'tall ter me. I will promise you 
 two things now, Mol, without you axing 'm : I won't 'buse 
 Callaway no more, an' 1 won't fuss with him if you'll 
 come to school. That's as fair as you can want.' 
 •That's mighty fair. Bill; I doubt ef Mr. Callaway 'd 
 do that fur you. But you couldn't hold out, I know 
 you couldn't.' I told her I could. But 'tain't no use 
 ter try ter argue with Mol wun way once she's made up 
 her mind 'tother way. So I told her all right, enny- 
 thing she said. She kinder softened at that, an' sed she 
 had loved me mighty well, £in' she certainly did feel bad 
 not to do what I wanted her — didn't seem natural, she 
 said, but she w^us the gal and she thought I orter some- 
 times do what she said, whin 'twon't possible fur her 
 ter do my w^ay, 'specially 's I wus more anxious ter 
 marry than she wus. 'Well, Mol, tell me your way, an' 
 I'll try ter do it.' 'Thar ain't but wun thing — stop 
 school an' let's git married this winter; thin thar won't 
 be no more botherin.' ' 'That looks kinder like you 
 wus more anxious to marry 'n me ; but I wish I could do 
 it, Mol; I can't, though.' She got mad thin an' sed she 
 won't more anxious ter marry 'n me, that she never 
 come ter talk ter me 'bout it, but ef we wus ever goin' 
 ter marry, she thought we'd better now, an' not be pes- 
 terin' no more. She was willin' not ter marry an' not 
 ter say nothin' more 'bout it, but she won't willin' ter 
 be worried four or five years like we wus thin. I tola 
 
134 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 her I underBtood her, that she could do 'thout me er 
 heap better'n I could 'thout her, an' that I wus talkin 
 jes' for fun whin I said she wanted ter marry the most 
 ^But, Mol,' I sed, *I can't stop school; you don't under 
 Stan', 'caze you ain't tried it, an' that's what hurts me 
 You thinks I's treatin' you mean 'caze I won't stop 
 It's mighty hard, Mr. Ramla, ter love er gal so an 
 have her feel that way, an' can't explain it ter her; it's 
 mighty hard." 
 
 I knew it was. 
 
 *'But 'twon't no use stayin', an' I lef an' just 
 tole her, 'Mol, I won't come back no more; but remem- 
 ber, I alius will love you better'n enny gal in the world.' 
 *Allu8 will?' she asked 'Yes, alius.' Mrs. Smith fol- 
 lowed me whin I left an' sed, 'Bill, won't she love you?' 
 an' I said, 'I don't know; Mol is mighty queer.' " 
 
 The next afternoon Mrs. Smith came to Walesca; 
 she brought me a note. "Thar wus three," she said, 
 *'an' this 's wun; she's gone, I dunno whar." 
 
 "Mol gone?" I asked. 
 
 'Yes, she's gone." Her face was hard and pinched 
 with her sorrow. 
 
 "See what she says ter you," she said. 
 
 The note was written by some one else, of course : 
 
 Mr. Ramla, 
 
 I am going, and it's for good; persuade mam so, and 
 Bill too. It's a heap better for us all; I know you'd think 
 so if I could tell you why. Tell Bill not to think too hard of 
 me, and go to see mam and talk to her an' keep her in good 
 spirits. Tell her I will come back some day. I thank you 
 for being good to me. Your friend, Mol Smith. 
 
 "She writ er note ter me ; I got 'Fessor ter read it, 
 an' it's 'bout the same as your'n. I dunno what ter 
 make o' Mol. She lef wun fur Bill too, but I ain't give 
 it ter him yit. I hate ter hurt the poor feller." 
 
 Bill came for me to go home with him, and she 
 gave him the note. It was shorter than mine. 
 
 Bill: 
 
 I always liked you best. Trust me ; I'm going for good. 
 Comfort mother. Mol. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 135 
 
 "I drove her away," he said, "I know I did, and 
 she wouldn't say so ; I kept her worried bo about Calla- 
 way." 
 
 **She never thought much o' me," said the mother, 
 "ter leave me alone an' all the wuk ter do. I didn't think 
 ito' Mol.'» 
 
 ''She's gone fur good, Mrs. Smith," Bill said. **I 
 know it's mighty hard on you, but I'll come ever' day 
 after school and help you like I help mam." 
 
 I did not know what to think of it. If Callaway 
 had not been in school, I should have thought that Mol 
 had run off with him. I had some faint suspicion that 
 he would follow her in a day or two. But days and 
 weeks passed and Callaway remained. He seemed as 
 distressed over Mol's leaving as anyone else, though he 
 was not as gloomy as Bill. It was the one good thing in 
 Callaway's character that he really seemed to care for 
 Mol. I did not believe it until she left, but he certainly 
 showed strong evidence of affection then. 
 
 We heard nothing from Mol for some time, and had 
 ceased to expect news, when one day a letter came to 
 her mother. I contained little news, however, only, 
 *'I'm well; I wish I could hear from you, but I cannot 
 let you know where I am. I hear indirectly, however, 
 and that is better than not at all. I send you two dol- 
 lars." She was evidently working, and it was good of 
 her to help her mother. Mrs. Smith, however, was 
 more discontented than ever. 
 
 "I'd er heap ruther have Mol than the two dollars." 
 
 I went to see her often, and tried to comfort her. 
 At first she distrusted Mol. 
 
 '*Enny gal that'd runoff an' leave her mam whin 
 she's the onliest child, I don't know what ter think o' 
 her; an' enny gal that'd ruther go off an' make money 
 wukin' 'n ter stay 't home an' help her mam, I don't 
 know 'bout it. I'm afraid she's married to some rascal 
 an' won't let me know it." 
 
 But after awhile she seemed to be satisfied that Mol 
 
136 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 had some object in view. 1 could not help thinking 
 this, too. Mol was a fine girl in many respects, and, 
 after the fear that she had run away to marry Calla- 
 way had passed, I could not but feel that she had a 
 a work to accomplish which she thought best to keep 
 from the knowledge of her friends just then. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 For some time I had been wondering what was the ne- 
 farious business that Callaway and Lewis were supposed 
 by the strange man to be engaged in. One of them was 
 connected doubtless with a blind tiger. They both 
 drank, I was sure, though my friend did not believe it. 
 Finally I determined to brave the danger of the stills 
 again and discover whether Lewis and Callaway had any 
 dealings with the whiskey men. I suspected that they 
 were paid to bring whiskey to the school and sell it to 
 the boys. Two or three boys had been before the fac- 
 ulty lately for drinking. To go the round of all the 
 stills would take about a week. 
 
 One evening I started out alone, not willing to en- 
 danger Bill's life again. I told my daughter not to ex- 
 pect me home that night, but I did not tell her or 
 anyone else where I was going. Along the same roads, 
 by the same by-paths, as on that memorable night with 
 Bill, I went, ostensibly, should I meet anyone, on an 
 opossum hunt. I did not meet a soul. To one still and 
 another I crept, but I saw no sign of the three boys, and 
 heard no sound but that of the night bird and the moon- 
 shiners running the stills. 
 
 I came home just before day, and, as it was best 
 not to go two nights in succession, I rested on the mor- 
 row and the following night, and went the next night. 
 In this way I was out seven nights in two weeks, and made 
 the rounds of the stills without harm and without any 
 great danger that was apparent to me. No discovery 
 was made. All that I found I knew before. But I felt 
 better satisfied with myself because of the effort ; and a 
 hope came to me that the boys were not connected with 
 
 137 
 
138 DOWN AMONG THE CBACKERS 
 
 the liquor traffic. Still I was not fully satisfied; my 
 fear was that the strange man would discover that they 
 were connected with the stills, and expose them. 
 
 A few days later I went to see my friend, and told 
 him what I had done, and that I felt more hopeful of 
 the boys. 
 
 *'The tables are turning," he said; "you are grow- 
 ing more hopeful and I less so. I feel sure that they 
 do sell liquor to the schoolboys, and I suspect Lewis of an- 
 other guilt." 
 
 "What next?" I asked. 
 
 *'Well, a storekeeper down here showed me this the 
 other day," handing me a coin, "and said he was sure 
 Lewis had passed it." 
 
 It was a counterfeit piece. 
 
 "To-day," he continued, "he told me that Lewis 
 again tried to pass counterfeit money, and when told of 
 it, seemed much surprised and said it had been passed 
 upon him. This afternoon he paid his tuition fee and 
 gave me this." 
 
 He handed me a fifty-cent piece that was well coun- 
 terfeited. 
 
 "So there is a counterfeiter's den somewhere in this 
 country," said I. "Truly there are many hindrances to 
 our work." 
 
 "Yes, there are many, and they can be uprooted 
 only by degrees. But let's carry the work forward as 
 far as possible, and not grow faint-hearted because we do 
 not now see the end." 
 
 "What will you do with these boys, especially 
 Lewis?" I asked. 
 
 "I will keep them all here under the moral influence 
 of the school until I am sure whether or not they are in 
 this business of selling liquor and handling counterfeit 
 money. I will send for Lewis now^ though, and question 
 him. Watch his expression closely." 
 Lewis came in. 
 
 "Mr. Lewis, are you a judge of counterfeit coin?" 
 the president asked, handing him the fifty-cent piece. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 139 
 
 "No, sir, I do not profess to be a judge of it. I 
 thought I knew it well enough not to allow anyone to 
 pass it off on me , but I was mistaken. Two or three 
 of these rascally crackers have passed it off on me 
 lately." 
 
 "Indeed! I am sorry that you have been so de-" 
 ceived. You should notice closely when money is given 
 you. You gave me this counterfeit piece for tuition ■ 
 this afternoon. Please make it good now." 
 
 Lewis gave him fifty cents and put the counterfeit 
 coin in his pocket. "I will be more careful, sir. I am 
 sorry this has occurred." 
 
 "Yes, I also am sorry. Stay, Mr. Lewis," as Lewis 
 started to leave ; "with whom have you had money deal- 
 ings recently? I did not know that you boys handled 
 much money. There is no need of it here." 
 
 Lewis' face turned very red and then very pale. "I 
 deal at the store." 
 
 "Yes, but the storekeeper is an honest man and 
 would not pass counterfeit money. If it is passed off 
 upon him, and in the hurry of making change he does 
 not discover it at once, he has the money taken in during 
 the day all tested at night, and never gives counterfeit 
 money in change." 
 
 "Of course I did not mean that he had given me 
 change in counterfeit money. You asked me where I 
 dealt, and I told you. Besides my dealings at the store, 
 I buy splinters for kindling from Bill Collins, wood 
 from Ben Jones, and now and then I sell clothes to 
 negroes." 
 
 I felt like resenting the charge upon Bill, but the 
 matter was, of course, in the president's hands. 
 
 "It is strange; I deal with both Bill and the wood- 
 vender, and they have never tried to pass counterfeit 
 money upon me, and I am sure they would not willingly 
 handle it at all." 
 
 "Then you mean to charge me?" Lewis asked ex- 
 citedly. 
 
140 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEES 
 
 "Not at all, Mr. Lewis. I have only made a plain 
 statement about Bill and the wood-seller. If you feel 
 that you have been charged, it is a personal matter with 
 you, sir." 
 
 "The inference seems to be that you charge me^ 
 Professor." 
 
 "Don't be too ready to draw conclusions, Mr. Lewis» 
 The readiness with which one does this is self -condemn- 
 ing sometimes. I do not accuse you, but I advise you to 
 be more careful about handling counterfeit money. 
 Don't allow it to be passed olf on you. You may re- 
 tire." 
 
 Lewis withdrew, and my friend smiled. 
 
 "Easily caught, though the evidence would not be 
 sufficient in law. But I took note of the date and every 
 peculiar mark upon the coin I returned to him. I shall 
 know if he tries to pass it again." 
 
 Then with a troubled air, he arose and began walk- 
 ing up and down the room. 
 
 "To think of a young boy being engaged in such 
 work ! To think of his fate if he keeps on ! To think 
 of the loss of a soul to itself, to the world, to God ! It 
 is horrible!" 
 
 That night the revenue officer who had been 
 wounded and who had wounded McCabe came. 
 
 "I have just heard of the whereabouts of McCabe," 
 he said, "and must find him. He is hiding in the moun- 
 tains near here." 
 
 "Are you not afraid? He made a vow of revenge 
 upon you for wounding him, you remember?" I said. 
 
 "I have no fear. He is not expecting me, and I am 
 better prepared for desperate fighting. I think T can 
 put the handcuffs on without a struggle." 
 
 He went out that night and destroyed a blind still, 
 but returned without McCabe. He had seen no trace of 
 him. He would ride some distance in another direction 
 that day, he said, and capture him the next night. I 
 rode with him as far as the top of Pine Log Mountain. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 141 
 
 I watched him ride down the mountain, looking so 
 brave and strong. Just then I heard a whizzing sound, 
 then an explosion, and saw him reel and fall from his 
 horse. I looked to where the sound came from, and saw 
 a man running through the bushes. He was some dis- 
 tance oif, but I saw he was tall and looked much like 
 th3 strange man of the mountain. Can it be McCabe? 
 I thought. Or can the man who saved my life from the 
 snow, and who seemed to have a kind heart, have done 
 this murderous deed? It would have been useless to at- 
 tempt to capture him. He was too far off, and running, 
 and my horse could not have made any headway in the 
 bush. 
 
 I went to the officer ; he was dead. I took him to 
 Bill's home, and that afternoon we carried him to Wal- 
 «sca. • 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A number of men went out to look for McCabe» 
 They finally captured him in a little cabin on the moun- 
 tain, asleep. He was taken to Atlanta and lodged in 
 jail, there to await his trial. 
 
 Life went on peacefully at WalescA for a while. 
 Lewis passed no more counterfeit money. Occasionally 
 still, though, a boy was called before the faculty for 
 drinking, and no one knew where he got his whiskey ; 
 none of them would tell, and we could not^find out. 
 
 Katherine had influenced two or three girls to at- 
 tend school, and they seemed to be doing well. A Young 
 Women's Christian Association had been organized, 
 and Katherine was a leading member. I felt proud of 
 my daughter. She had too much to do, though, I feared, 
 with her school work, her home work, and her labors 
 for the people. Still, she never spoke of being tired, 
 and was as cheery and bright as a young life can be. 
 The president often asked her to aid him in his many 
 oflSces, and he told me she relieved him much. I feared 
 sometimes she was associated with him too much for her 
 heart's good. My friend was a man who did not think 
 of loving any woman. He was not ready to think of it. 
 With him love meant marriage, and he was not ready to 
 marry. I noticed Katherine's being pleased when she 
 could help him, and I did not like it. Ah ! a young^ 
 girl's heart is tender and loving. If you would not have 
 her love you, be not near her. She cares for you long 
 before you tell her that you care for her, and does it as 
 innocently as a baby loves its mother. She perhaps does 
 not know it, and would not believe it if you told her,, 
 but it is true. 
 
 142 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 143 
 
 I told my friend I was afraid Katherine's health 
 would give way ; I thought she had better have less to 
 do, and asked him to he as lenient in class as possible. 
 It was a delicate matter; I could not say more. I hoped 
 he would understand, but he seemed wonderfully ob- 
 tuse; or maybe it was my own solicitude that made the 
 matter so plain to me. 
 
 "Katharine," 1 said, one day, "you are tired. Let 
 me copy that paper for the professor ;" buc she only said : 
 
 "You are more tired than I," and kept on writing. 
 
 I could not of course tell her what I thought, so let 
 the matter go on as it was. 
 
 Katherine and I went occasionally to see the old 
 man whose charge was a lonely grave. We met his 
 sweetheart's mother at his home. Have I not spoken of 
 her before? She was a good old woman; grief had hal- 
 lowed her life, until she seemed not like the other 
 cracker women. She said to me one day, when I was 
 there alone : 
 
 "Mr. Ramla, you've got er mighty nice child fur yer 
 darter. She makes me think o' leetleMay; her ways 
 's so mild an' lovin'. She thinks 'bout folks, too, an' 's 
 alius doin' somethin' fur somebody, an' she don't seem 
 ter know she's doin' folks good no more'n ef shewurn't. 
 She's er powerful sweet gal an' jes' 's peart 's she kin 
 be. Don't she do mighty well in school? — But lemme 
 tell you, Mr. Ramla, Katy's in love, an' I don't think 
 it's good fur her now 'fore she gits through I'arnin'. I 
 wouldn't ax her 'bout it, 'caze 't might make her think 
 too much, but I know 'tis so; an' men folks don't gin- 
 er'ly know sech things well, an' I thought I'd tell you, 
 'caze her mother ain't here." 
 
 I thanked her, and asked her whom she thought my 
 daughter cared for. 
 
 "I dunno. You see, I don't never go nowhar, an' 
 don't see the child with nobody but you whin you comes 
 here." 
 
 I thought I knew, and determined to save her as 
 
144 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 many heart-throbs as I could. "It is a light thing for 
 a girl to love," you say. ''They all love, and it never 
 amounts to anything." You are wrong. It ruins the 
 life of many a one. I feared Katharine was like me, 
 and would never love but once. Happy if her choice 
 was happy, miserable if not. A man who wins the 
 heart of such a girl without a fair exchange, is not only 
 a thief, but a murderer. I blamed not my friend in this 
 case; he did not know that he had won Katherine ; nor 
 did he know that his qualities were such that few women 
 could resist them. 
 
 I went immediately to see him. 
 
 '*I am going to stop Katherine from school for a 
 while," I said. "McCabe's trial will soon come off, and 
 I shall have to attend that ; so I will take her home to 
 Btay while I am gone." 
 
 "And do you think we could not take care of her for 
 that short time?" he asked. 
 
 "You draw inferences too readily. I think she will 
 be well taken care of here, but it is best to take her 
 home for awhile." 
 
 *'She is your child, of course; but as president of 
 the school in which she is a student, I advise you not to 
 take her away now. We hold examinations soon ; you 
 want her to stand them; she is doing well in her classes, 
 and I think you will be doing her an injustice. You 
 must not take her," he said, almost angrily; and, 
 frowning, he arose and went to the window. 
 
 *'She is very tired; you do not see it, but I do. She 
 needs rest. Health is more than culture. Besides, she 
 has plenty of time to learn." 
 
 **Do you not know," he said, "that you are mortify- 
 ing the child's ambition. She is leading her classes, and 
 would necessarily fall behind them by leaving, and, as 
 to the work, she would have to work much harder to 
 catch up afterwards than she does now to lead." 
 
 "That may be all true, but Katherine must go with 
 me home and remain there until I return. Perhaps it 
 may be better for her not to come back at all." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 145 
 
 "Something has happened to cause you to come to 
 this rash determination." 
 
 ''Again you draw inferences too readily," I said, 
 rising to leave. 
 
 "But there has, and by virtue of our long friend- 
 ship I beg you to tell me what it is. I say that, be- 
 cause it miay not be connected with the school. If it is, 
 1 have a right to know, and to demand that you tell 
 me." 
 
 He had arisen, and was standing between me and 
 the door. He was more angry than I had ever seen 
 him. I grew angry, too. No right of friendship could 
 justify his acting thus with reference to a private matter. 
 "I do not answer all demands," I replied haughtily. 
 "If you do not answer just ones, I need not argue 
 with you or plead for Miss Katherine's interests. A 
 man who will not be just to a friend may not be to his 
 daughter." 
 
 "I think, sir, I am the best judge of my daughter's 
 interests, and, in order to be just to her, I must take her 
 from this place. As to our friendship, for its continu- 
 ance I beg that you will say nothing else." 
 
 *'Sir, I have the guardianship of this school and of 
 €very student in it, and I have a right to demand what 
 has happened to render it just to your daughter to take 
 her home." 
 
 "Don't speak of demands. The term is too strong. 
 I will say to you this, though, that the matter I refer to 
 is nothing you can help, and this relieves me of the 
 necessity of telling you." 
 
 "I made provision for this when I asked that if it 
 were not connected with the school you would tell me — 
 for friendship's sake." 
 
 "Friendship claims too much in this case. There 
 are things I would not tell my best friend, and these are 
 the things that I would not tell you." 
 
 "Then friendship is worth nothing and I care no 
 longer for it." 
 
146 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 "If you care no longer for mine, the matter shall be 
 mutual." 
 
 "As you will. You are controlling the evening.** 
 He turned from me, and I left. 
 
 I felt sadder that evening than I had done for years. 
 My friend I had known from his infancy. I was much 
 older than he, but since the time of our intimate asso- 
 ciation in the work among the crackers, he had been so 
 much stronger than I, so much more effective in the 
 work, that I looked up to him, and should miss his wise 
 counsel. And his comradeship — what of that? We had 
 been companions and closer friends than men often are. 
 I loved him and I believed he loved me. 
 
 "Katherine," I said, when I went in, *'we must go 
 home at once." 
 
 "Why, father!" 
 
 "Yes, at once. McCabe's trial takes place in ten 
 days, and I have to be in Atlanta by that time, and you 
 must go home. You had better pack immediately." 
 
 "Could I not stay here, father?" she asked. "I 
 have examinations next week and I am io anxious to 
 stand them w^ell. Then the class wull take up one or 
 two new studies, and it would be so much better for me 
 to begin with it." 
 
 "You may never return here to school. The studies 
 will not matter at all." 
 
 I had not intended to be so brusque, but I was 
 ruffled in spirit. 
 
 "Is this not a sudden determination, father?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "I shall miss the work so, and I think the people 
 may miss me, too. I have tried to help you in your work, 
 father." 
 
 "You have helped me, Katherine, more than you 
 know, and I regret very much the necessity of your 
 leaving, but it cannot be helped." 
 "Will you return, father?" 
 "I do not know; most likely not." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 147 
 
 "Then what will the work do without you?" 
 "Very well. The president of the school can carry 
 it on." 
 
 "But he cannot do everything, father." 
 "A deep crimson had painted her cheeks ; she put 
 her hands to them ; the crimson indicated a burning 
 heart. The sight made me more obdurate. 
 
 "He may miss me, but it is his own fault that 
 I go." 
 
 "You speak bitterly, father. What has happened?" 
 "Nothing, except that the president of the school 
 and I have exchanged some unkind words, and have 
 severed tJie friendship of years." 
 
 "Oh, father! You do not mean this?" 
 "Yes, that is what is the matter. Now, ask noth- 
 ing else, but be a good, obedient child, and pack your 
 trunks at once." 
 
 I felt like a child-slayer, Katherine looked so wild 
 and unlike herself. 
 
 "I hope you will regret this, father, and change," 
 she said, with a little haughty turn of the head. 
 
 I cannot say how I felt, but I know of no feeling 
 more miserable than that which follows the loss of a 
 friend when one is largely, if not wholly to blame for the 
 loss. There is such emptiness; all other friends cannot 
 take the place of this one; and there is such self-re- 
 proach. And what was the necessity of it? Nothing 
 except that I feared Katherine's life would be blighted 
 by her love for my friend when he did not care for her. 
 Nothing but this, did I say? Well was not this enough? 
 But there was only /ear, and no certainty. I did not 
 even know that Katherine cared for my friend. I was 
 not sure that, even if she did, it would blight her life. 
 I did not know that he did not care for her. I would 
 not have had "the wish father to the thought," but it 
 had seemed to me that once or twice while he was asking 
 why I meant to take her away, the tone of his voice and 
 his manner, more than hisf words, were some indication 
 
148 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 of affection. If it was true 1 was sure that he was not 
 conscious of it, and it may have been only my fancy. I 
 would have given almost anything to have had it so. I 
 sat at my desk and tried to write to my friend, but there 
 was nothing that I could say. The only thing that would 
 satisfy him would be to state my reason for taking my 
 daughter away, and, in delicacy, I could not do that. I 
 wondered then, and I have wondered since, if delicacy 
 should really have had any place in a case like this. I 
 doubt if it should, and yet, to give up delicacy of feeling 
 even for an instant, is like giving up a principle; it low- 
 ers the whole nature, and that should be kept strong 
 and pure and delicate and free from compromise. 
 
 The next day Katherine spent in packing. She 
 looked unable to do anything. She had aged two years 
 in that one night, and I was just enough to her to know 
 that it was not all from love of any one person. She 
 loved the school, the students, the whole people, and the 
 work. She had interests and friendships at Walesca. I 
 believed that her generous heart suffered more for these 
 than for a peculiarly personal interest. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 In a few days we left. I thought my friend would 
 seek to renew the friendship, and maybe declare himself 
 wrong, but he felt possibly as I did — that there was 
 nothing to say. Ah ! it is harder to mend than ta 
 make. Have you not heard that it is harder to make an 
 old garment over than to make a new garment? It is 
 true of other things than clothes. 
 
 My friend went with us to Canton. I thought I had 
 never seen him so courtly. He talked as pleasantly and 
 cheerily as if nothing had happened, and we said good- 
 bye with a cordial hand- grasp. 
 
 "Miss Katherine, I shall miss you; and you, too,'* 
 he said to me. 
 
 Katherine was very ill when we reached home. She 
 looked worse than I had ever seen her look, and her 
 mother thought I had brought her because she wag ilL 
 She had nervous prostration from overwork and the sud- 
 den change. My wife was never so angry with me. 
 
 "You do not know how to manage girls," she said. 
 "I shall not trust Katherine with you again." 
 
 I was mortified to think that I could not take care 
 of my own daughter. 
 
 It was necessary for me to attend McCabe's trial as 
 a witness. I thought this trial would solve the mystery 
 of the appearance on the mountain ; I should at least 
 find out if it was McCabe. I had been to the mountains 
 a number of times since his arrest to see if the strange 
 man was still there, but he did not once appear. It was 
 with a good deal of curiosity, therefore, that I entered 
 the court-room. McCabe was brought in. He was a 
 tall,* angular man, smooth-faced, with sandy hair and 
 
 149 
 
150 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 fierce gray eyes. His appearance was very much that of 
 the apparition, but the latter had a long, iron-gray 
 beard, and a milder look, I thought. I could not deter- 
 mine whether or not the two were identical, not even 
 when I heard McCabe's voice. It was like, and yet 
 unlike, the voice of the watchman; as you have heard 
 one of two brothers speak, and almost imagined that it 
 was the other, and yet an intonation now and then would 
 dissuade you from the imagination. During all the 
 trial I was not able to say whether the voice was that of 
 the apparition or not. 
 
 A great number of McCabe's relatives had come to 
 testify. They came in wagons, eight men and seven 
 women. The women had their work, as if they could 
 not afford to lose a minute's time. One was making a 
 dress, hemming a ruffle that had got tangled in the straw 
 in the bottom of the wagon; another was making a boy's 
 pants; a third had her knitting, and was vigorously ap- 
 plying the needles, reminding one of Madame Lafarge, 
 who knitted all day by the guillotine during the dark 
 days of Paris, and knitted in her socks the numbers of 
 the condemned as the sharp knife moved up and down 
 in its rapid death- strokes. Both men and women were 
 garrulous and excited. Many a threat was uttered, and 
 boasts without number. 
 
 "Bud kilt the man ; course he did; been tryin' fur 
 er year ter do that, but we're goin' ter git him out; jes' 
 you wait an' see. Mac'U rule this' country ag'in, sure's 
 you're born ; ketch him gittin hung; ropes weren't made 
 fur Mac. Ain't he kilt three men 'fore now?" 
 
 *'Thar ain't nobody a-goin' ter sw'ar ag'in' him; 
 they'se afeard." 
 
 McCabe's sister was in one of the wagons. 
 
 "I dunno, but I 'spect they'll have purty much to 
 say ag'in' him this time, 'caze they'll think fur sure he'll 
 swing;" and she began crying and groaning. 
 
 "N^ver you mind, sister 'Phronie, Mac's got friends, 
 an' ain't thar 'nough o' us ter keep enny man in 'the 
 county from hangin?" 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 151 
 
 They saw me, and one of the men beckoned me to 
 him. 
 
 "I say, pard, whatever yer name is, what yer goin' 
 ter do 'bout this case? Yer goln' ter testify ag'in' the 
 bully o' the mountains? Better mind. I tell yer fur 
 yer own good." 
 
 "McCabe's er desp'rate feller, an' he don't spare no 
 enemy. Never mind 'bout yer been helpin' folks here. 
 He don't keernothin' fur that. We're goin' ter git him 
 free 'thout yer testimony ; I jes' tell yer fur yer own 
 sake. — But say, now, I'll give yer er cow nex' fall and 
 feed her all the winter fur you ef you won't say nothin' 
 ag'in' him." 
 
 "I can only say what I know, regardless of whether 
 it is for or against McCabe," I answered. 
 
 "And yer don't want the cow? Better not ef yer 
 talk fur hangin' Mac, 'caze yer won't need her. I don't 
 reckin they drink hot milk," pointing down. 
 
 McCabe's wife was in the party, but she was more 
 quiet than the rest. 
 
 The evidence for the people tended strongly to show 
 that McCabe was guilty. One man testified that Mc- 
 Cabe had written the notice that the revenue officer had 
 seen eighteen months before tacked on a tree. Another 
 testified that he had seen McCabe remove the bullet with 
 which the revenue officf^r had wounded him, and had 
 heard his vow that the same bullet should end the offi- 
 cer's life. One witness said that he had several times 
 met McCabe in the mountains and been asked by him if he 
 had seen "that miserable revenue officer." "I would come 
 ter light an' be tried fur plottin' ter kill er revenue officer ; 
 I could easy clear myself, but I'm hidin' out ter get er 
 <jhance at the man who 'tempted ter kill me; I'll kill him 
 ef it's the las' thing I do." He kept the battered bul- 
 let with which he had been shot, carefully preserved in 
 a little bag, in his inside pocket. 
 
 Three other witnesses testified that they had met 
 McCabe the day of the shooting, and that he had said, 
 
152 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 *'I'll git him ter-day, boys; he's comin' this way.'^ 
 After leaving McCabe they had started back to Wales- 
 ca to warn the ofBcer, but passed while the officer and I 
 were on the mountain talking, and so missed him. The 
 witnesses were all asked why they did not inform the 
 sheriff of McCabe's whereabouts, as a warrant had been 
 issued for his arrest when the other moonshiners were 
 prosecuted. For two reasons, they said : McCabe was 
 in the mountains, everybody supposed that ; the sheriff 
 was as sure of it as they were. But he could never have 
 been found. After seeing him, if they had gone imme- 
 diately to Walesca, he would have gone to a distant 
 point by the time the officers could have begun a search 
 for him, so it was no use to tell. The second reason was 
 that they feared McCabe. It was well known that he 
 thought nothing of killing anyone who interfered with 
 him at all. 
 
 I could only testify that I had seen the death of the 
 officer and the man who had evidently fired the shot, 
 making his escape. I had seen only his back, but the 
 height and form of the man corresponded to McCabe's. 
 
 The testimony for the defense was unique. The 
 first witness was McCabe's sister. "Do you know the 
 prisoner?" "Think I do; leastwise I know'd him 'fore 
 he wus er prisoner." "How long have you known 
 him?" "Well, ef that ain't pert in you ! Is that yer 
 bizness?" "Come to order, woman. How long have 
 you known the prisoner?" "Well, ef you mus' know, 
 we wus fotched up in the same house, an' I think it's 
 been now thirty year ; ax him ; it mought 'a' been long- 
 er." "Don't you know how old you are?" "Of course; 
 I'se thirty-nine year, two months, an' thirty days old, 
 but I don't know precisely how old Mac is. You under- 
 stan'?" "Is the prisoner your brother?" "You're 
 right; he's the bes' bud goin'." "I asked if he was 
 your brother?" "An' I said he war." "Do you know 
 when the revenue officer shot the prisoner?" "I don't 
 know the day — think 'twus Tuesday — naw, 'twus night. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 16S 
 
 Oh ! come ter 'member now, Bud sed he never looked at 
 his watch ter see whether 'twas 'fore twelve o'clock or 
 arter. It wus 'bout wun whin he got home, an' he 
 stopped on the way ter dig out the lead; an' 't didn't 
 take him long ter git the bullet out. Bud's mighty- 
 quick at ever'thin', though it mought 'a' been We'n's- 
 day whin he wus shot." "What year was it.?" "Las' 
 year." "What time of the year?" "I reckin it mought 
 'a' been fall, 'caze I had jes' come back frum town that 
 evenin' an' throwed my shawl on the bed. 'Twas thar 
 whin Bud come in, an' I don't wear er shawl in the sum- 
 mer." "Perhaps it was winter?" "Naw, I wears er 
 cloak in the winter; 'twas fall." "Did you wear a 
 thick dress?" "1 think I did; I dunno, though. I 
 wore my best black coat, an' it mought 'a' been lawn. 
 My bes' dress ain't alius thick; it don't have ter be, you 
 know; my shawl er my cloaJj '11 keep me w^arm 'thout 
 coTisiderin' the dress." "Do you not remember the 
 month?" "I's gittin' tired o' talkin' 'bout time now; 
 you git me all flustered; 'twas June." "June does not 
 come in the fall, and people do not generally wear 
 shawls in that month." "Nc'um! P'rhaps you ain't 
 as old as me; I's seen the frost kill all the fruit in June. 
 The still bizness warn't good that year, 'caze thar 
 warn't no fruit; an' the craps wus tetched, too." "Did 
 your brother run a distillery?" "Stick to your p'ints, 
 man; I could ketch you in er minute; we wus talk- 
 in' 'bout June." "Well, what month was it? Do you 
 know?" "I think 'twus October, the bes' I kin reckin 
 it now ; I'd er put 't down ef I'd know'd you wus goin' 
 ter ax." "Did your brother keep a still?" "Yes, he 
 kept er still, but we made no heap er money out'n it." 
 "Do you run it now?" "I rule that question out," said 
 the judge. "I thought you wus gittin' too personal, 
 young man; thank you, Jedge," the woman said. 
 "Where was the prisoner the day the revenue officer was 
 killed?" "Can't prove 't by me. He wus in the moun- 
 tains somewhar, 'cept 'bout the time that man war kilt, 
 
164 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 an' thin he wus sittin' talkin' terme. He says, 'Sister, 
 I've 'bout give out shootin' that revenue man; he never 
 hurt me much; I b'lieve I'll let him go.' 'That's jes' 
 like you, Bud,' I said, 'ter be so forgivin'-like. I think 
 you'd better go home, too, an' let him be. 'Taint no 
 profit ter you ter keep watch so long.' An' 'bout that 
 time we heard somebody come er runnin', an' Bud said 
 he didn't know what they mought want, but I mought 
 pertend ter git 'm what they wanted 's well 's he; and 
 he lef, goin' purty fas'. They come an' I axed what I 
 could do fur 'm, an' they sed, 'Git McCabe oufc'n the 
 house; he's je«»' kilt er revenue man;' an' I told 'm, 
 'Naw, he hadn't;' but they 'sisted; an' I tole 'm they 
 could imagine what they choose, an' they come in an' 
 looked ever'whar fur Bud, but he'd had time ter 'scape 
 'way off by that time, an' they followed him, but they 
 didn't ketch him that day." "Did he come to your 
 house any more that day, Miss McCabe?" "Naw, he 
 never come no more." "That will do." "I'm mighty 
 glad o' it." 
 
 The next witness was a man. "Do you know the 
 prisoner?" "You're right, I do. We'n high strikers 
 t'gether." "How long have you known him?" "Sence 
 we wus chapg." "How long has he been running blind 
 stills?" "Now yer got me ; I dunno." "Do you run 
 a still?" The lawyers contended about this question for 
 some time, and before it was decided the man said, 
 " 'Taint no use ter talk so much 'bout it; I kin tell yer; 
 naw, I don't run no still." "Did the prisoner tell you 
 that he meant to kill the revenue oflacer.?" "Naw." 
 "Were you with the moonshiners when they were pre- 
 paring to attack the revenue officer.?" "Yer mean 
 whin that man shot Mac?" "Yes." "Naw, I war not 
 thar endurin' o' the skirmish, but my son John, he war 
 thar, and he sed he wished he hadn't 'a' went." "Why 
 did your son say that?" " 'Gaze, man, he met with er 
 leetle accident." "What accident? Was he wounded?" 
 "Naw; he war one o' them what wus swung up fur try- 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 155 
 
 in' ter kill that revenue man." He was asked a number 
 of other questions, but gave evasive or confused tes- 
 timony, that was of little or no benefit to McCabe. 
 
 ■ McCabe's brother was put on the stand, and said 
 that McCabe was hunting with him, when they met some 
 one who told them of the officer's death. He was ques- 
 tioned as to the hunt, and once said they were hunting 
 partridges ; again, rabbits, and then said they were 
 hunting anything they could find. They all told the 
 story of the hunt except the first woman. 
 
 "What time was the man shot.?" was asked one. 
 **Just at five o'clock in the last half o' the day; we met 
 er man not but er few minutes arterwards, an' he tole 
 us BO. Mac said he'd better run, for they'd sure think 
 'twus him; an' he run." ''Who was the man you 
 met?" "Jim Whitaker." "Where is he now.?" He 
 was one of the witnesses and was called in. "Did you 
 meet this man and McCabe and tell them that the reve- 
 nue officer had just been killed?" "Yes." "Did you 
 see him killed?" "Naw, I never seed him ; met er man 
 an' he tole me." 
 
 Two or three other men were called in and testified 
 about the same thing. The last one came from Walesca, 
 and had heard it there at least two hours after it hap- 
 pened. They evidently had agreed to tell this story. 
 
 Speeches on both sides were made, the judge 
 summed up, the jury retired, and in fifteen minutes re- 
 turned. The foreman arose. 
 
 "May it please your honor, the jury has arrived at 
 a verdict. The prisoner is found guilty of murder in 
 the first degree." 
 
 No one was surprised; though doubts were ex- 
 pressed as to the justice of the verdict, on the ground 
 that the identity of the murderer with McCabe was not, 
 clearly proved. 
 
 After McCabe had been sentenced to death, I tried 
 to see him, to ascertain if he was the man who had been 
 watching me, but was not allowed to do so. His law- 
 
156 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 yers appealed for a new trial and got it, on a techni- 
 cality. 
 
 During the second trial it was found that McCabe'& 
 still had been burned about two months before the plot 
 against the revenue officer, and that he had not rebuilt 
 it. He was from home when the plot was made, and re- 
 turned the night of the difficulty. He passed the con- 
 spirators, and stopped to talk with them, but took no 
 part in the plot. The jury gave him the benefit of the 
 doubt and acquitted him, and he was at once re- 
 leased. 
 
 It was the most remarkable trial I had ever known, 
 that a man sentenced to be hung should finally be re- 
 leased. All who had testified against him were stricken 
 with terror. I though my testimony had not been convict- 
 ing, felt uncomfortable when I thought of meeting this 
 man on Pine Log. The man who had tried to bribe me 
 said: "I don't reckin you'll need the cow." 
 
 After his release was ordered, McCabe arose and 
 made the following statement : 
 
 "I've been near 'nough ter the gallows not ter want 
 ter git that near no more ; I's goin' ter live peaceable 
 arter this, an' I want ter tell all who's testified ag'in' 
 rae that I ain't er goin' to hurt 'm. They needn't be 
 skeered. I wouldn't kill 'm ef I had the bes' chance in 
 the world. They thought they wus right an' I don't 
 think no less o' 'm, an' we ain't er goin' ter have no 
 fuss. I's goin' back home er peaceable man." 
 
 He passed near me as he was leaving the courtroom, 
 and I stopped him and asked if he was not the man 
 who had watched me so long: *'Mr. McCabe, I'm al- 
 most sure you are." 
 
 "Don't be too sure o' nothin'," he said, "an' don't 
 ax me who I been watchin'. I's been in the business 
 too much ter talk 'bout it." 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 On returning home after the conclusion of the sec- 
 ond trial, I considered a good deal as to whether or not 
 I should return toWalesca. My friend had written sev- 
 eral times, but, he had not asked me to come back. 
 Katherine was getting better, and one day she called me 
 into her room and said: 
 
 "Father, mother has told me of the cause of the 
 trouble with your old friend at Walesca ; I am morti- 
 fied that you could have thought of me as you have, and 
 pained that I should have caused you and your friend 
 so much trouble. I trust you will forgive me, and I will 
 try to forgive you ; but you have wronged me. I am 
 not in love with my teacher. I am too much of a wo- 
 man, I hope, to fall in love with any man who does not 
 care for me, especially one whose relation to me as my 
 professor in college would debar me from loving. I am 
 hurt that you regarded me as a giddy girl, thinking 
 only of love, and not as a young woman who is trying 
 to prepare herself for life and the highest service she 
 <jan render the world. You have taken me from a noble 
 work that I have learned to love, and that was doing 
 me more good than I was doing the people, and you 
 have forsaken a field that needs the best laborers. The 
 president of the college cannot do your work ; I do not 
 suppose he will attempt it ; and certainly no one else 
 -could fill your place. I want you to return. The 
 moonshiner's trial is over; you have nothing to keep 
 you here now. Write to the president and tell him you 
 will come. He would be glad, I know; or I will write if 
 you feel that you will be compromised, and you shall see 
 that I write a womanly letter." 
 
 167 
 
158 DOWN AMONG THE CKACKERS 
 
 She wrote and brought me her letter : 
 
 "Father has said that I may write and tell you why 
 he thought it best to take me from Walesca. It was 
 because he thought I cared for some one, and would not 
 study well or help as I should in the work. It is but 
 just to myself to say that he was mistaken. But he 
 was right to take me away as long as he thought about 
 me as he did. I am altogether to blame, and beg your 
 pardon for causing you and father so much trouble, and 
 for interfering with the work that you both love so 
 much, and that I also love and long to see prosper. I 
 think it would be your wish for father to come back and 
 help you, and I think it is his wish to do so. As I have 
 broken a bond of friendship old and strong, I trust you 
 will allow me to be the medium of its renewal, and that 
 you and father will be truer, firmer friends than before.'* 
 
 My sweet, thoughtful, noble child ! 
 
 "Katherine," I said, "you are right ; I have mis- 
 judged you. You are more of a woman than I thought. 
 I beg your pardon ; it is right that I should." 
 
 "No, father, I will not have you do that; I only 
 want you to understand me." 
 
 "And you do not love my old friend?" 
 
 A faint flush rose to her cheeks. 
 
 •'I see you do not trust me yet, father. If I have 
 ever thought for a moment of loving anyone, the 
 thought has been suppressed as unworthy of me now. I 
 could never care for any but a true man, and certainly I 
 am not worthy to love such a one yet." 
 
 "Katherine, I am glad that you can feel as you do. 
 I am 80 glad I understand you better, and I will always 
 trust you hereafter. I will go back to Walesca if my 
 friend wants me to come, and you must go with me. If 
 you wish, you may send your letter, but I will send one 
 too." 
 
 I wrote that night, and in a few days my friend 
 sent a reply that was worthy of him, assuming the 
 blame and asking pardon. He seemed mortified beyond 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 169 
 
 measure to have intruded upon personal feeling, though, 
 he really had not. He had not suspected the real cause^ 
 he said. His letter I preserve yet among treasured 
 papers. 
 
 To Katherine he said: 
 
 "Your womanly letter has reached me and calls for 
 a nobler response than I can make ; but it is not because 
 I do not wish to make such a one. A woman's feeling 
 is so delicate, though, that a man can never hope to re- 
 Espond to it in like manner. So you will pardon rugged 
 expression. I thank you for what you have done. You 
 have been braver and truer than either your father or I, 
 and we are indebted to you both for the renewal of our 
 friendship and for the continuance of the work. You 
 should not blame yourself; I, alone, am to blame for in- 
 truding upon your father's personal feelings. For a 
 long while he had reserved nothing from me, and I had 
 forgotten that there could be feelings too lacred for me 
 to share with him. Forgive my rudeness to your father. 
 He must certainly come back. The work is waiting for 
 him, and has suffered terribly, by his absence. You 
 must come to assist him. There is too much for him to 
 do alone. I shall expect you both next week. Truly, 
 your own and your father's friend." 
 
 Of course we went. My wife's last injunction was : 
 *'Do not break yourself down or allow Katherine to 
 break down, and do not get wrought up by your work 
 to such a nervous tension that you will not be just to 
 yourself and to our child." 
 
 We went on in the old way at Walesca, and no ref- 
 erence was ever made to what had happened. I noticed 
 one thing, though; my friend never called upon Kather- 
 ine to afesist him in his personal work now. Katherine 
 had studied very hard at home despite her sickness, 
 and stood her examinations well. 
 
 There was one sufferer from the examinations, 
 though. Bill failed to stand one, and was kept in the 
 preparatory department another year. Poor Bill ! He 
 
160 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEKS 
 
 had studied hard under difficulties. He had to do much 
 of the work at home, and every day he went over to 
 help Mol's mother; then he was obliged to get splinters 
 to make a little money, and the w^alk to school was long. 
 He deserved great credit for being at school at all, and 
 had really done well under the circumstances. 
 
 Bill himself, however, was thoroughly disheartened. 
 He left school immediately, and did not come back for 
 commencement, though a part in the exercises had been 
 allotted to him. His place had to be filled by some one 
 else. I could not even persuade him to attend the com- 
 mencement as a visitor. 
 
 "It would be a tryin' thing for me, Mr. Ramla. I 
 might 'a' been on the stage myself if I hadn't done so 
 bad. I couldn't stand it to see the others an' think I 
 ought to be among 'm." 
 
 I told him that a number of students who failed to 
 stand their examinations would be on the stage because 
 they had got speakers' places before the examinations 
 had been held, and that there would be plenty of students 
 in the audience who had failed to be enrolled for a 
 higher class. 
 
 **They must not have no pride; they ain't like me, 
 or maybe they didn't want to rise as bad 's I did." 
 
 He had stopped for good this time, he said. One 
 day after commencement I went to see him, and talked 
 very seriously to him. I condemned him, and spoke in 
 harsh tones when I saw milder ones had no effect. He 
 listened respectfully, but that was all. Bill was very 
 stubborn at times. 
 
 *'No, I don't take interest like I used to, Mr. Ramla. 
 Mol ain't here now, you know, an' I miss her an' gits 
 irritated. Ef she'd been here maybe I wouldn't 'a' 
 failed. I tell you what 'tis, er feller don't know him- 
 self till he's tried. I thought I was goin' to do so much 
 fur the world, an' I had such big ideas of what life is 
 an' what folks ought to do, 'fore Mol lef, but somehow 
 sence thin I have come ter the conclusion I don't care 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEES 161 
 
 ■so much fur the world. I must 'a' been thinkin' 'bout 
 Mol an' what I was goin' to do for her sake (though she 
 didn't want me ter, ) whin I fooled myself into believin' 
 'twas on account o' the world I felt that way. Maybe 
 it's good she left; 1 know myself better now, an' I ain't 
 half as good as I thought I wus. I feel powerful mean, 
 too, whin I think I drove Mol away frum her mother, 
 an' we don't know whether we'll ever see her no more or 
 not. It's like the ole man an' that grave on the moun- 
 tain. I'm afraid Mol an' me won't meet till one o' us 
 stands by the grave o' the other. You dunno how sad 
 'tis, Mr. Ramla." 
 
 I tried to lessen his feeling of depression by taking 
 him on Pine Log to witness a beautiful scene. The moun- 
 tain was fresh with the touch of spring. The pine and 
 the oak, the cedar and the maple, with their sister trees, 
 stretched their limbs to show their soft green garb in the 
 light of the setting sun. Like flower gardens at their 
 feet bloomed the laurel, the wild ash, the scentless violet, 
 and the fragrant arbutus. Along the diferent ridges 
 the shades varied while between was the deep mellow 
 verdure of the mosses, the last touch of the sunset having 
 left them for the night. The streams rushed madly 
 down the slopes, and the wind fanned us with its cooling 
 breath. Now and then it would sweep near the ground, 
 scatter the dead leaves, and snatch from an arbutus 
 blossom its fragrance. We could almost hear it whis- 
 per, "These need it more than you," and quickly it 
 rose freighted with perfume. 
 
 "Is it not pleasant here. Bill?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How long since the snow covered the mountain, the 
 trees were bare, the flowers dead ! Will not the One who 
 cares for the mountain care also for you? Yea, longer. 
 *The mountains shall depart, and the hills shall be re- 
 moved, but my kindness shall not depart ; neither shall 
 the covenant of my peace be removed.' " 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The summer passed pleasantly. Katherine went 
 home. I went, too, for a few days, but soon returned. 
 The crackers were people who had to be constantly urged, 
 rhey thought they were conferring a favor upon me to 
 consider their own interests, and as long as I did not 
 ask that they should, they did not feel called upon to 
 do so. 
 
 I went to see Mr. Nicely, the gold-washer. 
 
 **Law, Mr. Ramla, I thought you'd done gone fur 
 good; I ain't thought 'bout the chiluns edication since. 
 I ain't made up the money I lost onthatoxyit, neither; 
 but I'U think 'bout the matter 'fore fall. What you 
 done ter Bill over thar? He ain't goin' no more, .he 
 says, but he says it's er good place, too; I don't under- 
 stand it." 
 
 "Bill has had a good many disadvantages to labor 
 under this year, and he failed on one of his examina- 
 tions; that is all. He will recover from this mortifica- 
 tion by fall and return to school I think." 
 
 **Um! I never did think Bill had 's much sense 's 
 he thought he had; but 'twon't be so with my chaps; 
 they won't fail on nothin' ; reckin I'd better let 'm go 
 jes' ter show folks what they kin do." 
 
 Mr. Sims said : 
 
 "For sure Mr. Ramla, they rumor'd 'round that you 
 an' 'Fessor was mad, an' you warn't goin' ter have 
 nothin' more ter do 'ith the college, an' nobody ain't 
 said nothin' ter me 'bout sendin' the chilun ter put me 
 in mindo' it, and I clear furgot ter make 'rangements; 
 I'll send 'm this fall, though, ef you think it's bes'." 
 
 A number of others spoke in the same manner. 
 162 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 16a 
 
 "Bill," I said, one day, "of course you have de- 
 cided by now to return to school when it opens again.'* 
 
 ''That depends; I ain't made no decision yet. I 
 made up my mind to one thing, though; I ain't goin* 
 back in the same class." 
 
 ''Don't be stubborn, Bill. You will be compelled to 
 do that." 
 
 "Naw, sir, I ain't compelled to do nothin' ; an' I 
 ain't stubborn neither, but I'm proud. How would it 
 look for a cadet to go back in his class? I would just 
 as soon pull off the straps if I was a officer. I'm stud- 
 yin' powerful hard now, an' if 'Fessor'll let me stand 
 the examination over just like I was entering college, 
 and I get through, I will go on ; but if he won't do that, 
 or if he does an' I don't get through, I won't go neither, 
 I done stated the only terms upon which I'll ever go to 
 college again." 
 
 I thought this rather commendable than not, and 
 told him so. The president was very kind, and encour- 
 aged Bill's pride, so when fall came, he returned to col- 
 lege and went to work with renewed energy. 
 
 Moreover, not satisfied with his own success, he 
 made earnest efforts to get his friends to attend schooL 
 He succeeded with Bob Smith, his enemy of the cock- 
 fight, and it was pleasant to see how Bill labored for 
 Bob, and helped him whenever he could. Bob was not 
 a very good student, but Bill managed his protege ad- 
 mirably. He encouraged, scolded, or shamed him as he 
 needed, but always excused him to the school and 
 shielded him from the merciless criticism of the 
 
 students. 
 
 * * * * * « 
 
 Often as I went to the mountain, I never saw the 
 apparition there again. I ceased in time to expect him, 
 and doubted no longer that he was McCabe. McCabe 
 had given up the life of the moonshiner, and was 
 quietly farming, and people gradually lost tteir fear of 
 him. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
164 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 "Has Lewis ever tried again to pass off counterfeit 
 money?" I asked my friend, one day. 
 
 ''I do not know : he has not been caught attempting 
 it, but counterfeit money is still circulated. Complaints 
 have been made, and we have thought of employing a 
 detective to ferret the matter out. There must be a 
 counterfeiter's den not far from this place. What do 
 you say to trying to break it up?" 
 
 *'l tried it once, you remember, but without suc- 
 cess." 
 
 The upshot w^as that at our request the authorities 
 promised to send a detective to look into the matter. 
 
 Does the recital of so much lawlessness and crime 
 seem strange to you? It is no blood- and- thunder story 
 that I am telling. It is a plain account of the actual 
 difficulties that have impeded those who have attempted 
 to better the life of the crackers. It is the history of a 
 people who for centuries have needed the world's help, 
 and have not received it until now. 
 
 The detective, a man named Sanders, came, ostensi- 
 bly to hunt. The partridge season had opened; the 
 shooting was good. I went with him two or three days, 
 and showed hioi the by-paths and dangerous places. He 
 went often at night and every day until the entire coun- 
 try had been scoured. No trace of the counterfeiter 
 was found. 
 
 "I have come to the conclusion that the money is 
 not made here," he said. 
 
 '^WherCj then?" I asked. "Surely no one would 
 risk sending it through the mail or by express." 
 
 "You cannot tell the ins and outs of these men. I 
 shall stay at Walesca a day or two and see what is to be 
 seen. The man may not be outside of the town." 
 
 In a day or two the detective said to me : 
 
 **I think I have the man. Go with me to-night and 
 judge for yourself." 
 
 I wen* with him to the outskirts of the town. It was 
 twelve o'clock, and all the town slumbered but ourselves 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 16& 
 
 and the occupant of a little log cabin we visited. We 
 looked in the window and saw a strange sight. The win- 
 dow was curtained, but between the lower end of the cur- 
 tain and the window-sill was a space of perhaps an inch, 
 ana through this we watched the eccentric movements of 
 an old man. He was not more than four feet six inches 
 high, with long gray locks, dishevelled by his constantly- 
 running hia hand through them. A keen, gray eye, 
 small and searching, glanced furtively about the room at 
 times, and towards the door, as if expecting someone. 
 A gray beard came to his waist, and made him, in hig 
 strange, ragged dress, look like a wizard. 
 
 "Do you think this man is a criminal?" the detec- 
 tive asked. 
 
 "I know him well," I said. 
 
 The old man went to his bed of straw, ripped the 
 side, and after some search, drew out a small bag; then 
 another, and another, until he had taken out seven bags. 
 He sat down to a rickety table, in a rickety chair, and 
 began counting the coin. We saw him count it carefully, 
 seven thousand dollars from each bag, then as carefully 
 put it back. For some minutes he sat gazing upon the 
 bags, at times with a smile of satisfaction, and then 
 with a frown of displeasure. Finally he put them in the 
 bed again, covered them well with straw, and sewed the 
 ripped places in back stitches. He then took a shot-gun 
 from the wall, examined it closely to see that it was 
 loaded, tried the trigger, and placed the gun by the bed. 
 He took an old army pistol from the table drawer, gave 
 it the same careful examination as the gun, and put it 
 under his pillow. Though he had examined the door be- 
 fore he counted his money, he inspected it again to b© 
 sure that it was bolted, then blew out the dim light of a 
 small brass lamp, and we heard him go to bed. 
 
 '*Do you not think this the man?" the detective 
 asked. 
 
 "No,"l answered ; *'I think I can exculpate him from 
 the guilt of counterfeiting money, though in my eyes he 
 is a criminal. I will tell you his story to-morrow." 
 
166 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEES 
 
 **There is only one thing that has kept me from de- 
 ciding that he is the man," he said, "and that is that 
 I have seen no confederate here ; he seems to be alone 
 in the business. I have watched him for three nights 
 and his actions indicated guilt. You noticed him try a 
 coin now and then to see if it would ring, as if dis- 
 trustful of its passing for good money?" 
 
 "He was testing its genuineness. He is a miser," I 
 said. 
 
 The next morning I told the detective the old man's 
 history : 
 
 "I did not think to tell you there was such a char- 
 acter here. His name is Denton. He came while the 
 Cherokee Indians were still settled in this country, and 
 made friends with many of them. He was very kind to 
 them, and they to him. One of them had accumulated 
 a large sum of money, and just before the Indians were 
 removed he took Denton out and showed him where it 
 was buried. He gave it all to Denton, saying that he 
 would never need it. When the Indians were taken 
 away they passed some graves along the road. This one 
 broke from the ranks, and, throwing himself upon a 
 «pear, fell dead upon the graves of his loved ones ; such 
 was his devotion to them and to his home. Denton took 
 the money, invested it, and has made a large fortune. 
 He has children, but will not live with them, because he 
 would not have them discover where his money is. We 
 have made a discovery that he would never rest if he 
 knew of. He is a spiritualist, though, and I hear that 
 mediums are advising him to invest his money as they 
 suggest. He will hardly have it long now; they will 
 inveigle it out of him. Though the man is a miser, I 
 think he is honorable, and would not for a moment han- 
 dle counterfeit money." 
 
 "So I have been on the wrong track," replied the 
 detective. "Still, there is counterfeit money circulated 
 here. I have seen at least fifty dollars of it since I 
 came. I'm glad, though, that you told me this old 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 167 
 
 mac's story, for I should certainly have arrested him 
 soon." 
 
 He remained a short time longer, without finding 
 anything definite, and left to return again when he 
 thought best. 
 
 I had watched Lewis while he was there, and 
 thought he suspected his business. He asked me one 
 evening if Mr. Sanders was there just to hunt, and said 
 he was staying a long time. He quizzed me a good deal 
 about him, and seemed to feel uneasy when the detect- 
 ive was near. 
 
 I watched Callaway, too. He did not seem to feel 
 that way, and I felt sure that he had nothing to do with 
 the counterfeit money. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 I visited the school often then. I was always glad 
 and proud when I heard Bill recite. His recitations, 
 though not perfect, were always thoughtful. He was 
 called the ''interrogation point" of the class. li is 
 usually the duty of the teacher to question, but this was 
 an exceptional case. Bill never ceased to ask questions 
 about everything in the lessons that he did not thor- 
 oughly understand, until he did understand perfectly. 
 
 I enjoyed hearing Katherine recite, too. She alwaya 
 looked so interested, and seemed not to recite by rote. 
 
 One day I walked in the hall at recess and took a 
 seat unobserved to watch the happy faces. There is no 
 better place to study character than in a school. The 
 outline is just forming, and there is no thought of hid- 
 ing it. Two girls were standing in the door of one of 
 the recitation rooms. 
 
 "Katherine is a hateful girl," one of them said. 
 
 *'Yes, just as hateful as she can be, and Professor 
 is partial to her and gives her better marks than we get 
 because he is in love with her." 
 
 "No, he isn't; he would never love her, though he 
 would like to flirt with her. He gives her good mark* 
 just because she is Mr. Ramla's daughter. He needs 
 him in his business here, the crusty old thing. A lot of 
 men would do better than he does, and I don't know 
 why the Professor courts him so." 
 
 A young girl that I did not know came up just then» 
 
 "Why, girls, I heard what you said. You know it 
 is not true. Katherine is the loveliest girl in the school,, 
 and her father is doing a great work here." 
 
 Exaggerated though the statement may have been^ 
 phe seemed in earnest and I felt grateful to her. 
 
 168 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CE ACKERS 169 
 
 That night Katherine said to me: 
 
 "Father, I am so distressed. Some of the girls 
 think the president of the college is partial to me, but 
 it is not true. His whole life is so fair and open that I 
 know he would not be guilty of such a thing." 
 
 "Schoolgirls, Katherine, as a rule, do not judge by 
 the general character. They judge alone from particu- 
 lar cases. If the president is kind and pleasant to them 
 he is the loveliest, the best, the noblest man in the 
 world. If he displeases them, he is hateful and cross 
 and mean, regardless of his general life. School chil- 
 dren cannot be accurate critics ; their minds are not 
 well enough developed, and their experience is not wide 
 enough. One must have patience with them." 
 
 "But, father, it is so unkind in them." 
 
 "That is true, but it is also unkind in you not to 
 bear with that sort of thing. Neither you nor your 
 schoolmates are perfect." 
 
 "But father, I have given them no cause, and Pro- 
 fessor has not. I try to recite well, and he delights to 
 give every one the highest marks she merits." 
 
 "I believe that," I said. 
 
 "Then, why do the girls speak as they do?" 
 
 "Because they have some little spite against you, 
 and are conscious that you make greater efforts than 
 they, and so deserve better marks." 
 
 "I do not want them to have a spite against me; I 
 want them to love me." 
 
 "Then take no notice of their unpleasant remarks. 
 Be as kind to them as you can; help them to get better 
 marks ; love them. Patient, unselfish love will beget 
 love." 
 
 She seemed not fully satisfied yet, but said no 
 more. 
 
 A few days later my friend said to me : 
 
 "I am sorry my students are so unjust as to say I 
 mark partially. I have tried to merit their confidence, 
 and I feel hurt that they express themselves as they do ; 
 
170 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 but I know that students are often unjust. Their youth 
 and inexperience excuse them to some extent ; I am old 
 enough to understand that, but their remarks annoy 
 Miss Katherine very much." 
 
 I think he feared that I should be hasty again and 
 take Katherine from school. I told him what I had said 
 to her, and he seemed relieved. 
 
 I thought it would amount to nothing ; but some 
 days afterwards I received an anonymous note : 
 
 **Your daughter is guilty of the most unpardonable 
 cheating, and does not merit the marks she gets." 
 
 My friend also received a note accusing Katherine 
 of cheating and him of allowing it. It was expressed 
 in the most insulting terms, and seemed too bold for a 
 girl to have written. He demanded an open invest! 
 gation, and had the entire school appear before the fac- 
 ulty and examined each one, but no one acknowledged 
 writing the note. He hardly expected an open confes- 
 sion, but sought to find out from the manner of the stu- 
 dents who the offender w^as. His treatment of the case 
 was severe and yet so mild that whoever wrote the note 
 must have felt ashamed. I heard his lecture to the 
 school, and I certainly should have felt uncomfortable if 
 I had been among the guilty. 1 think some of the stu- 
 dents felt so. I saw several blush and look around un- 
 easily, among them the two girls I had heard talking in 
 the class-room door. 
 
 The matter could not be dropped here, though. It 
 had gone too far. My friend received a letter from the 
 Bishop of the Conference, stating that he had been ac- 
 cused of allowing cheating in the classes, and that as 
 the school was partly supported by the Conference, and 
 belonged to the Methodist Church, he would be obliged 
 to submit the matter to the Conference. He spoke 
 kindly of my friend's work, and said he had too much 
 confidence in him to believe the charge was true. The 
 accusers had given their names to the Bishop — two girls 
 and one boy — but they asked that their names be re- 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 171 
 
 served until it should be necessary to make them known. 
 Of course my friend would have no trouble in proving 
 the charge entirely false, but the thought of its having 
 been made and of the trying examination before the 
 Conference, was mortifying. 
 
 The publicity given to my daughter angered me 
 more than anything else that had occurred at Walesca. 
 I determined that the matter should be stopped at once, 
 if possible. I thought I knew the culprits who had 
 caused the trouble. 1 sent for them to come to my of- 
 fice. They were the two girls I had heard talking, and 
 the Gaines boy. 
 
 "I shall speak very plainly to you. You, of course, 
 are conscious of the fact that you have made a false 
 charge against a man who is giving his life for you, in 
 order that you may be here, a man who labors for you 
 and who loves you, and whom you know is spotless. On 
 account of some little spite you have allowed yourselves 
 to do what compromises you. By taking this matter to 
 Conference you will prove yourselves guilty of falsehood, 
 and show the president even a better man than he is 
 known to be in the Church. Do you not see you can but 
 harm yourselves?" 
 
 Gaines protested against being charged. 
 
 "It is well to defend yourself when you are right," 
 I replied, "but the bravest thing a man can do is to con- 
 fess a fault. You have no doubt consented to do this 
 without realizing what the result would be. There may 
 be excuses for a man who acknowledges his wrong, but 
 none for him who clings to it. I am as confident of 
 your guilt, sir, as I am that you are in my presence now. 
 I see your heart as well as if it were laid bare before me." 
 
 He muttered some sarcastic remark about my insight 
 of character, and I stopped him. 
 
 "Young man, can you tell me positively that you 
 did not write those notes, and had nothing to do with 
 the writing of them?" 
 
 He looked as if he would rather be anywhere else 
 
172 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 than where he was just then, but he made an effort at 
 evasion. 
 
 **I knew they were written." 
 
 "Did you have nothing to do with the writing of 
 them?" 
 
 "I saw them written." 
 
 Just then one of the girls broke down and cried 
 hysterically. 
 
 *'It is no use to deny it, Mr. Gaines; we are 
 wrong." 
 
 He looked at her contemptuously, and turned away. 
 The other girl began to abuse her for betraying a friend, 
 and called her a baby. I told Gaines and this young 
 woman that they might retire. 
 
 When the other girl had regained her composure, I 
 asked her to tell me the whole story. Her friend, she 
 said, was in love with the president, and wanted to 
 stand well in her classes for this reason, but was not an 
 industrious student. She was always irritated because 
 Katherine stood better than she, and made herself 
 very unpleasant because of it. The president took 
 no more notice of her than of other members of the class, 
 and marked her as he did them. Katherine, she said, 
 had a habit of handling her book in class and opening it, 
 from nervousness, she supposed. I had noticed it but 
 had neglected to speak to her about it. She seemed not 
 to know it at all, the young lady said, and never at- 
 tempted to see the lesson. Her friend was very much 
 angered when she saw her last report, and made the ac- 
 cusation before Gaines that Katherine cheated, and that 
 the president of the college knew it. Gaines suggested 
 the course they pursued. They talked so much about it 
 as a fact that she came to believe that Katherine meant to 
 cheat, but she had thought about it since and had no- 
 ticed her, and knew it was not true. Mr. Gaines was in 
 love with her friend, she said, and knew that she cared 
 for the president, and was glad of the opportunity. 
 
 I talked to the girl about the enormity of the of- 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 178 
 
 fense, but she seemed already to realize it. She was 
 brave enough to go to the president and acknowledge 
 her ^uilt and express her sorrow. With his usual for- 
 bearance, he forgave her, but was stern enough to re- 
 quire an open confession before the school. If a student 
 can stand a test like this, he or she is truly repentent, 
 and exhibits great strength of character besides. It was 
 for her good, not for his triumph. She would try to 
 persuade her friend to adopt the same course, and I told 
 the president that I would talk to both the girl and 
 Gaines; but the next morning, before I had left my 
 room, news came that Gaines and the girl had gone. 
 
 The next day the following notice appeared in the 
 paper: "Canton, Ga,, Nov. 10, 188-. Married by the 
 Rev. John James, at his residence, at eight o'clock this 
 morning. Miss Fannie Mercer to George Gaines, both 
 fitudents of Rheinhardt College. The couple ran away 
 this morning and arrived in Canton about seven o'clock. 
 They went to the home of the bride to be taken care of 
 by her parents." 
 
 In after years Gaines became an industrious, 
 worthy. Christian man, and his wife a noble Christian 
 woman. Three years after the occurrence just related, 
 they wrote my friend a joint letter of acknowledgment 
 and regret, and expressed their gratitude for his efforts 
 for them and his influence over them. 
 
 I wrote to the Bishop and sent him the statement of 
 the young woman who acknowledged her fault. He ac- 
 cepted it and the matter was dropped. 
 
 Katherine had been much troubled, though, and I 
 felt that if she should have more to bear, she would age 
 too much during her experience at Walesca ; though it is 
 good even for girls to have burdens to bear. I took her 
 on a round of visits to relieve her mind of thoughts 
 of herself. The cracker girls loved her much, and dur- 
 ing this visit she persuaded three of them to go to 
 school. 
 
 Sometimes I thought Katherine knew something of 
 
174 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 Mol's whereabouts. Instead of speaking sadly of her 
 having left her home and her mother, she always spoke 
 hopefully, and seemed not to have the regrets that I had. 
 She was a great comfort to Mol's mother, as she was also 
 to the old man, whose sweetheart had left him so long 
 ago. Once he gave Katherine a small package. 
 ** 'Twas hers," he said, "an' 1 know she'd 'a' wanted the 
 like o' you ter have it." It was a tiny gold breastpin. 
 * 'She's more comfortin' ter me 'n ennybody these days,. 
 Mr. Ramla," he said to me. 
 
 I overheard them talking at the grave one day. 
 "You reckin lettle May '11 be glad ter see me, Miss Katy ? 
 Mebbe she's so happy now 't won't make her no happier 
 fur me ter come." 
 
 "I think it will, Mr. Brown. She has waited for 
 your coming all these years, and it will surely be a joy 
 to her. Now, in that wonderful city, she revels in 
 intoxicating bliss, but memory never loses its freshness, 
 even in eternity, and she thinks of this hallowed spot, 
 not to her a lonely grave, but a place where loneliness 
 can never come, because here were plighted vows that 
 bound two lives so closely that even the powerful hand 
 of death could not break them. She thinks of her 
 mother in the sweet, peaceful home down yonder, and of 
 you ; and now and then she sweeps on soft pinions to the 
 eternal gates and asks, *Is he coming?' The angel an- 
 swers, 'No,' and she returns, not sorrowing, but wait- 
 ing. Some day, though, the angel will answer, 'Yes,' 
 and with voice of supremest gladness she will express 
 gratitude to God. The heraldic angel will shout so that 
 his voice will reach the limits of heaven, 'The old man 
 has come.' Then together you will fly to the white 
 throne and bow in fullness of joy and gratitude for an 
 eternal benediction upon yourselves and the vows 
 pledged here." 
 
 *'So may it be," the old man said. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 It was nearing the end of the year. The young 
 people were all looking forward to the pleasures of the 
 holidays. 
 
 On the night of the day when the school term end- 
 ed, Bill had a party. It was a corn-shucking and an 
 apple-butter- boiling combined. A large number of boys 
 and girls were present. 
 
 "Goin' to put 'm to work," said Bill. ''The girls 
 can help mam make apple butter, an' the boys can help 
 me shuck corn." 
 
 They separated, the girls going to one room and the 
 boys to another. 
 
 "This is bad," I said; "the boys and girls would 
 like to see something of each other. You are not a good 
 business man. Bill. They would work better for being 
 together." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I'm a first-class business man. You see, 
 I separate 'm and tell 'm, 'Now, the sooner you git 
 through, the sooner you git together.' They work 
 harder than you ever saw folks. The only thing is the 
 girls make the apple butter boil so fast that sometimes 
 it burns. It's a heap better'n putting 'm together. 
 When they're together they talk too much to work good, 
 and the first thing you know some boy's got his gal off 
 makin' love to her, an' they ain't workin' 'tall. Then, 
 too, corn husks get in the apple butter, an' it ain't good 
 seasoned with 'm." 
 
 I felt privileged to visit both rooms. Bill was 
 right. They worked well separately that they might 
 have pleasure together later. Bill was privileged, too, 
 and "w^ent from room to room hurrying the workers. 
 
 175 
 
176 DOWN AMONG THB CRACKERS 
 
 The girls gathered around the apple butter, which boiled 
 in a large vessel. When some tired of stirring, others 
 came to take their places, and the stirring went on until 
 the apple butter was done. The boys sat around the 
 corn in the middle of the room, shucking rapidly, and 
 singing the old field songs. 
 
 "Make haste, fellers; the girls 's most through," 
 said Bill. 
 
 "Hurry up, girls; the boys work a heap faster'n 
 you;" and so it went on until they were all through. 
 
 They then met in one room and their games began: 
 "Clapping in and clapping out," "King William," 
 "Going over the mountain," and a number of others. I 
 had never seen a happier crowd, and 1 wondered if they 
 could have found in more refined pleasures the sams 
 rich joy. 
 
 "I don't like this like I used to, Mr. Ramla," said 
 Bill; "and how I do miss Mol!." 
 
 "Father, I have never seen anything so refreshing 
 as this," Katherine said; "but it is pitiful, too. When 
 will refinement and culture control here?" 
 
 She could not enjoy participating in the cracker 
 games, and now and then would pleal weariness. 
 Callaway was present, but he was the gentleman that 
 night. He and Katherine conversed much during the 
 evening. It was what I feared when I brought her to 
 Walesca. He was more congenial in conversation than 
 the crackers. Katherine was perfectly dignified, how- 
 ever, and her companion perfectly respectful. I would 
 not be foolish again, and so allowed them to talk. 
 
 Bill finally stopped the playing, and called the boys 
 and girls together. 
 
 "I've got something to say to you, but I ain't goin' 
 ter be a goose, like I was at commencement year before 
 last. You all know me, boys and girls, know all about 
 me, and you know I ain't done no good in the world 
 for twenty-two years." 
 
 "You's er fust-class chap, Bill," some one said. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 177 
 
 "No, I ain't no good, and ain't never been none, 
 but I'm tryin' to make somethin' out of nothin' and I 
 don't eay itboastin', but some day you'll see a man out 
 of lazy, good-for-nothin' Bill Collins. I didn't get up 
 here to tell you how much I know, but Perfessor says 
 I'm doin' right well, and I believe he ain't flatterin' me. 
 However that is, I want to tell you all how much better 
 'tis to go to school and make somethin' out o' your- 
 selves than to do like I've been doin' up to two years 
 ago." 
 
 "You don't look no better'n you wus 'fore you 
 went ter college," said some one. 
 
 "Maybe I don't look no better," replied Bill, "but 
 I feel better." 
 
 "You allurs did feel mighty big," cried another. 
 "I don't feel's big's I did, and that's the reason I 
 know I'm bigger. Howsomever, we won't talk 'bout 
 that; I want 3^ou all to go to school. You been foolin' 
 about long enough. If you was to find a gold dollar in 
 the road, you wouldn't wait three or four years to pick 
 it up, would you? But here's gold sense v^aitin' to be 
 picked up, and you just leave it 'lone." 
 They commenced hissing him. 
 
 "It'8 the last time I'll come ter your house, big-Ike 
 Bill," a boy said when the hissing ceased. "Ever' time 
 I come you boast o' what you's makin' 'o yerself , an' 
 tries ter pull me ter school, whin I ain't a-goin'. I's 
 goin' ter wait an' see ef you make ennythin' more'n 
 you's been, an' thin I kin try; plenty o' time thin." 
 
 "No, thar ain't," another said; ''you'll die 'fore he 
 does it;" and they began hissing again. 
 
 "That's all right, boys ; you can keep on hissin' ; 
 it ain't very polite, but it don't matter to me ; you'll see 
 in a year or two that I'm right. A boy or girl ain't got 
 no right to w^aste their lives and never do themselves or 
 anybody else any good." 
 
 "I reckin we kin do whg-t we please with ourselves, " 
 some one said; "I'm my own boss." 
 
178 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 "Yes you can steal, too, but you ain't got no right 
 to do it. Some of these days you'll run against the 
 sheriff, and he'll show you about your rights. You ain't 
 got no real rights but to be men and women, and bless 
 the world. If you don't do that, up yonder you'll be 
 judged for that the same as for stealin' a big chaw o* 
 tobacco." 
 
 One young man arose and said : 
 
 "Well, thar's somthing 'bout it; some o' you say 
 you don't see no change in Bill. I do. I started out 
 hissin' him 'ith the rest o' you, but I stopped whin Bill 
 sed what he did 'bout not makin'no dif'rence with him. 
 He stood it, but he wouldn't er done 't two year ago. 
 He'd er tried ter fight the whole lot o' us. I don't b'lieve 
 he keers fur fightin' now. I dunno whether he's got 
 'ligion or gotl'arnin', but he's got somethin' he didn't 
 use ter have, an' I b'lieve we'd better listen ter what 
 he's er sayin' ; leastwise, I's goin' ter listen. Bill, you 
 kin look out fur me over at Warlesky nex' year; I's 
 comin' sure." 
 
 Others expressed themselves in the same manner. 
 Bill had gained a great triumph. 
 
 "Ef it keeps on so, the whole country'll be at War- 
 esky arter er while : better make more room ter er 
 school-house. Bill," a good-natured boy said. 
 
 "Plenty of room for all," Bill responded. 
 
 The visitors left. I congratulated Bill, but he 
 said: 
 
 '"Tain'tme; 'tis you and Perfessor." 
 
 The next school term six other crackers entered 
 school. Bill was a home missionary. 
 
 Katherine and I went home the next day, and my 
 friend went to spend the holidays with me. He enjoyed 
 the change for a day or two, but he was thoroughly 
 broken down from the trying experiences that had 
 marked his life for several years. He grew listless, and 
 was constantly excusing himself for his dullness. 
 
 At last, one night, I was relating something to him, 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CJIACKERS 179 
 
 and listened for an answer. He did not reply, and I 
 looked to where he was sitting. He had fainted in his 
 chair. For weeks he was very ill. His mother came 
 and nursed him, and when the time for opening school 
 came, I went back to Walesca with Katherine until my 
 friend was well. 
 
 Once or twice in years gone by burglars had at- 
 tempted to enter our house. Once they did enter, and 
 left with whatever they could take, including a valua- 
 ble gold watch that had belonged to my grandfather. I 
 remember his telling me that when he bought it in Ge- 
 neva he asked where the best watches were sold, and 
 was told at every jewelry store, that it was impossible to 
 get a watch of inferior make in Geneva. This seemed 
 strange to me, American jewelers sometimes palm off 
 such inferior works. In the inner case, in black enamel, 
 were my 'grandfather's initals. After the watch had 
 been gone ten years, a man had been arrested for steal- 
 ing a horse, and on his person the watch was found. 
 
 Well, this watch I had left in the room which my 
 friend occupied, in a small jewelry caoe in my trunk. 
 When my friend was getting better, and could be alone 
 at night, he had a peculiar experience. About twelve 
 o'clock some one entered the room ; he was conscious of 
 the fact, though not fully aroused from sleep. He heard 
 no further sound, saw nothing, and concluded he had 
 been dreaming. Presently, however, he seemed to be- 
 come conscious that two men were standing over his bed. 
 But he appeared to be under some subtle influence, and 
 could not arouse himself. The men made signs about 
 him, and though he was almost unconscious, he heard 
 them speaking : 
 
 "I hate doing this. If I had known he was inhere 
 I never would have entered the house. He's sick, and 
 I'm afraid he won't get over this. Suppose we've mur- 
 dered him!" 
 
 "Don't be so chicken-hearted; you're afraid of 
 your own shadow. Suppose he does die, what of that? 
 
180 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 They've been expecting him to die, and they'll think 
 the disease killed him. Nobody will ever know the 
 difference? But somebody may come in to see how he 
 is. We must get through." 
 
 My friend heard them moving about the room, but 
 could not move himself nor turn his eyes to see them. 
 There was bare consciousness, that was all. They came 
 to the bed again. 
 
 "By heavens! I believe he's dead," one said. "Oh, 
 to have killed my best friend! This will end burglary 
 for me ; it is my first, and it shall be my last exper- 
 ience." 
 
 **lt is because it is your first experience that you 
 mre so foolish. He is not dead. We must be oif. 
 Come." 
 
 And he started out, byt the other stayed a moment, 
 looked to see if his accomplice had gone, stooped quick- 
 ly and kissed my friend's brow. Then he, too, left. 
 
 In the morning, about ten o'clock, my friend 
 awoke. He was alone, and the room looked as it had 
 before he went to sleep. Not a chair seemed to have 
 been moved. He felt an uncomfortable dullness. That 
 was all that seemed to indicate that the experience of 
 the night had been a reality. He rang the bell and his 
 mother came. 
 
 "You were sleeping so quietly that I would not dis- 
 turb you," she said. "You have rested well, and you 
 are better." 
 
 He told her that he had rested well, with the ex- 
 ception of a horrible nightmare. He then related his 
 experience, but did not intimate that he feared it was 
 really true. In fact, he told me that after being re- 
 freshed by his breakfast, and thinking calmly over the 
 matter he did not give much credence to its being a 
 reality. 
 
 He recovered rapidly after that, and soon returned 
 to college. I told him that nothing unpleasant had oc- 
 curred during his absence. He laughed and said he had 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEES 181 
 
 been afraid to entrust the college to my care before, but 
 since I had kept the boys straight this time, he would 
 try me again, not to have a spell of sickness but a jolly 
 good time. 
 
 He told me of the experience I have just related, 
 and I replied : 
 
 *'I'll guarantee that the men were really burglars, 
 and I think I might guess who they were ; but no, it 
 would be unkind." 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 The school was nearing the close of its term, and 
 we had decided to have a pleasant excursion of a week 
 or two to a lake about thirty miles off, noted for its 
 good fishing. We would take tents and camp out. We 
 intended to have a large party of students with us, and 
 my wife would come to chaperon the girls. 
 
 We started before dawn two days after commence- 
 ment, and the fresh dews of the mountains cooled and 
 refreshed us for a happy day. The young people were 
 hilarious. I almost wished to be young with them. It 
 takes so little to gladden the spirit of youth. A balmy 
 breeze, a genial sunray, a happy thought, a pleasant 
 exchange of words, and the heart bounds with joy and 
 life. With the old it is different. 
 
 At eight in the evening we reached the lake. With 
 common impulse we came to a halt some distance from 
 the placid sheet of water. The horses, too seemed to 
 stop of their own desire to witness the scene. One 
 would almost dare believe that they, also, had senti- 
 ment. There was no grandeur, but such peace ! 
 
 I remember that the first large art collection I ever 
 visited was the Corcoran Gallery in Washington. Some 
 one asked me what painting I liked best in the gallery. 
 I readily replied, "Csesar Dead." ''That is considered 
 the finest," was the rejoinder, ''but I like that little 
 Connecticut landscape the best." I had noticed the 
 picture, and its quiet beauty had impressed me. But I 
 passed it by quickly in order to give more time to the 
 more showy canvas, so when my interlocutor spoke, I 
 felt rather ashamed that I had not given it more 
 thought. Since then I have always looked out for the 
 
 182 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CKACKEKS 183 
 
 little "Connecticut Landscapes" in life. They quiet 
 perturbed spirits, rest the weary brain, and give inspi- 
 ration to the higher nature. 
 
 In a little cove in the mountains, a small basin of 
 water, not more than a quarter of a mile in width and a 
 half a mile in length, stretched its smooth surface be- 
 fore us. Rugged and rough looked the hills that en- 
 closed it, and I thought of the diamond, with its brown 
 crust around the sparkling crystal. The canopy of 
 heaven curved above it, and out of the deep blue a 
 thousand stars sent down their beams, that blended in 
 one soft light, casting on the lake a siWery radiance. 
 The moon rose slowly between the hills like a great ball 
 of fire. It seemed almost as if the trees that stretched 
 their limbs to keep its light from the lake should blaze 
 from their apparent close contact with it. But the fire 
 died out, and the moon rising above the shade of the 
 trees, swung triumphantly in the heavens, and hung as 
 a silver ball over the lake. Moonlight is beautiful 
 everywhere, but nowhere so beautiful as on the placid 
 waters of a mountain lake. 
 
 We pitched our tents, prepared supper, and after it 
 was served went out in some little boats upon the en- 
 chanted water. The ring of merry voices sounded along 
 the hills, and many an echo returned the glad sound. 
 
 In the early morning the fishing began, and we 
 breakfasted on trout and perch. The sport was carried 
 on more extensively afterward, when the whole party 
 sat on rough roots watching the lines as they dipped, 
 and throwing now and then a floundering fish upon the 
 bank. 
 
 Bill had a right to be proud ; he was the best angler 
 of the party. But there was a better than he on the 
 lake. Soon after beginning the sport for the day we 
 noticed on the other side of the water a queer-looking 
 human creature fishing. Even Bill had never looked so 
 eccentric in dress and person as this boy. He was evi- 
 dently a cracker whom enlightenment had not reached. 
 
184 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 "These folks is worse than us, Mr. Ramla, if they're 
 all like that fellow. I'm afraid you'll leave us and 
 come up here." 
 
 My friend and I went to where the boy was. We 
 spoke pleasantly to him. He did not even look up, but 
 simply said : 
 
 '♦Mornin'." 
 
 We felt somewhat repulsed, and spoke to him again, 
 asking about the best fishing places. 
 
 "It's good 'nough on t'other side whar you come 
 frum, I guess; but nobody couldn't ketch nothin' 'ith 
 the screamin' that's goin' on over thar. It gits in the 
 water an' comes floatin over here pesterin' the fish I'se 
 thro win' fur. You think fish like talkin? They ain't 
 that kind. They like quiet, peacable chaps like me that 
 don't show their sense out'n their mouth. Folks loses 
 eense ef they keep talkin' it out. Arter er while they'll 
 find they's right empty in the skull. I keep all mine 
 right whar it belongs, whar the wind can't blow it away. 
 — Thar, I'd er caught that flounder ef you hadn't come 
 botherin' me. I tell you ag'in, fish ain't ketched by 
 talkin. They'se ketched by er hook that don't 'pear ter 
 have no hand ter drap it, nor no head ter watch it." 
 
 We said nothing, and in a few moments he ex- 
 claimed: 
 
 "Now I'se got you ! You thought you'd 'scape, did 
 you? I know'd you wouldn't. You see what I git by 
 not talkin' — the best fish in the lake. This feller got 
 skeered when we wus talkin' er while ago, an' swum 
 right over ter t'other side, and they yelled so over thar 
 it skeered him back, an' he thought he'd come up ter see 
 what vms the matter. Go over quick an' tell 'm to keep 
 up the yellin'. It helps my bizness." 
 
 We laughed, and asked him to teach us the art of 
 wielding the hook and line and to divide his success with 
 us. 
 
 "Now, that ain't 'zactly fair. You fellers 's fishin' 
 fur fun, and I'se fishin' fur biznese. I sell these things 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 186 
 
 an' makes er heap o' money, but trade's sorter slow now 
 and they may not sell ; so you kin fish er longside er me, 
 I reckin, an' ketch what you kin, an' you jes' watch 
 how I handle the pole," 
 
 We did 80 and caught nothing, but our companion's 
 success remained the same. We asked him why it was. 
 
 "'Cazeyou'se watchin' how I handle the pole, an' 
 you ain't watchin' the fish bite. You could er caught 
 'most 's many 's me ef you'd tried right. That's what 
 I tole you ter look 't me fur. I know'd you warn't cross- 
 eyed and couldn't look two ways 't wunst, but I's purty 
 nigh done now, an' you kin watch the fish. A man has 
 ter look out fur his bizness, you see, an' I'se the btst 
 man at that you ever know'd." 
 
 We asked him where he sold his fish. 
 
 "Up here 't the boardin' house. Folks come ter 
 fish, an' they board, an' I ketch the fish, an' they has 
 ter buy 'm. It's er great way ter do, but thar ain't no- 
 body o' 'm that kin ketch fish, an' they has ter buy 'm — 
 them folks that tents like you'ns buys 'mtoo. Don't you 
 want ter buy some.?" 
 
 "Have you a good school here?" I asked. 
 
 ''School? What's that?" 
 
 I tried to tell him. 
 
 "Naw, ain't got nothin' o' that kind. Thar wus er 
 place sorter like you say 'bout five miles from here, but 
 I soon broke that up. We uns don't want ter be pestered 
 'ith nothin' o' that sort. I never went ter it, but they 
 tole me they done sorter like you say, an' they made 
 folks spend money fur books an' pay ter Tarn out o' 'm, 
 an' I know'd we wouldn't have no money in the country 
 ef that kep' up; so the teacher — I b'lieve that's what 
 you call 'm — he come over ter the lake one night ter 
 fish, an' I wus here, an' he got ter talkin' 'bout my goin' 
 ter him and larnin', an' I tole him I'd I'arned all I 
 wanted ter know, an' I didn't think he could Tarn me 
 no more ef I hadn't; an' he kep' talkin', an' I tole him 
 as how he'd talked 'nough ; an' he wouldn't stop, an' 
 
186 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 thin I jea' tripped him right short, an' he fell in the wa- 
 ter. He couldn't swim, an' I couldn't neither, but that 
 \^arn't nothin' to me right thin, 'caze I warn't in the wa- 
 ter ; but it 'peared ter be er lively question ter the teacher, 
 an' he hollered an' spattered. I tole him he wus gittin' 
 me wet, but he didn't stop spatterin' in the water, an' 
 thin whin he'd been down an' come up ag'in I axed him 
 ef he wus goin' ter stop pesterin' me;an' he said me an' 
 ever'bodj else here; an' thin I throw'd him er pole an' 
 dragged him out. He kep' his word; he lef that night, 
 an' thar ain't been nobody ter teach here since." 
 
 Just then another cracker boy came up, and the one 
 who had been talking to us said : 
 
 "This feller's the biggest story-teller in the country. 
 Ef you axed him 'bout what I tole you he'd say 't warn't 
 so. Say, Zeke, tell these folks here why you don't tell 
 the truth." 
 
 **'Caze my mam made me promise jes' 'fore she 
 drap'd off that I never would tell the truth, an' I'm er 
 man o' my word, ef mam ain't livin' ter know it." 
 
 We talked to this boy a while, and he substantiated 
 his friend's charge. I never saw such real pride in false- 
 hood. When men tell what is not true, it is usually un- 
 der the garb of truth, and they indignantly resent any 
 suggestion of its being falge. This boy gloried in abso- 
 lute, open falsehood. 
 
 We stayed our allotted time and returned to Walesca. 
 Callaway and his sister were with us. His sister had 
 been in school that year, and she seemed a law-abiding, 
 studious girl. Katherine and she had become good 
 friends. I did not like their friendship at first, and 
 thought of forbidding any intimacy, but Katherine, an- 
 ticipating this, said : 
 
 "Father, you would not have me be unkind to a 
 -worthy girl because her brother's life has not been up- 
 right?" and I said : 
 
 "No." 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 I came back in the fall before the beginning of tb© 
 next term. When I called on Bill a few days later he said 
 he was very much troubled about something, and would 
 be glad for me to advise him. 
 
 "I've been gettin' along with that man Callaway 
 right well, but he's bothered me more lately than he 
 ever did before. He come here the other day, and I 
 was very p'lite to him, and mam and the chillun was, 
 too, and he was very nice for a while, but arter lookin' 
 like he didn't know how to say somethin' he had to say, 
 I asked him plain what was the matter; and he said 
 he'd like to know if I'd heard from Mol, but he kinder 
 hated to ask me. I told him I had not, but that her 
 mother heard sometimes, though she didn't know where 
 Mol was. Then he pulled a letter out of his pocket and 
 said he heard from Mol, and let on like he'd been hearin' 
 all the time. He wouldn't let me see the letter, but he 
 read me a part of it and said he couldn't show me the 
 rest, but I might guess what 'twas; and then he said he 
 hated to tell me, but he and Mol was goin' to be married 
 some time, he wouldn't say when. He felt mighty sorry 
 for me, he said, but he thought he'd better tell me it 
 ivarn't no use my lovin' her. I asked him where she 
 was, but he wouldn't tell, and I said, 'Look here, Calla- 
 w^ay, when a boy loves a girl he don't want to be fooled 
 with; I want to know if what you're tellin' me is the 
 truth?' And he said it certainly was; and then I told 
 him plain I didn't believe it. But somehow it looks 
 mightily that way, Mr. Ramla, and I do 'most believe it. 
 There's no 'countin' on Callaway ; he's been a lot better, 
 I know, but there ain't no tellin'." 
 
 187 
 
188 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEES 
 
 I reminded him of what Callaway once did about a 
 note Bill wrote to Mol. 
 
 *'Do you believe it, Mr. Ramla?" 
 
 I frankly said, *'No." 
 
 ''Then I'll be doubtful too." 
 
 T determined to try to find out s©mething definite 
 about Mol, and one day 1 sent for Callaway : 
 
 "Mr. Callaway, I hear you have definite knowledge 
 of Mollie Smith. She has been gone so long, and her 
 mother has heard nothing from her except an occasional 
 note, that I know she would receive your news with joy 
 if you would even tell her where her daughter is. You 
 ought to do this in consideration of a mother's love." 
 
 "I think so too, Mr. Ramla. I told Miss Mary her 
 mother ought to know something about her, and insisted 
 on her allowing me to tell her, but she would not con- 
 Bent to it." 
 
 "Have you seen Mollie since she left?" I asked ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 He was confused but answered, "No." 
 
 "Have you heard from her often?" 
 
 "I think this is a private matter," he replied with 
 some dignity. 
 
 "I understand that you are engaged to Miss Smith, 
 Mr. Callaway, and if that is true you have a right to re- 
 serve personal matters from me ; but I am Mollie' s friend 
 and her mother's , and I do not consider that I have 
 asked you too personal a question." 
 
 "I have heard from her only once, then, if you insist 
 upon knowing; but that communication was enough. I 
 insist upon your reading it." 
 
 "Not if it is a personal matter, Mr. Callaway." 
 
 "Yes; I insist upon your reading it." 
 
 "Have you a right to believe that Mollie would not 
 object?" 
 
 "I have a right to believe that she would be glad for 
 you to read it under the circumstances. It would relieve 
 me, and she would be glad to do that." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 189 
 
 It was a simple note, stating that she had learned 
 to love him after a long absence, and did not consider it 
 unwomanly to tell him so, since he had so often urged 
 her to cultivate some feeling of affection for him, and 
 she had made a promise once that if she ever cared for 
 him she would tell him of her feeling. They might be 
 married when he was able to take care of her, but until 
 then she thought she had better not see or hear from him, 
 there had always been so much trouble about Bill. ''Poor 
 Bill!" she wrote, "it is right that you should tell him." 
 
 "Of course some one wrote the note for her?" I 
 queried. 
 
 "Of course," he said. 
 
 I looked at the postmark. 
 
 "Mr. Callaway, you will excuse my queries; I am 
 interested in this matter. It is a very strange thing to 
 me that you, a boy of aristocratic blood, and whose 
 family has social prestige, should think of caring for a 
 mountain girl of cracker family, and without educa- 
 tion." 
 
 "It is strange to me," he said, "and if my people 
 knew it they would violently oppose it; but I have been 
 very reckless, you know, and I want to settle down and 
 live a better life. Mary Smith is the best girl I know, 
 and will help me more in leading a good life than any 
 other woman who would marry me." 
 
 "That is a proper feeling, Mr. Callaway, and I 
 am glad you have it, but there is selfishness in it. Have 
 you considered what such a girl as Mollie deserves in a 
 husband? You are marrying for your own good 
 alone." 
 
 ' 'I know I am not worthy of her, but the difference 
 in social elevation will balance in some way my defect 
 of character." 
 
 "That is a commentary upon society, Mr. Callaway, 
 but it is largely true. Most girls would consider it suf- 
 ficient, but if Mollie loves you, she loves you for your- 
 self, in spite of all your vices, and not for your posi- 
 
190 DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 
 
 "That is true," he said. 
 
 *'Mr. Callaway, I congratulate you upon winning^ 
 Mollie, but I am sorry for it. I think Bill, after many 
 years of love for her, and a purer life, perhaps, than 
 you can offer her, deserved to win her." 
 
 *'That may be true, but the matter is with her, you 
 know." 
 
 ''That is true, and if you have won her under such 
 circumstances, you should feel all the more bound to be 
 worthy of her. She is a fair, sweet, pure girl. See 
 that you do not wreck her life, see that you never pol- 
 lute it. I congratulate you heartily upon your determi- 
 nation to lead a better life. A boy is never beyond the 
 outstretched arm of" God when he can consider his con- 
 dition and desire to make it better. Indeed, when this 
 desire is a resolution, God's arm "is near to save him." 
 
 He thanked me, and hesitated. His face was as 
 pale as if the death shadow had fallen upon it. 
 
 "What is it, Mr. Callaway? You have something 
 to say?" 
 
 "I was about to make a confession; but I will 
 not." 
 
 "If it would relieve you, make it now. I am not 
 your priest, but I am your friend, and shall be glad if 
 I can help you." 
 
 "Not now, don't ask me," he said. "Some other 
 time I will tell you." 
 
 "Settle that with your own heart," I answered; 
 and he left. 
 
 Callaway had shown more manhood than I had ever 
 known him to do, and I felt more hopeful of him, but 
 his manner was strange and confused part of the time. 
 A man who has led a guilty life is often strango in his 
 manner — nervous, suspicious, furtive. 
 
 I wrote to Mollie, urging her to let her mother 
 know more about her, and telling her what I had heard 
 of her intention of marrying Callaway. "Is it true,. 
 Miss Mollie? I ask from sincere interest in you." I 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 191 
 
 addressed it to the oflSce from which Callaway's letter 
 came, to be returned in five days if not called for. In 
 about a week it came back to me. 
 
 "What does this mean?" I asked Callaway. "I 
 wrote to Mollie, and the letter is returned." 
 
 *'0f course; as long as she does not wish her where- 
 abouts to be known, she would not mail a letter from the 
 place in which she lived." 
 
 Bill and I kept the matter from Mol's mother. 
 Callaway continued in school. He told me he intended 
 to finish echool before marrying, so there was no need 
 to feel immediate uneasiness in reference to the matter. 
 Besides, Callaway had expressed his determination to 
 live a better life, and was endeavoring to prove the 
 truth of the determination, and I thought might make a 
 worthy husband. Poor Bill! He seemed to feel no 
 anger with Callaway now, only a deep regret for his 
 own loss. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Bill was now in the freshman class in college. A 
 mind that has had no training until its owner has passed 
 the years for the usual mental culture, is nearly always 
 slowly developed, and that is w^hy I had tried so hard to 
 get the older crackers to send their children to school. 
 The rule does not always work, however. I have known 
 some grown men and women to enter school for the first 
 time and progress rapidly. This is especially true of 
 the mountain classes. Their minds, though uncultured, 
 are as fresh and vigorous as their native air, and some- 
 times the adult's mind expands, after some effort, like a 
 child's. 
 
 Bill had done well. He had a philosophical mind, 
 and would some day, I thought, be known as a reasoner. 
 His spoken English was yet incorrect. It was necessar- 
 ily so from lifelong practice and association, and was 
 not a fair test of his advancement ; but even this w^as 
 improving. In writing, his English teacher told me, he 
 was very correct. 
 
 *'Mr. Ramla," Bill said to me, "I don't want my 
 little brothers to grow up talkin' like me. It seems to 
 me I never will get no English education. I know what's 
 right, but I can't use my knowledge; it's just because 
 I've been raised on my kind of talk. Some days I get 
 fightin' mad with the English teacher 'cause he stops mo 
 ever' five minutes to correct my speech when I'm talkin' 
 about pr^'nciples and ain't thinkin' about language. I 
 ought to 'a' been learned to speak correct before I begun 
 to learn principles. Now, I want my little brothers to 
 start to school 'fore they're set in their speech, so that 
 the influence of the college may balance this here at 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 193 
 
 liome. And I want *m to go before they get set in 
 thought. It took me more'n a year to give up my ideas, 
 and sometimes they crop out yet. What you think 
 about puttin' Sam in school now?" 
 
 *'Your theory is demonstrated by your own exper- 
 ience; I should certainly put him in school at once." 
 
 '*I'll do it then. Mam'll do what I say." 
 
 So Sam started to school. He was just ten years 
 old, and proved to be very teachable. Bill was proud of 
 him, and said : 
 
 '*I believe before long Sam will catch up with me." 
 He helped him at home with his lessons. It was very 
 pleasant to see him teach the child before he learned his 
 own lessons. 
 
 Katherine took a great interest in the little fellow, 
 too, and so did Miss Blackwell. 
 
 I was afraid he would be spoiled by attention, 
 especially as it was his nature to be boastful, as Bill had 
 been ; but the interest seemed rather to do him good in 
 the way of helping him to overcome his boastful nature. 
 After bragging about it awhile, he said : 
 
 "Reckin I must need more help 'n other folks, or 
 folks wouldn't give it ter me." 
 
 The president said: "You centre your hopes in 
 Bill; this boy is my hope. Would that we had a hun- 
 dred like him here!" 
 
 *'Let us sum up the work of the last three years," I 
 flaid to him, "and see what we have done." 
 
 "Very well," he replied; and he made it a matter 
 of figures. "Five years ago the school closed with seven 
 pupils. It was a country school with a nominal attend- 
 ance. The following year the attendance was seventy- 
 five. 
 
 "Three years ago at commencement, we had a hun- 
 dred. That year Bill entered, you remember, and it 
 was then that we classified the school and increased the 
 teaching force. The year after, your work was followed 
 by greater success. Other crackers entered, and the 
 
194 DOWN AMONG THE CBACKERS 
 
 number of students increased to a hundred and twenty* 
 This year they will number one hundred and seventy- 
 five ; and there is another marked evidence of success — 
 one cracker child, the first, has entered and is doing 
 well. This shows that the sentiment of the people is 
 changing." 
 
 "Sam's being in school is due to Bill's influence,'* 
 I said. 
 
 "That is true. Five years ago there was a two-room 
 school-house; now there is a handsome college building, 
 with class-rooms requisite for a large faculty. Then 
 there were no appliances for the best work ; now there 
 are ample appliances for the most progressive teachers. 
 While you have been going out in the mountains, bring- 
 ing in the crackers , I have been preparing a place for 
 them. Five years ago the manners of the students were 
 barbarous; now they are the manners of ladies and gen- 
 tlemen". Then the sentiment of the people was opposed 
 to education, and the labors of the indolent crackers 
 were directed toward destroying the work ; now they do 
 not oppose our efforts, and are beginning to help ug. 
 Five years ago the attendance upon church services was 
 small; now it is comparatively large. The progress is 
 very marked, and if we do nothing more, we may feel 
 that we have already done much." 
 
 "That is true, but ther© is much yet to be done. 
 Let us turn the horoscope now and see the prospect. A 
 young man who a few years back, laughed in a cracker- 
 ish way at the pleadings of one who begged him to con- 
 sider his own needs, has advanced, and is now himself 
 pleading with others; an old man who stopped his ears 
 and shook his head at the same pleadings, stands with 
 bowed head in listening attitude ; a child who, near the 
 cracker boy and the old man, sat catching flies, has ad- 
 vanced with them, and has books under his arm. Other 
 children are watching him, and stop for a moment their 
 idle amusement. That is the present case. The future 
 shows a vast number following their leader to a building 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 19& 
 
 on the hill, the home of children and of youth. The old 
 man stands off and smiles, and seems happy to watch 
 the columns. They are orderly and move in ranks, but 
 now and then a boy or girl stops to pluck a flower. I 
 look up at the building; a large procession is leaving it. 
 It stops and salutes the advancing column, and then 
 marches on, and men and women take their stand for 
 life. I see merchants, farmers, doctors, lawyers, cler- 
 gymen, reformers, scientists, philosophers, writers, inven- 
 tors, men occupying state and national positions, and 
 fchey all look back at the building on the hill with grat- 
 itude. But between the cast of the present and the 
 future are many obstacles. In one place there is a still, 
 and the ground corn is dripping its poison. Near this 
 is a 'grocery,' into which men walk erect, and out of 
 which they come staggering. Not far off a man is 
 stamping counterfeit coin, while a boy counts it as it 
 falls, and places it in a bag. When the bag is full, the 
 boy takes it in his hand and goes. In front of these are 
 detectives, prisoners, and condemned men. Further on, 
 there ar© churches. This can scarcely be said to be the 
 cast of the horoscope. It is plain reason that is stronger 
 than fortune. The stills, groceries, and counterfeiters' 
 dens must be closed before we can hope for perfect suc- 
 cess. If McCabe could be convinced that it is his duty 
 to help break up this horrible traffic that he once en- 
 gaged in, what a power he would be !" 
 
 *'No," my friend said, "we could not induce him 
 to help. He belonged, and probably yet belongs, to. the 
 whitecaps, and many of them are moonshiners. His life 
 might be the cost, and his help might not be effectual." 
 
 "Do you know that he is a whitecap?" 
 
 *'I am sure of it." 
 
 "Well, we must work alone then as yet," said I. 
 *'The surest way is to convince these men of the evil 
 they are doing themselves and the world; but that is 
 slow success." 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Little Sam had become the pet of the school. He 
 would come tugging along every morning with his books 
 under his arm and his bucket in his hand. He wore 
 long pants and a curious little straw hat. Everybody 
 watched for his coming. 
 
 "Here comes my boy," the president would say, to 
 encourage him; and Sam would lift the curious little 
 fltraw hat respectfully. 
 
 He had not been to school for several days, and 
 I asked Bill where he was. 
 
 "Sam ain't very well," he replied; "I'm afraid he's 
 goin' to be real sick." 
 
 The president and I went to see him that afternoon. 
 
 "Sam, I do not visit well people much," my friend 
 said, "but I hear you are sick, and I have come to see 
 you." 
 
 "I's sorry not ter be ter school, 'Fessor; I wanted 
 ter come, but mam wouldn't lemme. I feel sorter bad. 
 I've been keepin' up at home, though," and he showed 
 him the lesson he had learned that day. "Hear it 
 ^Fessor, please, an' see how much I know;" and my 
 friend heard him recite. 
 
 I took his hand in mine. His flesh was hot and his 
 pulse quick and irregular. It was not the season for fe- 
 ver, but I felt anxious. 
 
 "Don't come to school to-morrow, Sam," my friend 
 said. "Wait until you are perfectly well. I think you 
 can keep up with your class very well, too, without 
 studying at home. Don't tire yourself." 
 
 "That child is about to have typhoid fever," I said 
 
 "I am afraid so," he replied. 
 196 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 197 
 
 The next day Bill said he was no better, and I told 
 him to consult a physician. He did so. The day fol- 
 lowing he said to me : 
 
 "Mr. Ramla, the doctor says that Sam's got the fe- 
 ver." 
 
 "What kind?" I asked. 
 
 "I dunno; he just said fever." 
 
 Bill stopped school to nurse his little brother, and 
 my friend and I often went to see the child. The 
 whole school wanted to go, but were forbidden. 
 
 "He will recover, Doctor?" I asked. 
 
 "It is impossible to tell. The outcome of typhoid 
 is always doubtful." 
 
 The first week he was bright, and there seemed 
 scarcely any danger, but the fever was high. He want- 
 ed my friend by him all the time, and every day when 
 school had been out long enough for my friend to 
 get there, the boy called for him. I asked him if [I 
 would not do. 
 
 "Naw ; Bill's your boy, Mr. Ramla; I'm 'Fessor's 
 boy, an' I don't think he min's comin' ter see me. Do 
 you, 'Fessor?" 
 
 Of course my friend said, "No." He read stories 
 to the little fellow, and tried in many ways to amuse 
 him. 
 
 I had been with him by sick beds before, but I 
 never saw him manifest so much anxiety. He loved the 
 child for his personal attractions, and because he was a 
 beacon light. 
 
 Bill was so anxious that it was not well for him 
 to be near the boy. He showed his feelings too plainly. 
 
 "Bill, don't look so sorrowful; I'm goin' ter git 
 well." 
 
 Then the tears would come intjo Bill's eyes and he 
 would have to leave the room. His mother showed her 
 feelings plainly, too, and I nursed the child a good deal 
 to save both them and him. 
 
 Once he said to me; "I believe Vm your boy, too, 
 as well as Bill." 
 
198 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 The second week he was no better and yet no worse, 
 except that he was growing weaker. He was delirious 
 at times, and the doctor told me if there should be 
 a change for the worse the following week he would 
 probably never he conscious again. 
 
 *'You think he will not recover, then?" I said. 
 
 **It is very doubtful. The chances are against him 
 and if his family wish to talk to him they had better do 
 it now, but not in such a way as to frighten him." 
 
 I told his mother and Bill, but they could say noth- 
 ing without exciting the child and making him delir- 
 ious. They tried several times. 
 
 Then Bill said: "Mam, we'll murder Sam if we 
 don't stop. Let somebody else say what we want to 
 say. I have never been a Christian, but I mean to be, 
 and I want Sam to die right." 
 
 I told my friend to speak to the child, and he did: 
 
 *'Sam, don't you want to hear a story — a sweet 
 quiet story?" 
 
 "Yes, 'Fessor, talk to me 'bout it." 
 
 "It is about a little boy like you who lived long, long 
 ago, almost two thousand years ago. He was born in a 
 little village across the sea, and when he was your age 
 he lived in a town called Nazareth. This little boy was 
 a good child — the best boy in all Nazareth. He never 
 did anything wrong, and when other boys were bad, peo- 
 ple would say, 'Be like Jesus;' and when he would 
 play with other boys, and they would be angry or cross, 
 Jesus would say, 'Boys, don't do that; that is wrong.' 
 Then, when he grew to be a man he started out in the 
 world to teach people to be good ; and one man called an- 
 other and told him what a good man had come from 
 Nazareth to teach people, and the other one asked, 'Can 
 anything good come out of Nazareth.?' The one who 
 had spoken first said, 'Come and see.' To see him was 
 all that was necessary to know that he was good. He 
 helped people all he could; he healed the sick, and made 
 blind people see, and deaf people hear, and he was good 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 199 
 
 to everybody. He would take little boys on his lap and 
 tell them what they should know, and they were so glad 
 there was such a man. So for three years he taught the 
 people daily." 
 
 "Better'n you, 'Fessor?" the child asked. 
 
 "Better than any other man ; and he told the people 
 that he had come down from heaven to tell them how to 
 live and how to die.and that everybody who believed what 
 he said, and lived as he taught them, would be saved ; 
 and that after death he was going to heaven, and would 
 take all others there if they would trust him and do 
 right. He told them what a beautiful place heaven is, 
 and that he was going to get it ready for them. What 
 is the prettiest place you ever saw, Sam?" 
 
 *'The college." 
 
 *'Well, Jesus has gone to a prettier place, more 
 beautiful than any you can think of, and all grown peo- 
 ple, and all little boys and girls who will may go with 
 him when they leave this world. There is room for 
 every one. Do you believe this story, Sam?" 
 
 "Yes, 'Fessor, because you tell it." 
 
 *'Do you believe what Jesus said because he told it, 
 and wants you to believe it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then it will be all right. Now, we'll' pray to 
 Jesus of Nazareth, and tell him how you feel, and ask 
 him to help you." 
 
 And he made a simple prayer, that any child could 
 have understood, to the great Life that he had por- 
 trayed, for the little life that seemed so near its close. 
 
 Sam dropped asleep , and all the room was calm and 
 peaceful. When he awoke, he was conscious, and 
 seemed to be better; but there was no change, the 
 doctor said. 
 
 At the end of the second week, however, a change 
 came, and during the whole of the third week Sam was 
 unconscious. The night of the twentieth day we 
 watched him closely. Sometimes the respiration was 
 
200 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 very quick, then very slow, as if tired of the effort. 
 There was no hope of his recovery ; everyone realized 
 that. 
 
 At four o'clock in the morning of the twenty-first 
 day he opened his eyes, and they shone with a new 
 light. 
 
 "Mam, Bill, 'Fessor, Mr. Ramla," he said, dis- 
 tinctly, "I'm goin' ter be with the good little boy of 
 Naz'reth — an' I'm goin' ter be good, too, in that beau- 
 tiful place — what's prettier 'n the college — an' the little 
 boy '11 teach me " 
 
 He closed his eyes, smiled sweetly, and when the 
 morning dawned he had gone to be with the Child. Who 
 knows but that the Nazarene Boy stood by and hushed 
 the tired spirit into slumber? Certainly it seemed so ; 
 for there was none of the horror of death, and w^hen we 
 had dressed him in his strange little costume, he never 
 seemed more natural or wore a sweeter expression. It 
 seemed almost wrong to grieve, almost like grieving at 
 another's joy. 
 
 My friend said simply: "Of such is the kingdom 
 of heaven." 
 
 The people began to flock in, and I feared it would 
 be like that other occasion when death had entered this 
 home. 
 
 Bill said: "I don't want folks here to-night, 'cept 
 us and you and pr'fessor. It would be like disturbing 
 his rest." So he said to the people present: "We're 
 mighty glad you come, but we want ter be with Sam by 
 ourselves this last night. I hope you won't b'^ mad. 
 It's just our way of lookin' at the matter." 
 
 Some left angry, saying the Collinses had no grati- 
 tude, especially Bill. Others said, "Well, Bill's kinder 
 cur'us;" others said he was right. 
 
 The night passed quietly. There was no loud grief, 
 but a quiet watch, as if we desired the presence of little 
 Sam. We read of the blessing to little children, and 
 had prayer, such as my friend had offered before, full of 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEES 201 
 
 hope, trust, submission, and of gratitude for the good- 
 ness of Him who promised to all such a peaceful en- 
 trance into the Beyond, and reunion and fuller life. 
 And then we talked of the boy and his new existence. 
 
 The next day the friends of the family came again, 
 and all the students of the college were there. In the 
 afternoon we laid him to rest. The school asked the 
 privilege of burying him. Boys of his size were pall- 
 bearers, and my friend conducted the funeral services 
 with beautiful mention of the little life. He was buried 
 by his father, and the grave was C(»vered with arbutus 
 blossoms. 
 
 Bill was very sad afterwards for a long time. I do 
 not think he has ever gotten entirely over little Sam's 
 death; but, as he said, it was "a sin to grieve; and so 
 selfish, too, Mr. Ramla, since it's my loss, and not his." 
 
 My friend said he had not been so affected for years, 
 nor felt so keenly the sense of loss. 
 
 "The boy's place must be filled in the school, if 
 possible," he said; and I went at once to see Mr. Sims. 
 
 "Mr. Sims will you not send your boy to school now? 
 You have seen how much beloved little Sam Collins was. 
 He was the pet and hope of the entire school." 
 
 *'I ain't er goin' ter send him ef he's goin' ter git 
 fever an' die. The school was pow'rful 'tentive, an* 
 'twas all mighty nice, but I don't want my chap ter die 
 ter git 'tention." 
 
 "The attention shown at the burial, Mr. Sims, was 
 only a mark of affection. The whole school loved Sam 
 in life." 
 
 "Mebbe so, but he got fever over thar at War- 
 lesky." 
 
 "I do not think so," I said; and I talked to him a 
 long time about his child. 
 
 He promised to send him at once, and did. 
 
 Bill could scarcely bear the child's presence in the 
 school at first, but he got over the feeling after a while, 
 and was very kind to the boy. 
 
202 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 The students tried to pet little Bob Sims, but he 
 was never beloved as Sam Collins had been. The school 
 felt the impress of the sad death for months. Just at 
 the end of the term, however, a circumstance of very 
 different character stirred it. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 One morning when the presiding elder of the dis- 
 trict was at Walesca, my friend sent for me. I went 
 immediately, and found that a poor boy who was edu- 
 cating himself had lost fifty dollars. He said that it 
 had been stolen out of his trunk, and accused Lewis of 
 the theft. The elder had preached the night before, 
 and the young man thought the money had been taken 
 while he was at church. He gave the following ac- 
 count: 
 
 "About a week ago Lewis came to my room and saw 
 me go in my trunk and take five dollars from my purse. 
 'You seem to have a lot of money,' he said. 'No,' I as- 
 sured him, 'just a little, but it's all I have, and will 
 have to take me through next year.' 'Why can't you 
 make more this summer?' he asked. I told him 'Be- 
 cause I must help father on the place this summer and 
 he can't aflPord to pay me for it; it isn't right that he 
 should either. You see, he gives me one summer and I 
 make enough to go to school two years, and then I stay 
 at home and help him the next year.' 'Aren't you 
 twenty-one years old? You are not obliged to work for 
 your father at all,' he said. 'Lewis, aren't you ashamed 
 of yourself?' I asked; and he replied, 'No; every fel- 
 low for himself in this world. Simpson, let me have 
 that money , I need money badly now, and you will not 
 want that before fall.' 'No,' I answered. 'Why don't 
 you go to work and make money for yourself.' 'I am 
 going to, but I need fifty dollars before I can do a 
 thing; my brother is in New York, and has written me 
 if I go there he will get me a situation. I can't afford 
 to go to school any longer, and I have no money to go to 
 
 203 
 
204 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 New York on ; if you will lend me fifty dollars I will 
 pay it back long before fall ; come, Simpson, do a fellow 
 a kindness.' 'I'd like to help you, Lewis, but I do not 
 know what might happen before fall ; borrow from 
 some one who is better able to lend.' That afternoon 
 he and Callaw^ay both came and begged me for the 
 money. Callaway said Lewis was obliged to have it, but 
 I told them no. Lewis had a fine overcoat that some 
 one had given him, and he wanted to pawn that. I re- 
 fused under any circumstances to let him have the 
 money, and they both left angry. Lewis said, 'You 
 will suffer for it yet, Simpson ; people who are too mean 
 to help their friends always sufi'er for their meanness.^ 
 Last night I went to church with a friend, but not be- 
 fore I had locked the trunk and my room. On the way 
 we met Lewis. 'Aren't you going to church?' I asked. 
 'No, I'm sick, and Professor has excused me.' 'You 
 had better go back and get your money,' my friend 
 said, and I would have gone, but the second church bell 
 was then ringing and I had no time. I was so im- 
 pressed with the sermon I forgot to look for the money 
 when I got home, but it turned cool in the night, and I 
 felt the air from my window. I remembered putting 
 the window down before I went to church, and I did 
 not remember raising it after coming home. I exam- 
 ined the window and found a pane of glass broken. I 
 thought of the money, then, and looked in my trunk. 
 The lock was broken and the money gone. Some one 
 had been in the room, and I am sure it was Lewis. I 
 want to get a warrant for him immediately, but Profes- 
 sor objects to it. He says I ought not to make a public 
 matter of it, but that he will go with me and talk to 
 Lewis, and demand the money. What do you think is 
 best? When a man is as mean as that I think he ought 
 to suffer for it." 
 
 "Suppose you keep a sharp watch over Lewis and 
 see that he does not leave town, Mr. Simpson, until I 
 can talk to the president and we decide what is best."^ 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 205 
 
 Simpson left, and my friend and I talked the matter 
 over. Said he: 
 
 "It is a terrible thing to subject a young man like 
 Lewis to the l«w. He may be saved by mild means, but 
 if tried and made to serve a term in the penitentiary 
 he will become thoroughly hardened. There is little 
 hope for a man imprisoned for crime. It is a fearful 
 thing for a young man just starting in life to be pun- 
 ished so severely. It does not give him a good impres- 
 sion of the religion that should be patient and long-suflPer- 
 ing ; and say what you will about the world, it always 
 looks down on a man who has worn the stripes." 
 
 "That is true," I said, 'but what will you do with 
 the law? It is of no good if not enforced, and then you 
 must remember that, in protecting one, you are causing 
 many to suffer. Lewis might be saved, but in the 
 meantime many others will suffer grievously. Law is 
 ior the protection of the whole. I think you have 
 borne long enough with Lewis. In any case he cannot 
 be allowed to remain in the school any longer." 
 
 "Your interpretation of the law is not entirely 
 right. Lewis might steal a hundred thousand dollars, 
 but that is nothing to the loss of a soul and a useful 
 life, such as his might become. However, my theory 
 may be wrong ; it is not popular, at least. Go and tell 
 Simpson to have a warrant issued; but it does not seem 
 to me to be quite Christ-like." 
 
 "You are the one to decide the matter; the respon- 
 sibility is with you. You must tell Simpson yourself," 
 I said. 
 
 "Ah ! that is what is the matter; the responsibility 
 is with me, and all under my influence will be affected 
 by my action." 
 
 We went out together ; the warrant was issued, and 
 Lewis arrested. Fifty dollars was found on his person, 
 and he acknowledged the theft. He had intended to 
 leave for New York on the early morning train, and 
 was preparing to go when he saw Simpson watching 
 
206 DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 
 
 him, and affected unconcern. He pleaded for mercy^ 
 said he had committed the theft in his extremity, and 
 was willing to refund the money and acknowledge his 
 guilt if Simpson would not let the law take its course. 
 But the matter had passed out of Simpson's hands. 
 
 '^Professor, I know you have a right to feel that 
 some of your suspicions of me are proving just, but I 
 appeal to your goodness that has caused you to bear 
 with me so long to help me now. Go on my bond. I 
 cannot bear to be put in jail." 
 
 He cried like a child, but my friend could not go 
 on his bond. All that he had possessed he had given to 
 the school. So Lewis was taken to Canton and impris- 
 oned. 
 
 The next day my friend asked me to go to the open- 
 ing exercises of the school. He lectured for some time 
 upon the occurrence of the day before, and closed by 
 saying that, according to the law of the college, it 
 had become necessary for the faculty to expel Lewis. I 
 never knew a man with as tender a heart and as strong 
 a will as my friend had. His sympathies were bleeding 
 in Lewis' behalf, but for the influence over the school he 
 took this action. It was a very solemn occasion. The 
 school was asked to stand, and Lewis was openly ex- 
 pelled. 
 
 Callaway sat very near me. When he arose he 
 trembled fearfully, and leaned against his desk for sup- 
 port ; his face was as ashes, his lips even were colorless ; 
 he looked like a man who was hearing his own sentence. 
 Sulely, I thought, he loved Lewis much, or he was his ac- 
 complice. 
 
 We wrote to Lewis' family of his trouble, but it was 
 some days before they could go to Canton and arrange 
 for his bail. 
 
 In the interval, the detective whom we had consult- 
 ed said to me: 
 
 **I have obtained a search warrant for Lewis' room; 
 he will doubtless skip the country when he gets bail, and 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 207 
 
 I have suspected him for some time of complicity in this 
 counterfeiting business ; I can now find out if he is- 
 guilty." 
 
 We went through Lewis' trunk and found a tin box 
 locked. We opened it, and found letters from a counter" 
 feiter in New York. They bore date for two years, and 
 a few coins of different values were enclosed. The 
 counterfeiter said that he sent sample money that it 
 might be tried to see if it would pass without trouble. 
 He promised to furnish his accomplice large sums should 
 he be successful. Lewis had apparently tried for two 
 years with indifferent success, and had taken the money 
 from Simpson for the purpose of going north, and would 
 probably go somewhere else afterwards to pass counter- 
 feit money. "I will expect you or your companion on 
 the 15th of May," the last letter, dated May 13th, ran, 
 "and we will fix up our affair." The letters were not 
 addressed to Lewis, but to an old man, Jake Nicely, a 
 shrewd cracker, an uncle of the moonshiner. There 
 were also letters from Lewis' brother, begging him to 
 come to New York, and he would get him a situation. 
 These had no connection with the counterfeit business. 
 At the bottom of the trunk, in a chamois ekin, I found 
 my grandfather's watch. 
 
 My friend went to see Lewis in jail, and told me that 
 he seemed perfectly wild at not being bailed out. I told 
 my friend of the discovery that had been made while he 
 was in Canton. No wonder Lewis was anxious to get bail. 
 When his friends came to offer bond for him, however, 
 the detective and sheriff went to the court- room and re- 
 arrested Lewis on the graver charges of burglary and 
 counterfeiting. 
 
 His friends could not offer sufficient bond this time, 
 and he was carried back to jail. Jake Nicely was also 
 arrested ; many suspected Callaway, but it was impossi- 
 ble to find any ground for his arrest. 
 
 The trials for counterfeiting came off in July. The 
 evidence went to show that Nicely had Lewis circulate 
 
208 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 the money, and was going to send him to New York. 
 Lewis, however, would not be duped by having the letters 
 addressed to him. He would probably have been sent to 
 prison for a term of years but for a rich uncle who 
 paid Nicely to take the blame. The latter had nothing 
 to lose in character, and would certainly be condemned, 
 so he took the money. Of course, this was not known to 
 the court. Lewis gave evidence in his own behalf that 
 Nicely had brought the tin box locked, saying that he 
 had no place to keep some valuable papers, and asked 
 Lewis to take care of them for him. Nicely testified 
 that this was true, and that he did not wish Lewis to 
 read the papers, and kept them locked from him. The 
 jury could not reject this testimony, and they found 
 Nicely guilty, and he was sentenced to ten years' 
 imprisonment, while Lewis was acquitted. 
 
 The case of burglary was not tried during that term 
 and *Lewi8 was bailed. He skipped the country imme- 
 diately, and his bondsman paid the bail. 
 
 Not long after the trial Callaway was in my room, 
 and I asked him if he had heard from Lewis. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "once," but as his friend had fallen 
 into such shame he thought it wiser not to have anything 
 further to do with him, and he had not answered his let- 
 ter. 
 
 I asked him if he knew where he was. He did not, he 
 replied. I showed him the watch. 
 
 "Did you ever see Lewis with this?" I asked. 
 
 He looked somewhat taken back, but said he had 
 never seen it before. I showed him the name. 
 
 "It is easily recognizable, you see; it was taken 
 from a trunk in my room when the president was at my 
 house sick some time in January of last year." 
 
 "Lewis was in the town in which you live when Pro- 
 fessor was sick. I remember his telling me he wanted 
 to go and see him." 
 
 "You were at home then, Mr. Callaway?" I asked. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 209 
 
 "No sir, I was here. You remember I came before 
 Lewis did that year." 
 
 "Yes, only a day or two, though, I think; my im- 
 pression is that you were not here then." 
 
 He aiiswered confusedly ; "Well, maybe I was at 
 home," and the conversation dropped. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Bill was now in the sophomore class, and among the 
 many exercises required by the teacher of English was 
 writing poetry. I asked the teacher if this was not a 
 waste of time. He said no, it cultivated a pure senti- 
 ment, and it was one of the many duties of a teacher to 
 do that. One day Bill brought me one of his productions. 
 
 ''There's not much in it, but it's how I feel," he 
 said. 
 
 I laughed and told him he might regret his syllogism 
 if he studied logic. 
 
 After reading it I asked : 
 
 "Where did you get this sentiment. Bill? You 
 must have been reading Byron. Women are generally 
 thought to be more constant than men, and this poem is 
 the feeling of an old, experienced man, whose life has 
 become saddened and somewhat embittered because some 
 woman has rejected him." 
 
 "Well, I'm not old, but I sometimes feels so, and 
 what you say has been my experience. The sweetest, 
 purest girl in the world has rejected me, and nothing 
 seems the same." 
 
 "But you do not know that Molis inconstant," I 
 said. 
 
 "I'm sure of it. She would have let me hear before 
 now if she felt the same." 
 
 Katherine said to me one day: "Father, the Pro- 
 fessor of English says that Bill is the best writer in the 
 sophomore class." 
 
 "He brought me some poetry to read the other day," 
 I said, "and it expressed deep sentiment, and was well 
 written." 
 
 210 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 211 
 
 ''Oh ! he is developing wonderful talent as an essay 
 writer. His attempts at poetry are spasmodic, the pro- 
 fessor says, and not nearly so good as his prose. He has 
 a philosophical mind. And have you not noticed how 
 improved his expression in conversation is.? He does not 
 butcher English half so much as he used to." 
 
 I had noticed the change in Bill, but I was not as 
 surprised as she. I had looked anxiously for the devel- 
 opment for four years, always believing that it would 
 come. 
 
 My friend said to me: "I confess I have never be- 
 lieved in Bill as you have, but now I must acknowledge 
 his capacity. The boy has a wonderful brain." 
 
 Before the close of each term, it had been the cus- 
 tom to have a series of revival meetings, and many of 
 the students were converted each time. This year the 
 meetings were conducted by my friend and a noted evan- 
 gelist. Everybody seemed to help in feeling, if not 
 openly. Among those who were converted was Bill ; 1 
 had felt anxious about his Christian life, though I 
 thought he was a boy of high appreciation of duty. 
 
 "I've been thinkin' about it ever since Sam died," 
 he said, "and I am glad to be able to make up my mind 
 now. What is conversion, Mr. Ramla?" 
 
 "It is a conviction of wrong-doing, and a strong de- 
 termination to live right." 
 
 "That's what I think. Now, what is living right?" 
 
 "Just as Christ lived, as far as you can — living up 
 to your higher nature." 
 
 "That is what I think too," he said; "nothing 
 
 One Sunday afternoon, shortly after this, I met 
 McCabe on the street; and said: "Mr. McCabe, will you 
 not come to church to-night?" 
 
 "I though I'd come," he replied. 
 
 I watched for him, and early the great, tall form 
 came boldly in. My friend preached one of his most 
 impressive sermons, tender and loving, with not a word 
 
212 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 of condemnation. Surely if the gospel means anything, 
 it means glad tidings. 
 
 McCabe arose and came to the front. 
 
 *'I have wanted fur er long time ter hear how 
 Christ preached. The las' time I wus in church they 
 told me that the likes o' me wus condemned forever, but 
 somehow I felt that Jesus would 'a' preached different. 
 I've been hunted down all my life. I'm glad thar's er 
 religion that don't want ter keep people down all the 
 time, an' don't believe thar's nothing good in 'm. I've 
 heen er still-keeper, but ef there's enny chance far me 
 now, I want ter live right. If thar's enny moonshiners 
 here, I want ter tell 'm moonshinin's er bad business ; 
 more'n that, I've made up my mind ter do ever'thin' 
 ag'in stills. They're er curse ter enny country, govern- 
 ment or blind wuns. I can't break up the government 
 ivuns, but I kin wuk on the others. Now, if thar's enny 
 man I ain't done jes' right by, I want him ter know I'm 
 sorry, an' I'm goin' ter do better. Now if thar's enny 
 way fur er man like me what's been so mean but wants 
 ter be good, ter be saved, help me ter that way. Pro- 
 fessor." 
 
 My friend here gave out the words, "Just as I am, 
 I come," and the congregation sang that beautiful 
 hymn. The great work had been done. Three years 
 ago an outlaw, now a Christian. I had not felt so happy 
 in years as when I thought then of Bill and McCabe, 
 and when they both told me I had been a help to them I 
 heard the herald of eternity whisper of its joys. 
 
 Katherine graduated that year, and I felt very proud 
 of her. Truly, if "sorrows come not single spies," 
 neither do joys. I thought that at first she would 
 remain at home after this, but we all decided it would 
 be better for her to go back, as she would be able to do 
 more than ever for the people. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 When we returned in the fall, Bill told me that he 
 was happier than he had been Bince Mol left. 
 
 "I was going home about dark the other day, and 
 I met a queer-lookin' man I never saw before, sorter like 
 McCabe, and he said : 'Young man, it's a pity you let an- 
 other man cheat you out of so much happiness,especialiy 
 when the man's a rascal;' and I asked him what he 
 meant, and he said, 'Think what I mean.' I suppose he 
 referred to Callaway's winning Mol, and I couldn't help 
 that. The next day I received a letter from her, 
 but I couldn't tell a thing about the postmark or where 
 to send one to her. The letter contained hopeful news. 
 'I told you when I left to trust me ; you have not done 
 that. Women are fai thful, but men never are, and you 
 do not trust me because you are proving false.' It was 
 mighty bad on me, but I was glad to know that she was 
 true, and I thought she'd find out I was some day. I 
 showed it to Callaway, and he said, either Mol didn't 
 write it, or she was false to him. How do you think I 
 can get a letter to her? You reckon that man that met 
 me knows anything about it?" 
 
 I thought it very likely that he did, and I told Bill 
 that I would be on the lookout for the man, and find out 
 from him what he knew of Mol. 
 
 It was months, however, before I saw him. In De- 
 cember, though, I came across him, and asked him ta 
 talk to me a few moments. 
 
 "You advise me not to seek to discover your iden- 
 tity, and I have taken no pains to learn it. Without 
 doubt, if I had made any great effort, I could have 
 learned, and might have given you trouble, for a man 
 
 213 
 
«14 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 does not usually conceal his identity unless he is in 
 danger.'* 
 
 ''Don't speak without reason," he said. "Men con- 
 ceal their identity sometimes for the greater good they 
 may do unknown than known, and for various other rea- 
 sons." 
 
 "Well, I have not made any effort to learn yours, 
 and in consideration of my not having disturbed you in 
 your work, I want to ask a kindness of you." 
 
 **I will be glad to do you a kindness, but w^hen you 
 speak of considerations, they are not on one side. I have 
 not interfered in your work." 
 
 "Pardon my ingratitude," I said somewhat stiffly. 
 "We will pass over considerations, and I will heg of you a 
 kindness. You seem to know the private affairs of every- 
 one in this country; it is a questionable business dig- 
 ging into personal matters, but since you engage in it, 
 turn it to good." 
 
 He was livid. How had I angered him so? But, 
 to tell the truth, though I admired the man, I was dis- 
 gusted with him for making insight into private matters 
 his occupation. He replied hotly: 
 
 "Tour comments are unworthy of you, but I sup- 
 pose, when a man places himself in a doubtful position 
 he must answer for it." 
 
 He rose, showed a belt of pistols, and held one in 
 my face before I could rise. 
 
 "Oh ! I have no desire to engage in a pistol fight, " 
 I said. 
 
 "Few men have with me; you are not eccentric in 
 that." 
 
 "I did not mean to comment too severely upon your 
 work. Your motives may be good." 
 
 He replaced the pistol in his belt. 
 
 "I would not shoot a man who could not defend 
 himself. Tell me what kindness you would ask, and I 
 will consider granting it." 
 
 "You know where MoUie Smith is. It would be a 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 215 
 
 great kindness to her mother and friends if you would 
 say." 
 
 "It would be a great kindness to Miss Smith for me 
 not to say, conceding that I know." 
 
 "So she would doubtless consider it, but it is ques- 
 tionable if it would be so. Her mother is growing old 
 and feeble. Better than doctors and medicine would be 
 a knowledge of where Mollie is, and better than renewed 
 youth it would be to see her once again." 
 
 "Miss Smith has surely thought of these things, 
 and against them has weighed the secret of her absence 
 and whatever of good is involved in it. I have taken 
 no trouble to find out anything about her. She is a 
 good girl, though, and I did her a kindness once. In 
 memory of it she told me where she was going, and to 
 let her know of any change here for good or ill. It is 
 strange that a boy of Bill's sense in other things should 
 allow himself to believe anything that a man like Calla- 
 way says." 
 
 "Callaway seems abetter man in every respect, and 
 Bill has come to believe him. I, too, have thought his 
 story of Mol plausible." 
 
 "Then you are as foolish as Bill. Callaway is one 
 of the deceptive kind that knows how to impose upon 
 credulous people. Out of his doubts of Mol's constancy, 
 Bill will acquire a contempt for her, and will consider 
 her ignorance and other deficiencies, which he has not 
 yet realized, and prove untrue himself. Callaway is 
 undermining his affection, and Bill has not been able to 
 Bee it." 
 
 "I confess I have never thought of it." 
 
 "Then look into these things, Callaway would like 
 to say to Mol, 'You see what sort of man Bill Collins is; 
 when he was ignorant, you were the wife he sought ; 
 now that he is educated, he aspires higher; but I, with 
 family and social prestige, and education superior, am 
 yet true.' And when she believes him, he will say; 
 *You ought to have known that I could never marry 
 
216 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 you ; I only wanted to show Bill that I could win you 
 from him.' The only sting that Callaway has ever had 
 has been that a cracker could keep the affections of a 
 girl he made an effort to win." 
 
 "I thought I was a judge of character," I said, "but 
 I, cannot look into' men's hearts and discover their 
 motives in this way." 
 
 *'I am accustomed to it from hard dealings with 
 them," he replied. 
 
 *'Now," I said,* 'if you really think this is true, and 
 if you know where Mol is, and she has asked you to 
 look after her interests, you will surely tell her." 
 
 "I shall tell as much as seems to me best — no more; 
 Bill received a letter recently from her." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, what I have said is true," he continued ; "if 
 Bill cannot stand the test he is unworthy of his sweet- 
 heart." 
 
 "As you see it," I said; "but you must remember 
 that Bill is young and inexperienced, and has not 
 learned to judge character so well." 
 
 "I have considered that, or he would never have 
 received the letter. He has to learn by experience^ 
 though, and if you tell him these things you will be doing 
 both Mol and himself an injury. Let his character show 
 itself. Experience alone develops that. I exact from 
 you a promise not to tell Bill what I have told you." 
 
 A strange man, indeed! How well he knew, how 
 closely and yet how justly he judged the world ! He 
 was right; men should be tested. All life is a test, and 
 character never shows itself so plainly as when the test 
 is strongest. 
 
 "Bill," I said, the next time we met, "the lines you 
 showed me some time ago revealed a deep sentiment, 
 but it was sickly. I think you had better not write in 
 that strain again. Be practical and vigorous in life; 
 do not give way to any form of weakness." 
 
 "I do not quite understand you," he said. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 217 
 
 "I will repeat what the queer-looking stranger that 
 you met on the mountain said : 'Think what I mean.' " 
 
 One day I took Katherine to McCabe's home. His 
 wife was thin and pale and careworn. She looked like 
 a woman who had not received the best treatment; she 
 was nervous and watchful, as if expectant of danger. 
 
 "It's no wonder she's so,"McCabe said. "She has 
 fur twenty year had cause ter be. When I tuk her, Miss 
 Katherine, she didn't know I kep' er still; she never 
 'proved o' whiskey, an' many er time whin the revenue 
 men wus 'round she'd try ter tell 'bout the still, an' 'd 
 tell me she wus goin' ter tell, so I could git away. She 
 was desperate, I led her such er life. Bub I'd keep her 
 locked up close. Many are the times I's thrOw'd her 
 'cross this room, too, whin I'd be drinkin' an' mad; an' 
 wunst I broke both her arms, an' she was sick er long 
 time, an' I 'most wish she'd die. She'd try ter go ter 
 church sometimes, but I'd ketch her an' bring her back. 
 Thim times is over now, though she ain't realized it yit, 
 seems so OTicommon ter her; but she will." 
 
 He put his arm around his wife, and stroked her 
 care-furrowed brow. 
 
 **The chillun what she wanted ter be good I've 
 brung up mos'ly bad. Some has died 'caze they wus 
 ill treated, but this boy," taking his baby in his arms, 
 ' 'I'll bring up right and true. Nobody shan't say McCabe 
 ain't got wun child what's er man. An' now 'bout them 
 stills, Mr. Ramla." 
 
 Mrs. McCabe and Katherine went into another room 
 and McCabe kept on : 
 
 ''Thar's twenty-seven o' 'm, an' they's all run by 
 men I know. They's turned ag'in' me now, 'caze I told 
 'm I wus goin' ter stop the traffic. I'll have ter look 
 out fur myself. Thar ain't no use in havin' er big fuss. 
 The bes' way is ter see the man what owns near all o* 
 the stills and git him ter give up his bizness. I know 
 him. He don't keer 'bout nothin' but the money that's 
 in it, an' ef we could git somebody ter buy him out at 
 
218 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 er big price an' break it all up, 'twould be hard fur the 
 stills ter build up ag'in. He owns most o' the places 
 whar the corn an' fruit 's raised, an' ef you could buy 
 'm, the moonshiners would sure be bad off. They ain't 
 rich; they're 'rested an' fined too much ter save. You 
 see, this man makes 'm take all the risk an' pay the 
 fines, an' nobody don't know he's got nothin' ter do 
 with 't. He's er chirch member, too, an' that's the 
 reason I ain't had much confidence in chirch memberi 
 'fore now. You see ef you can't git good folks ter buy 
 him out." 
 
 '* Would it not be best to prosecute him? It is a 
 shame for a man like that to impose upon the public." 
 
 ''He's too smart fur you. You couldn't ketch him. 
 The only thing ter do is ter tell him you hear he's got 
 fine farmin' land, an' er company wants ter buy him out. 
 You'd have ter offer him er big price, though, 'caze he 
 makes er lot o' money by the stills." 
 
 '*I am inclined to prosecute him." 
 
 ''Well, you kin try it, but he'll law you out o' it." 
 
 "I will think over it, Mr. McCabe, and talk to my 
 friend, and will see you again soon." 
 
 Katherine had come out to go, and after a cordial 
 exchange of words, we left. 
 
 "Mrs. McCabe is such an interesting woman," 
 Katherine said. "Her life has been sad indeed. She 
 told me something of it, but she did not speak as freely 
 as her husband. She has a good deal of refinement, and 
 belongs to a good family. She wants all the children to 
 come to school next year, she said ; and they have one 
 little girl who looks so much like her mother, whom she 
 wants me to exert some influence over. She is coming 
 to me every Saturday, and I will see if I cannot be 
 worthy of the trust. See if I do not make a woman of 
 her." 
 
 The chief objection I had to Katherine's staying at 
 Walesca was that the work was causing her to mature 
 too rapidly. She felt responsibility and care too much. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 219 
 
 I feared she would skip the period of girlhood and be 
 all a woman after she was more than a child. She had 
 been very girlish when she first came, but was growing 
 less so every day. I questioned at times if it was right 
 to keep her; but womanhood is a strange thing for a 
 man to object to. I thought sometimes then that it 
 •could come too soon; I doubt now if it can. 
 
 The little McCabe girl came regularly, and she would 
 tell strange, sad stories sometimes of her past life. We 
 kept them sacred. Her experiences seemed, in all their 
 horror, to have made a fascinating impression upon her. 
 She would tell her stories in the wildest manner, with 
 voice and gesture as children like to tell tales of ghost8. 
 The little spirit needed quieting. 
 
 "Kitty," I said to her once, "that time has passed. 
 Suppose you talk about home as it is now." 
 
 "Oh! it's er heap nicer now;" then she shook her 
 head, "but I'll never forgit how it use-ter be." 
 
 Ah ! reform as we may, the memory of the past re- 
 mains. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 I consulted with my friend as to the course to pur- 
 sue in regard to the man who owned the stills. He 
 thought that McCabe's was the surest way, so I wrote to 
 several wealthy men about the matter. They all said, 
 ^'Prosecute him; the government provides for such a 
 case as that." There was little or no sympathy with 
 McCabe's idea, and I told McCabe so. 
 
 "Let the matter rest er bit, thin. Mebbe you'll 
 come across somebody yit. I could git rid o' the stills 
 in quick order, but they'd be built up ag'in. That man 
 that's at the head o' 'm is the wun to work with,,an' not 
 the moonshiners direct." 
 
 *'You would testify to his connection with the stills 
 in court?" I asked. 
 
 ''Oh, yes, I'd testify; but that'd be all. Nobody 
 'd b'lieve me, an' he's fixed ter git 'round the law." 
 
 "The whitecaps," I said, "are dealing with a great 
 many people. I wonder they do not call this man to ac- 
 count." 
 
 "Thar's no tellin' 'bout the whitecaps, Mr. Ramla,'* 
 
 I had never seen the man who owned the stills or 
 had an interest in them, and after some consideration I 
 thought it best to do so, taking a letter of introduction 
 from my friend. 
 
 After I had introduced myself, he said : 
 
 **You are doing a good work at Walesca, they tell 
 me — revolutionizing mountain life, and making gentle- 
 men and scholars of crackers. I have been anxious to 
 see the man who can do that; I am glad, indeed, to 
 know you," he said, 
 
 "1 have labored for four years with the people try- 
 220 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 221 
 
 ing to help them. The condition is certainly improved; 
 I am open in saying bo because I have not labored alone. 
 The school is really doing the work. My good friend, 
 the president of the college, merits most praise," I re- 
 plied. 
 
 *'Your friend and mine merits much praise," he 
 said. "He is a wonderful man; but he who has gone 
 out into the highways and hedges deserves credit too.'* 
 He smiled graciously. 
 
 Surely he was a charming man, I thought, and then 
 laughed at myself. We are apt to consider men charm- 
 ing when they endorse us. I said : 
 
 "Well, perhaps the people should have most praise 
 for responding to our appeals. Many have responded 
 readily, and many others would, I think, be persuaded 
 to consider their own interests, were it not that a very 
 great barrier exists, and it is that which I have come to- 
 day to ask your help in removing." 
 
 '*With pleasure, if it is in my power. I have long 
 wanted to do my little for so good a cause," he responded, 
 "but my good friend has slighted me in his calls, and I 
 have felt some modesty in offering. Let me anticipate 
 your need now, however. You are building a chapel ; I 
 have heard of it." He had been writing while speaking. 
 '* Allow me," he continued, handing me a check for a 
 thousand dollars. 
 
 "This is kind, indeed," I said; "the exchequer of 
 the college is low and needs replenishing. But it was 
 not of money 1 came to speak to you to-day. It was of a 
 need more urgent still." 
 
 He laughed : 
 
 "I thought that was the sum of all our needs." 
 
 "It is a great factor, but not the sum," I said. 
 ^ 'There is an evil to be overcome in the mountains. 
 Will you help us overcome it?" 
 
 "Your question is not quite fair. In a general way, 
 I might say that I would help you overcome any evil, 
 but, specifically, I might not be able to do so. I have 
 
222 DOWN AMONG THEJ CKACKERS 
 
 already said it would be my pleasure to help you in any 
 way in my power. I repeat that." 
 
 "I do not hesitate to say, then, that it is in your 
 power, possibly more than in any other person's, to help 
 materially in uprooting the terrible evil of illicit distill- 
 ing in the mountains." 
 
 "How, sir, is it in my power? I do not visit your 
 place once a year, and I really know very little about 
 that section. Are there many blind stills?" 
 
 **A great many," I answered; "I am told there are 
 twenty-seven." 
 
 "Is it possible.?" he exclaimed. "Why do you not 
 call on the revenue oflScers? I can assist you a little in 
 that just now, perhaps. An officer is in town to-day, 
 and you can send him there immediately. You know 
 these men become as desperate as the moonshiners, and 
 it would be fun for them to get into a neit of twenty- 
 seven stills. Shall I send for the officer?" he said, with 
 his hand on the bell. 
 
 "It is useless," I answered; "the revenue officers 
 have been there many times, and all that they can do is 
 to arrest the moonshiners and take them to Atlanta to be 
 fined or imprisoned. The stills go on again as soon as 
 the moonshiners return. We have had a great deal 
 of trouble. Do you not remember the conspiracy and 
 the murder of an officer some years ago. Though the 
 conspirators were brought to justice, the nefarious busi- 
 ness goes on." 
 
 "Yes, I remember. McCabe was not hung, either* 
 He ought to have been," he stid. 
 
 "So many thought at that time," I replied. "Da 
 you know that he has become a Christian, and is now 
 living an honest, upright life?" 
 
 *'No, I did not know it; and you will pardon me for 
 saying that you do not know it yet. You do not know 
 how many blind stills he runs under the garb of a 
 correct outward life." 
 
 "No, " I replied, "I think McCabe is in earnest. He 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 2211 
 
 ie an open man. He was open as an outlaw. But you 
 are right — it is impossible to judge a man' heart ; and 
 many men do live double lives." 
 
 He changed color. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Ramla, I am very Porry for you, indeed. 
 It must be trying beyond measure to carry on your 
 work in the face of such an obstacle ; but I really do not 
 know what course to suggest, except to insist upon the 
 government's being more vigilant. Individuals can do 
 nothing, and the government should be more interested 
 than you. I would like very much to assist you, but 
 really you must see that I can do nothing." 
 
 "Do you not own land in that section?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes, I own quite a large tract upon Pine Log 
 Mountain, but I know very little about the condition of 
 it, I go there seldom. You surely do not want to 
 enlarge the college possessions so much as to wish 
 my land?" 
 
 "I wish the college could buy it," I said. "You 
 rent it in small lots now, I believe?" 
 
 "Yes, rather small. The people cannot afford to 
 rent much land." 
 
 "Do'you know that more than half the blind stills 
 on Pine Log Mountain are on your land?" 
 
 "I have feared those mountain folks could not 
 be trusted; but when I rent land I am not supposed to 
 know in what business my renters engage ; and as I do 
 not go to Walesca very often, I could not know every- 
 thing that is done there." 
 
 "That is very true, but by actual count more than 
 half the blind stills are on your land. That is why 
 I have come to you to-day. Now, will you not say this 
 to every renter, and help the crackers that much ; 'I will 
 rent you the land only on condition that you do not put 
 an illicit still upon it?" 
 
 "You ask a good deal, Mr. Ramla. I cannot afford 
 not to rent the land." 
 
 "You could if you would do what I ask — your 
 promise, sir," I said. 
 
224 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 *'I have not broken it. I cannot afford to lose my 
 rents, and to do what you ask would be to lose them. 
 Besides," he added, "moonshiners are without honor. 
 I might exact such a promise, but they would break it." 
 
 *'But you have the law to sustain you in that." 
 
 *'So have you in breaking up the stills," he re- 
 torted. 
 
 "I appeal to you as a man interested in the ele- 
 vation of humanity," I said. 
 
 **It is not necessary to make that appeal. It is my 
 constant wish to elevate humanity, but I cannot do what 
 you ask. I shall be glad, though, for you to take this 
 check to aid you in your work." 
 
 "Does your land bring you so much? Could you 
 not better afford to do what I ask?" 
 
 He knew what I meant when I asked if his land 
 rented for so much. 
 
 "This is one gift; that would bo continual giving 
 beyond my means." 
 
 "I am sorry you think as you do," I said, and left 
 him. 
 
 Some months after this I received a telegram from 
 him, asking me to see him. I went, and found him very 
 ill. 
 
 *'I can live but a short time," he said. "Do not in- 
 terrupt me in what I shall say. My words must be few. 
 Twenty years ago I was made the guardian of two 
 young girls. They had money and land. While they 
 lived I saw that they were comfortable, but I never gave 
 them the full interest on their money. I invested it for 
 myself. Their land was a large tract on Pine Log 
 Mountain, supposed to be rich in minerals. A mining 
 syndicate offered a price for it conditioned upon the 
 mineral actually taken out, but I refused to sell. I 
 found that renting the land to moonshiners for shares in 
 their profits, making them take all risks, and never al- 
 lowing my name to be used if they were discovered, was 
 the most profitable way to use the land. The two girls 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 226 
 
 died before either was of age or married. They left no 
 relatives that could claim the land, and they willed it to 
 me, giving their money to a charitable cause, but all the 
 money never reached the cause for which they left it. I 
 now confess my sin, and have willed to that cause 
 the sum of fifteen thousand dollars. The land may 
 be good for its ore. I have deeded it to the college at 
 Walesca, except the homes of the moonshiners, which I 
 give to them upon the condition that they will never dis- 
 till another drop of whiskey there. If at any time a 
 moonshiner to whom I have given his home should dis- 
 till whiskey, his home is forfeited, to be used as you 
 think best. You are shocked at the story of my life," 
 he said ; *'I am shocked at it myself, and tremble for my 
 account to be rendered at the last great tribunal. May 
 the Great Judge be merciful, for mercy only can save 
 
CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 We appealed to the mining syndicate to make us an 
 offer for the land, but after sinking several trial shafts, 
 they concluded that the ore was not sufficiently produc- 
 tive to justify them in working it. This was a disap- 
 pointment, because we had hoped that the moonshiners 
 could be furnished with honorable work that would com- 
 pensate them for their loss in the stills. Now the land 
 is cultivated as farming land. The corn and fruit 
 crops are large, and some revenue accrues from it. 
 There is a fine grazing plot, too, which stook-raisers 
 rent from the college. We still hope to develop the min- 
 ing interests some day. 
 
 I made a round of visits after this. The rheumatic 
 berry-gatherer's was the first home I entered. I thought 
 at first that I had lost my bearings when I passed his 
 old home. The cabin no longer stood; the serpent had 
 not his covert in the weeds about the door ; the place 
 yielded crops like the one adjoining it. In fact, it was 
 now a part of that well kept farm. 
 
 *'Mr. Quinn, I hope you and Miss Betsey are well. 
 You will pardon me for calling her so. I knew her some 
 time before you were married, and it seems more 
 natural." 
 
 "Oh! that's all right. I call her Miss Betsey some- 
 times myself. 'Pears more like she was, the way she 
 bosses me 'round." 
 
 He laughed, and his cracked voice sounded queer. 
 
 *'Now, Quinn, you know that ain't so. You ain't 
 no henpecked man. 'Tain't worth while ter try ter 
 make folks b'lieve you air, jes' 'caze I wouldn't let the 
 weeds keep growin' over yonder where he use ter live, 
 whin the place could raise better stuff." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 227 
 
 "Ennything better*n blackberries?" the old man 
 asked. 
 
 ' 'Plenty o' things. I ain't got no time ter be pickin* 
 berries, an' you's got too stiff ter do it.' Tain' ter profit- 
 able bizness nohow. You never got rich at it. I jes* 
 want 'nough ter presarve an' can." 
 
 "That place wus my home fur thirty year, Mr. 
 Ramla, an' I hated ter see it changed. Don't seem the 
 same no more. It's kinder like I'd moved ter er differ^ 
 ent country." After a moment's silence, he continued: 
 "Thar's more things makes me feel like I wus on new 
 land. The blind stills 's closin' up, an' the man what 
 owned 'em made cur'us gifts o' hi& land." 
 
 "It's er good thing, Mr. Ramla," his wife said, 
 *'Quinn was too fond o' goin' behind stumps an' bushes 
 ter git er bottle, 'ecusin* it on his rheumatiz ; I's glad o' 
 it." 
 
 "Well, now, I dunno if it wus er good thing ; — yes, I 
 reckin 'twus, too. I didn't use ter think that way 'bout 
 drinkin', but now my thoughts is different on the sub- 
 ject. Betsey, bring the boy here." 
 
 "He's asleep," she said, "Mr. Ramla kin come ter 
 him." 
 
 I followed her into the house and stood by her side 
 over a tiny board cradle, in which a splendid baby lay 
 in innocent slumber. 
 
 "I want you ter make er man o' him over thar at 
 the college some time ; I'll try ter start him right at 
 home," she laid; and as I turned to go out of the room, 
 "Mr. Ramla," she added, "Quinn an' me do love each 
 other er lot, ef we do talk kinder cross." 
 
 I assured her that I knew them both too well not to 
 know that. 
 
 "You can never afford to drink again, Mr. Quinn," 
 I said. 
 
 "Naw, that's so; reckin I's glad it's gone." 
 
 Next I visited a house that I have not mentioned 
 before — the home of a drunkard. I will not picture it. 
 Those homes are too common. 
 
228 DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 
 
 "Well, you have done er great work. Don't talk ter 
 me 'bout the great work you're doin' at the college no 
 more," said a man, tottering from excitement and ner- 
 vousness, and shaking his head and waving me away 
 with his hand. "Idon't b'lievenothin' you do is good." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Black, what have I done to displease 
 you so?" I asked. 
 
 "You know well 'nough. Ax me, indeed, what you 
 done! You persuaded the man that owned the stills to 
 break *m up. Now, ef er man wants the stuff, he's got 
 ter walk 'til he's sick ter git it. I don't b'lieve in 
 tre'tin' folks that way." 
 
 *'It is the kindest treatment you could receive," I 
 said. 
 
 *' 'Cordin' ter the way you look at it," he said, and 
 left the house in disgust. 
 
 "An' 'cordin to the way I look at it," his wife said. 
 "I's so glad on 'count o' him;" and she thanked me. 
 
 They had a child that had periodic attacks of in- 
 sanity. "How is Jimmy?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh! he's out ag'in." 
 
 "I am glad of that," I said. 
 
 "Oh! I thought perhaps you'd be sorry. You gin- 
 er'ly seem sympathizin' like." 
 
 "I thought you said he was better?" 
 
 "Naw, I said he wus out." 
 
 "Oh!" catching her meaning, "I misunderstood 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, the old man put him out by grumblin' so' bout 
 the stills. He wus gittin' all right 'fore that. It's al- 
 lurs been the old man that's put him out, an' I'm glad 
 the stills is gone." 
 
 "Mr. Sims, I know you are pleased with Bob's pro- 
 gress in school. He is learning fast." 
 
 "So well pleased I's goin' ter send two more this 
 fall. But, see here. Bob says thar ain't 's much made 
 o' him 's thar wus o' Sam Collins." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEKS 229 
 
 "Well, Sam was Bill's brother, was one reason of 
 that. Everybody likes Bill." 
 
 ''Here, stop er minute. Bob's my boy." 
 
 "Yes, but you are not in school w^th him." 
 
 "Well, thar may be somethin' in that. I'm mighty 
 glad the stills 's goin'. I never did drink, an' I don't 
 want my chillen ter." 
 
 The sentiment of almost all the community was op- 
 posed to the stills, and after hearing the expressions of 
 the people I went home better satisfied with them and 
 more hopeful of their future than I had ever been. The 
 majority of the boys seemed glad, too. 
 
 "It will not be so easy for us to fall into tempta- 
 tion now," was the common expression of gratitude. 
 
 Callaway and a few others, I understood, were of a 
 different opinion. 
 
 Callaway continued to worry Bill about Mol, and 
 Bill worried me. I was almost disgusted with his vac- 
 illating opinions. I wanted to tell him what I had been 
 told about Callaway's motives. But, no; the watch- 
 man was right; let him be tested. 
 
 "Bill," I said, when he was again talking to me 
 about doubting Mol, "did you ever notice the effect of 
 one thing upon many different things — how the influ- 
 ence differs if effected at all?" 
 
 "Often," he said. 
 
 "Then listen: The rain falls in beating fury, the 
 fowls hasten to their roosts, horses and cattle go in 
 their stalls, children run in from play, men and women 
 hasten to the houses ; in the mountains the wild beast 
 creeps to his lair; but what are the things that remain 
 outside to be pelted by the rain? The hard rock cliffs 
 stand firm, until slowly century after century they 
 yield, and disintegrate little by little, so that the earth 
 may be enriched; the rivers spead over their banks, 
 until these are worn away, and the sediment that has 
 come down from the mountain is spread over the valley ; 
 the waters turn a thousand wheels; the springs fill, the 
 
230 DOWN AMONG THE CKACKEES 
 
 wells rise, the meadow-grass grows green, the trees 
 spread themselves, unfold their leaves, and in the end 
 the creatures that have gone in are blessed by the things 
 that remained out." 
 
 '*But those that went in were not wrong. They 
 would not have been benefited by remainin' out." 
 
 "That is just what I wanted you to observe — not so 
 much the blessing that accrued to either, but the effect 
 of the rain upon each. It is the nature of animals to 
 fle© from it, though it comes to them indirectly as one 
 of their greatest blessings. It is the nature of rivers 
 and rocks and meadows and trees to remain in it, 
 though the benefit is for others. The rain effects every- 
 thing according to its nature; so does every other influ- 
 ence. So, in the end, it is more the nature than the in- 
 fluence. The influence only lays bare the nature. 
 Again, did you ever notice how one thing is affected 
 differently at different times by the same influence?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "In winter the trees and the meadows do not yield 
 to happy influences from the rain. The dried grass be- 
 comes not green, the bare limbs do not put forth as in 
 the spring or summer. It would seem that the rain had 
 lost its power. But no ; the nature of the tree and the 
 meadow is not the same in different seasons. But the 
 rocks and the rivers have not changed. They are em- 
 blems of strength." 
 
 "I think I know what you mean — whether upon 
 different objects, or the same objects at different times, 
 circumstances, or the things that stand around them, 
 only show their nature, and — you's talkin' 'bout 
 me," he continued, more excited, and going back to 
 the cracker dialect. "Callaway's talk 'bout Mol' jes' 
 brings out my nature. Another man might act differ- 
 ent from me, an' not pay no 'tention co it — jes' love 
 Mol more; an' thin you want ter tell me I change like 
 the tree that's bare an' brown in winter. I wouldn't have 
 b'lieved Callaway once, though I did make Mol miserable 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CJIACKERS 231 
 
 on 'count of him ; an' now I'm too ready to b'lieve enny- 
 thing he says. I reckon you're right, Mr. Ramla," he 
 continued, rising, "I don't love Mol as I used ter." 
 
 "Ah, I thought it. Then you should try by every 
 means possible to tell her so, so that she may be free to 
 care for some one else." 
 
 "I cannot, when I don't know where she is." 
 
 "Then let Callaway tell her. He probably knows. 
 But so far as her caring for him is concerned, I put no 
 ■credence in it at all now," I said. 
 
 "No," said he, "she shall never with my consent 
 learn of my change of feeling from him. I have too much 
 sentiment for what has been for that. Then I'm not 
 ready to tell her yet ; I'm not sure of myself. I don't 
 know whether I still love her or not." 
 
 "Then it is time you were becoming sure of your- 
 self," I said firmly. "What has caused you to change, 
 Bill?" 
 
 "I hardly know, except this: I am getting an 
 education, and it has given me a taste for higher things. 
 I have aspirations and hopes that, try as I may, I can- 
 not weave Mol into. She is ignorant, and could not ap- 
 preciate my feeling, could not aid me in my efforts for 
 a better life. And more, I am not altogether selfish ; 
 she could not enjoy the life I hope to live ; she would 
 be miserable." 
 
 "And you would, too, you think. I am glad you 
 •did not say it. Your feeling is unworthy of you. If 
 that is your nature, I am disappointed in you," I said. 
 "Would you torget your mother, dear to your heart since 
 childhood?" 
 
 "Never!" he replied. 
 
 "Ah ! Bill, your present feelings will lead to it. 
 True and faithful as your mother this girl has been 
 since you were children. I would not throw a damper 
 on your ambitions, but there are ties that ambition 
 should not break ; ties that if one is faithful to will not 
 interfere with a right ambition. In some mysterious 
 
232 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 way, it may be, they shall be shown compatible, and 
 shall go hand in hand. I would not advise any man to 
 fall in love with a woman who is not his equal in intel- 
 lect, aspiration, or character; but when a tie has bound 
 for years two souls in bonds of love, and one rises above 
 the other in any of these things, one should be true to 
 the tie, and the result will somehow work out for his 
 highest gratification — at least, for his highest peace.' ^ 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 When I next saw my friend I said to him : '*I am 
 disappointed in Bill. I can appreciate your feeling 
 when his little brother died; there is a sense of loss." 
 Then I told him of Bill's changed feelings towards Mol. 
 
 "Do you know that would be exceedingly gratify- 
 ing instead of disappointing to some men? They would 
 consider it the highest sign of improvement in Bill, and 
 encourage him to cultivate the feeling. There is a 
 great deal to be said in defense of their position, too. 
 What is the little quiver of one heact, that will soon beat 
 itself out, compared to the work of a life? I have often 
 wondered if it would not be better to advise some of 
 these people to break away from their surroundings, 
 leave their homes, and leap into another existence. It 
 is so hard to cling with one hand to the old life, and 
 with the other to take hold of the new. Except for the 
 mothers I would often advise this. Bill would certainly 
 be kept down by Mol. I will tell you what I did last 
 year. A widow came to me and said, *I am very 
 anxious to go to school ; my health is not good and I 
 cannot stand working in the field. Then I am ambi- 
 tious ; I look beyond the common, sordid life that I have 
 always lived, and want to make something of myself. 
 My husband and two children are dead; I am entirely 
 without means, and must either support myself by labor 
 or be dependent on my father. I am at his home now ; 
 he does not want me to work for myself, because my la- 
 bor is valuable to him at home; he keeps my younger sis- 
 ter there instead of sending her to school, because it is 
 cheaper to have her than to hire a hand. He wants me 
 to stay for the same reason, and not only refuses to pay 
 
 233 
 
234 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 my tuition if I come to school, but calls me an ingrate, 
 because I want an education ; he thinks I ought to help 
 him because I now have to live at his house, and he will 
 always keep me bound down in this way if T will allow 
 him. What would you do?' I said, 'I would come to 
 school. Your father and mother are growing old, and 
 they will need your help more in a few years than they 
 need it now. You would afford them and yourself a 
 bare support by working the farm. Educate yourself 
 and prepare to support your parents and yourself well. 
 Your father has no right to keep down your ambition. 
 Make a useful woman of yourself, and merit the final 
 plaudits of the good. When you engage in rough 
 farm work you blunt and rust the blade of intellect. 
 Reason with your father, tell him it is for him and your 
 mother that you take the step you do, as well as for 
 yourself and the world; and in time, if not now, he will 
 see that you are right. Help him all you can when you 
 are not in school, and in every way show a willingness 
 to do right.' I have advised several not to stay at home 
 after leaving school, but to go into the world and make 
 something of themselves. What is the use of being ed- 
 ucated, and then going back to the same old life? They 
 will soon rust out and be what all the generations of the 
 past have been. You have to deal heroically with some 
 cases. If you let Bill marry Mol and settle down, 
 he will always be the same Bill Collins, when he really 
 wants to make something of himself." 
 
 "The cases you speak of are different from his," I 
 said. *'His is purely a matter of constancy to the high- 
 est thing in the world — pure love. I know not how, but 
 I believe that if Bill is true to Mol, everything will yet 
 be right, and he can make of himself all he is capable 
 of." 
 
 "You are wrong," said my friend. "At the begin- 
 ning I thought as you do about Bill, but I have argued 
 myself into a different belief now. I hope he will never 
 marry Mol." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 235 
 
 "A short argument will sometimes lead men into a 
 belief that their mature reason opposes," I replied. 
 
 "It is only a matter of sentiment with you," he 
 •said. 
 
 "It is firm principle," I hotly retorted, and left 
 him. 
 
 Bill came to see me that night. 
 
 "I felt condemned after what you said to me, Mr. 
 Ramla, and since then I have thought much over my 
 lost love for Mol. I believe I'm right in not caring for 
 her longer. When a girl does as she's done for the last 
 three years, I do not know that any man need feel 
 bound to her." 
 
 "If Mol had given no promise for the future, you 
 might be justified in feeling that way; but seeing that 
 she has given you evidence of her intention to be faith- 
 ful, I think you would be wrong to be faithless," I 
 eaid. 
 
 "Perhaps I am wrong, but at any rate I don't love 
 her any longer. Love is not governed by reason. You 
 ■can't stay in love with a woman Just because you think 
 you ought to. The heart is not bought and sold like 
 merchandise; neither is it controlled by obligation." 
 
 "Oh ! it is not necessary to enter into an exposition 
 of love. I see it is no use to talk to you longer," I said. 
 *'But your action is strange. Bill — very strange. I am 
 disappointed in you, I am sorry to say." 
 
 "I am very sorry, Mr. Ramla. I had rather fail to 
 meet the wishes of any other human being, but this is a 
 matter I cannot change. Some day you will know me 
 better and judge me more fairly than you do now. 
 I am going to see Mol's mother. I haven't failed to go 
 a day since she left, but I mean I shall go next to speak 
 to her of Mol and my changed feelings. She talks 
 to me every day about her, and takes it for granted that 
 I still care for her, and it grates upon me terribly. I 
 feel like a hypocrite every time I see her." 
 
 The next day Bill went. I saw him going and 
 
236 DOWN AMONG THE CBACKEES 
 
 walked slowly behind a few minutes after. I thought I 
 would go in and try to console the old lady after 
 Bill left. I went on the mountain and sat where I could 
 see the door. I waited a long, long time. Poor Bill ! 
 I would not have had his task for a great deal. 
 
 Mrs. Smith had grown morbid ; she thought and 
 spoke of no one but Mol, and did not seem to care to talk 
 to anyone but Bill and myself. That was what tried Bill 
 so ; he could not bear to talk of Mol now. I had noticed 
 in my last few conversations with him that it had seemed 
 to irritate him for me to speak of her. It was a guilty 
 conscience that caused him to feel so, I was sure. 
 
 At last I saw him come out, and I went into the 
 house. Mrs. Smith had fallen, and was lying face down- 
 ward on the floor. She had fainted. I lifted her and 
 placed her on the bed, and then bathed her face. I was 
 afraid to leave her to go for anyone else. She came to 
 in a few moments, and looked up at me as wildly as if 
 she were not in her right mind. 
 
 ''What is it, Mr. Ramla? What's the matter? Oh ! 
 yes, I know. Bill Collins has been here, an' he didn't 
 have no good news. Did you find me on the floor? Yes, 
 I 'spectyou did. I don't r'member much arter he left. 
 My brain kinder whirled 'round, an' that is all I know. 
 It's all over with him, Bill says. Did he tell you? He 
 can't love Mol no more 'caze she went 'way an' left ua; 
 an' he don't know whether she thinks 'bout him still. 
 He b'lieves in Mol, though, he says, an' he knows she'll 
 come back ter take keer o' me. He said he'd still come 
 an' help me ever' day like he's been doin' all along, but 
 I don't want him ter ; couldn't bear ter see him now 
 never no more. An' I was so proud o' him, too ; prouder'n 
 his own mam. He's been gittin so smart. Do you know, 
 I b'lieve that's what's the matter with Bill ; he thinks 
 my Mol won't be smart 'nough fur him. Of course he 
 didn't say so ; he laid it all on her goin' off, an' he didn't 
 think she loves him yit. That didn't satisfy me, 'caze 
 ef I kin think Mol'll be constant ter me. Bill ought ter 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 237 
 
 think she'd be constant ter him. I dunno what I'll do; 
 •didn't have nobody but Bill ter comfort me while Mol's 
 gone, 'cept you sometimes, Mr. Ramla, but you ain't 
 been like Bill ; he sorter 'peared ter b'long ter me." 
 
 She spoke in this strain a long time, and then began 
 talking incoherently. I felt anxious, and went for Mrs. 
 Oollins to come and stay with her while 1 should go to 
 Walesca for a physician. 
 
 When the physician saw Mrs. Smith he said she 
 was in a very precarious condition. She was old, the 
 shock had been severe, and her nerves could not stand 
 much now. The only thing that would really do her 
 much good would be for her daughter to come. 
 
 Katherine went to stay with her and nurse her. Bill 
 seemed greatly distressed. His mother condemned him 
 severely — the first time I ever heard her do so. 
 
 Somehow Mol heard of her mother's illness, and 
 came three days after she was taken sick. She seemed 
 to have toned down very much. Evidently she had been 
 associated with refined people. Her speech was a good 
 deal improved too, and her dress greatly so. She was 
 terribly shocked at her mother's condition. 
 
 "She doesn't look like mam," she said to me, "and 
 all on account of that Bill Collins. He's caused me 
 nothin' but trouble for years and years. Why couldn't 
 he 'a' kept his feelings to himself, I'd like to know, or 
 waited until I come, an' then told me. There warn't no 
 use in makin' mam miserable, let alone makin' her sick. 
 It's a shame. He's showed me what he is. He ain't 
 worth my love to be as inconstant as he's been, an' then 
 to come here and put mam in this fix." 
 
 "Of course," I said, "Bill did not intend to do any 
 harm." 
 
 "He ought to have known mam better, an' I b'lieve 
 he did." 
 
 "Don't be unreasonable, Miss Mollie. Bill is not a 
 mean boy, and such a motive could come only from a 
 vile heart." 
 
238 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 "Then, maybe I'm wrong in judging him, but it was 
 a curious way to do." 
 
 **I cried to explain Bill's feeling to her as I under- 
 stood it, but she would not understand. Bill sent to 
 know if she would see him. She refused for a long time 
 but I told her it was only just to him that she should. 
 
 **He ain't been just to me," she answered, "but you 
 can let him come." 
 
 Bill told me afterwards that it was the most trying 
 conversation he ever held with anyone, unless it was 
 when he had spoken to her mother. 
 
 "I told her I'd be faithful still if she'd let me, but 
 she wouldn't hear to it; and I reckon it's well enough, 
 because I don't think Mol's the girl for me any longer.'* 
 
 Mrs. Smith recovered slowly, and Mol nursed her 
 faithfully; she seemed to be trying to make up for her 
 absence, and as she aptly said to me, "for bein' her 
 daughter." 
 
 "All this has come through me, but I couldn't help 
 it. The best folks in the land advised me to do it, and 
 I know it has been for the best." 
 
 I thought I would ask some time where she had 
 been and why her actions had been so mysterious, but I 
 had no opportunity of seeing her away from her mother. 
 Bill told me that he had insisted upon knowing,but she 
 refused to say. 
 
 When Mrs. Smith was well I went to see them one 
 day. Mol had left. She had employed a young girl, a 
 cousin of hers, Rebecca Jane Smith, to stay with her 
 mother, and had gone away as before. 
 
 "She wouldn't let me stay here by myself no more," 
 the old woman said, "but she know'd it wus bes' fur 
 her ter go ag'in, an' she wouldn't tell me why no more'n 
 she would before. She sed she'd alius hear ef thar wus 
 anything the matter jes' like she did this time. I'm 
 better satisfied now I know Mol kin hear, an' I'm better 
 satisfied 'caze Mol's been home wunst more." 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 The man who had owned the stills left a written 
 statement. When a man had opened a still that was not 
 on his land, he had located it and quietly notified the 
 revenue officers; he had been "riding through the 
 country and had seen signs of it." In that way he kept 
 the revenue officers thinking that he was interested in 
 destroying the stills, and made his own more profitable. 
 The moonshiners had soon learned that it was a protec- 
 tion to have stills on his land, so when we investigated 
 the matter to execute his will, we found that every 
 blind still in that section was on his land. The owners 
 of these stills had been captured often, it is true, but 
 not nearly so often as when they had opposed the power 
 of this cool, calculating "Moonshiners' Boss," as they 
 called him. They were summoned together, and the will 
 was read to them in court. This exposed them to arrest 
 and fine, but the dead owner had bequeathed to each a 
 sum sufficient to pay this last fine. They accepted the 
 gifts of their lands very graciously, and pledged them- 
 selves to observe the conditions of the will. 
 
 We asked the revenue officers to continue their of- 
 ficial vigilance, and they did so for some time, but found 
 no evidence of a violation on the part of the moonshin- 
 ers. I, too, watched them, making many a night's trip 
 to their former dens of evil. There was no sign of dig- 
 tilling, and no sound save that of the mournful owl or 
 the deceptive opossum in the night watches around th« 
 former distillers' homes. 
 
 The groceries were broken up, too, but breaking 
 them up was as difficult work as closing the stills. The 
 grocery men would buy from the goverment still, but 
 
 239 
 
240 DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 
 
 later the law that neither a distillery nor a saloon should 
 be located within three miles of a schoolhouse or a 
 <;hurch was passed, and we were greatly protected. 
 There were churches on every side of the school several 
 miles distant, and the groceries, being compelled to 
 move three miles from these churches, were a good many 
 miles from us, so that the saloons soon became a thing 
 ■of the past as far as their influence upon us was con- 
 cerned. 
 
 Mr. Jones, the man who ran the grocery already 
 mentioned, and I had become good friends in spite of 
 my opposing his traffic, and not long before the law just 
 spoken of was passed, I went to his home. 
 
 ''You 'member the first time you come ter see me 
 up at the shop, Mr. Ramla?" 
 
 *'Yes, I shall never forget that, Mr. Jones." 
 *'Well, you wus the greenest man I ever seed; don't 
 b'lieve you ever wus in er grocery before." 
 ''Not like yours, Mr. Jones." 
 
 "Bill wouldn't tell me yer name; he w^us right; 
 tain't safe fur er man ter be know'd by er grocery man 
 in these diggins 'till he's been here er while an' proved 
 hisself. It never made much diff'ence ter me, though; 
 I thought you couldn't do much harm; you wus 's in- 
 nercent 's er goose wadin' 'round in the pond whin I 
 goes down ter water the barrels. He makes er awful 
 fuss 'round me 'caze I interfere with his puddlin', but 
 he can't do nothin' ; he dunno how. I thought you 
 didn't have sense 'nough ter harm me." 
 
 "Wait and see, Mr. Jones. I may show a little 
 more brains in time." 
 
 *'Not ef you's like the thing I's likened you ter. I 
 never know'd er goose that could be taught. You 
 musn't think hard o' me, Mr. Ramla; I don't mean no 
 harm by calkin' that way. You've got sense 'nough ter 
 do folks er power o' good, but you ain't got 'nough ter 
 do 'm no harm; I mean, you ain't er sharper like me. 
 You can't git ahead o' me." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 241 
 
 After che law was passed, and he had to close or 
 move his saloon, I went to see him. 
 
 "Well, you ain't so smart 'a you may think. You 
 didn't make the law, but mebbe you axed 'm ter make 
 it. Ef you did, it's the fust time I ever wus outdone by 
 ■er goose." 
 
 He could not dispose of his home and land, and so 
 remained, and became a quiet, prosperous farmer, while 
 his saloon stands untenanted, bringing to mind the cor- 
 rupt business that has now gone to ruin. 
 
 One afternoon I went on the mountain to the lonely 
 grave, ani waited for the old man. I loved to go there 
 still and talk with him. It was a change from the life 
 that elsewhere swept its ceaseless tide about me. The 
 €tooped form came after a while, ascending slowly and 
 with effort. Ah! it will not be long, I thought, before 
 he will come for the last time, and they will be reunited 
 where the hills are not hard to climb and the step is 
 never infirm. 
 
 "Mr. Ramla," he said, after we had been talking 
 fiome time, "I felt kinder doubtful o' the moonshiners 
 'bout here whin they said they wouldn't go in the still 
 buziness no more. I thought they'd play off on you, an' 
 I b'lieve they doin' it." 
 
 "Do you think any of them have opened the stills 
 again?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes, I think some o' 'm is open. I walks 'round 
 here some at nights; I don't sleep so pow'ful good, an' 
 it seems kinder restful ter go up whar the air 's purest. 
 I walked 'round the other night, an' come purty nigh er 
 still, an' it 'peared ter me 'twas runnin'. I 'spect you'd 
 better see 'bout it." 
 
 I went that night and came back fully satisfied that 
 two or three stills were running. It was too bad after 
 our efforts. The next night I got McCabe to go with 
 me. The battle must be fought again. 
 
 "We'll be bold 'bout breakin' it up this time," Mc- 
 Cabe said. 
 
242 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 "What are you going to do?" I asked. 
 
 "Break in on 'm. They know me; the las't one o' 
 'm 's 'fraid o' me yet." 
 
 He unbuttoned his coat and showed me his belt of 
 pistols. 
 
 "I kin show 'm these, an' thar ain't er man that 
 '11 fire on me." 
 
 "But your fighting days are over," I said. 
 
 "I wouldn't make er bizness o' fightin' now, but it's 
 er good thing ter know how ter use er pistol, an' let 
 folks know it. You take two o' these," he said, "an' 
 we'll go ill here." 
 
 "I don't know that I'm willing," I replied. 
 
 "Thar ain't no danger with me," he said. "I'll go 
 in front." 
 
 He knocked. No one responded. He knocked 
 again. The lights went out. As quick as a flash, Mc- 
 Cabe was at one small window. 
 
 "Stop," he cried, "and open that door. I know 
 what you're up ter." 
 
 "Is it you, Mac?" 
 
 "Yes, it's me, an' I want ter git in. You might as 
 well lemme, 'caze you can't git out." 
 
 The man opened the door, and we entered. 
 
 "What does you mean by openin' this still ag'in 
 whin you pledged yer honor not ter do it?" McCabe 
 asked. 
 
 The man laughed: "How many times have you 
 broke your honor?" 
 
 "I've never broke er promise," McCabe said, "an' 
 you know it. I wus always too bold ter make promises, 
 but ef I didlkep' 'm." 
 
 "How you know I'm runnin' this still ag'in.? I 
 didn't say it." 
 
 "I know it, 'caze I've run wun myself, an' knows 
 the ins. The signs 's clear 'nough. Now, you'll not only 
 have ter give up this bizness, but you'll have ter give up 
 yer home. That's er purty way ter treat yer family ar- 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 243 
 
 ter they had er home the rest o' thur lives 'thout wuk o' 
 your'n. They never use-ter be sure o' wuii. It's er 
 shame fur you ter cause 'm ter have ter give this up 
 'caze you can't keep yer honor." 
 
 "I ain't er goin' ter cause 'm ter give it up nuther; 
 don't bother 'bout that." 
 
 "But you'll have ter since you opened the still." 
 
 McCabe stalked into the next room, w^here I heard 
 him rolling barrels. The moonshiner followed him and 
 tried to stop him. 
 
 "Stand back," McCabe said, "stand back." 
 
 The man pulled out a pistol, but before he could 
 raise it, McCabe caught his wrist and disarmed him. 
 
 "I hate ter put er man whar he can't defend him- 
 self, but 1 can't keep stoppin' ter fool with you ter- 
 night." 
 
 He rolled barrels down the elope towards the small 
 stream, and emptied them in th© stream. Then he 
 turned to the moonshiner. 
 
 "Ef we leave you now you'll skip 'fore mornin', 
 an' you'd jes' as well come 'long with us. I ain't no 
 officer, but I'll be responsible fur takin' you." 
 
 I went by his house and told his wife where her 
 husband was. Three times that night we went through 
 the same scenes, and took three moonshiners to Walesca. 
 We telegraphed to Atlanta, and the men were taken 
 down and fined. 
 
 While they were gone, the wives of all three men 
 came to us to plead for their homea. They had no means 
 of support, and nowhere to go if they should forfeit 
 them. We waited until the men returned, and this time 
 they gave their oaths not to run blind stills any more. 
 Then they were allowed to go back to their homes. 
 
 This was the only serious trouble we ever had with 
 the moonshiners after they gave their first pledge. 
 
 McCabe has never given us cause to doubt his 
 Christian character. It is a pleasure to visit his home 
 and see his efforts to lead a different life. His wife 
 
244 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 looks less careworn ; the distrustful expression has left 
 her eyes. His children look bright and happy, though 
 one son has been a trial to him, beiiause he has hie fath- 
 er's tendencies, and McCabe thinks some day he may 
 lead the same desperate life. But I tell him that the 
 boy has seen two phases of his father's life, and cannot 
 fail to choose for his emulation the latter, since in it 
 the boy himself has been happier and better off. 
 
 Bill's junior year commencement had come, and he 
 acquitted himself well in his first original address. His 
 ambition aspired to the highest attainments, but his suc- 
 cesses were marred now and then by a touch of the old 
 crackerish boastfulness. It had almost died, but like 
 his cracker speech, came back in excitement, or when he 
 was flattered too much. 
 
 ''They say I made a fine speech, Mr. Ramla." 
 
 "I am glad they think so, " I said; and he looked 
 at me in astonishment. He had expected me to endorse 
 what "they" said. "You did make a creditable ad- 
 dress, Bill, but people should not spoil you by telling 
 you so too often." 
 
 He never spoke of Mol now, and when I mentioned 
 her name once, he asked me not to speak of her again. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 The life at Walesca was greatly changed — no blind 
 stills, no groceries, no counterfeit money ! 
 
 Others than myself had noticed the change. Walk- 
 ing along one day I passed a party of crackers of the old 
 regime, grouped fey the roadside, discussing the situ- 
 ation. 
 
 "Did you ever see such er change?" I heard one 
 question. ^"Tain'tno longer who's goin' ter be Uected 
 an' who ain't; no polities in the matter now; it's all 
 school. I never heard so much talk 'bout wun place. 
 I thought at fust 'twas all talk an' wouldn't 'mount ter 
 nothin', but it's 'mounting ter heap sight more'n I want 
 it ter." 
 
 "Why, you would not have the condition changed, 
 to what it once was, would you?" I asked coming up to 
 where they were sitting, three on a log. 
 
 "Certain I would; er man's got no rights now 't 
 all, an' he useter have all he wanted." 
 
 "Why, of what rights have you been deprived?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "All I ever had. Take 'm down ef you want ter 
 while I 'member 'm. Well, thin, fust, the right ter 
 drink. It useter be that er man could go ter er still an' 
 git er barrel o' liquor ef he wanted ter — not plum' up ter 
 the stills — the moonshiner wouldn't let you git too close 
 on ter it fur fear you'd tell, but 'round 'bout in the 
 neighborhood. 'Twas er mighty good time; an' ef you 
 didn't want ter git direct from the still, you could jes' 
 step down ter the turn o' the road an' buy from er gro- 
 cer, an' he was as jolly as er coon. 'Twas er mighty 
 good time. Now, stills er all gone, 'cept government 
 
 245 
 
246 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 wun8, an' they can't be nigh the school. The school's in 
 the way o' ever' thing? Nothin' now ter put er good 
 taste in yer mouth, noth'n ter make you feel good; you 
 never forgit yer enemies; it's er powerful tryin' time 
 ter er man's speerits. Well, thin, second: it useter be 
 that a man could chaw's much t'bacco as he felt like, 
 an'^nothin' warn't said 'bout it; he could chaw an' chaw 
 an' chaw till his jaws would work whin thar warn't no 
 t'bacco in 'm." He illustrated the process of chewing 
 here by working his jaws in a twisted up and down mo- 
 tion that was apt. "You set 'round the fire in winter 
 an' thought 'bout the time 'fore you wus married whin 
 you wus bashful-like, an' the gal wus kinder so, too, an' 
 she'd set on one side o' the chimn3y, an' you on the 
 tother, an' you'd chaw an' she'd dip, an' mebbe not say 
 nothin' fur er hour. An' sometimes you'd set 'round 
 the fire an' tell yarns an' make the old 'oman an' chill- 
 uns laff ; an' ever' las' child 'cept the gals 'd be tryin' 
 ter chaw 'fore they wus three foot high, an' some o' 'm 
 'd fall off the shuck-pile sick. 'Twas er mighty good 
 time — gone now. Thar ain't no peace in chawin' at my 
 house now less'n whin the chillun's at school. They 
 come in an' say, 'Dad, don't chaw; 'Fessor says 'tain't 
 elegant; he won't let us do it, an' 'tain't right fur you 
 ter.' An' they won't listen ter my tales. I love ter tell 
 tales settin' 'round the fire like we useter 'fore they got 
 ter studyin' ; it's powerful tryin' ter er man's speerits. 
 Well, thin, third: it useter be that er man could have 
 what he w^anted in his own house, jes' comfortable fur- 
 niture, an' now the gals 's got more funny notions stuck 
 'round, 'caze it's nice an' r'fined.' I jes' stan' olf an' 
 lafp at the things sometimes whin I don't throw 'm in the 
 fire. An' they's got cushions in the cheers, what make 
 you feel like you sittin' on air, an' mought tall enny 
 time. An' thin thar was wunst whin er man could have 
 things ter eat jes' like he wanted, cabbage an' all thim 
 good things fur supper; but now the chilluns say 'taint 
 healthy; phislology — what's it? — says 'taint healthy; 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 247 
 
 it makes folks' brain so it won't work. An' I jes' ax 
 'm how much longer they been livin' than me, an' how 
 much more thur brains is wuked. An' then it useter 
 wus that er man could wear what he wanted ter, but 
 now it's put on your best all the time. Mighty good 
 time the old time wus ; powerful tryin' on the speerit 
 now. Well, thin, third, it wus so wunst that er man 
 could boss his own family like he pleased, an' set back 
 an' rest an' take his ease, leanin' back in his chair an' 
 smokin', or doin' whatever suited his fancy, an' send 
 the old 'oman out in the field ter plow the steer, an' the 
 chillun round ter tend ter things — 'warn't worth while 
 ter git out o' yer cheer ter have ever'thing goin' as 
 smooth as glass. 'Twas er mighty good time; clear 
 gone now. All the right er man's got these days is ter 
 wuk and edicate his chilluns. I can't say whether my 
 chilluns mus' wuk; you folks done 'cided 'thoutaskin' 
 me whether I like it er no that they mus' go ter school. 
 It's er sin fur er man ter keep his chillun, what wus 
 give him ter do what he wants with, out'n school. An' 
 I can't make the old 'oman wuk like she useter, be- 
 cause it's heathen-like fur wimmin folks ter wuk, like 
 the Lord didn't make man fur ter boss. This is er pow- 
 erful tryin' time on er man's speerits. It 'prises me 
 like ter think that mebbe arter er while they'll change 
 the water an' air." 
 
 "That 'bout takes in ever'thing. Uncle Jake," an- 
 other said. "The Good Book sed er lot o' trouble 'd 
 come 'fore the end o' the world. Reckin it's no more'n 
 we could look fur. It's hard sure fur er man ter be 
 'pressed like er man warn't free; but reckin we can't 
 change the matter now. These folks wus cunnin' ; 
 they got thur way 'fore we know'd it, but it's too late 
 ter git it back on 'm now." 
 
 Did you ever pass a pond and hear the croaking of 
 the frogs? They croak whether the pond is high or 
 low, but I believe they croak loudest when the pond is 
 high. Frogs are not the only creatures with such 
 habits. 
 
248 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 It was best not to pay any attention to these men,, 
 but to carry on the work regardless of them. Their day- 
 will pass. Another generation will feel different. 
 
 Not long after this I spent an evening with my- 
 friend. After our usual talk about school matters, we 
 had become silent, and I sat meditating for some time. 
 
 **0f what are you thinking so earnestly?" my 
 friend asked. "I have watched you for the past half 
 ho'jr closely, and not a muscle has moved, except the 
 muscles of the face, and those have betrayed anxious 
 thought. I feel better over the condition of the people, 
 and so ought you. But you are a miserable man, al- 
 ways thinking of some evil, and never satisfied with the 
 good. Be grateful once." 
 
 *'I am always grateful, but I am never satisfied. I 
 pity the soul that is satisfied; it will never progress. 
 Dissatisfaction makes the difi*erence between man and 
 other animals. You are right; I have been thinking very 
 earnestly of something that I will not say is an evil, but 
 that may become one ; such, at least, has been the his- 
 tory of similar lawless organizations. Whether this will 
 be an exception or not, I cannot tell. I speak of the 
 whitecap organization, which, as you know, has of late 
 been growing rapidly in this section of Georgia. The 
 society may be good, and some of the best men in the land 
 are said to belong to it, but already many of its acts 
 have been evil, and they will become still more so if, as 
 I said, the oganization follows the rule of things that 
 digress from law." 
 
 "Possibly the matter ought to be given more 
 thought," said my friend, '*but it is hardly wuse for us 
 to trouble about it. The whitecape. have never inter- 
 fered with the school, and probably never will. There 
 are so many things that do directly affect it that we 
 should give all our thought to them." 
 
 **I am not sure that this matter will never affect the 
 school, or that we should not consider it now. The man 
 who watched me for so long was, I feel sure, a white- 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 249> 
 
 cap, unless, indeed, he was employed by the man who 
 died and left the moonshiners their homes." 
 
 "Have you seen your 'apparition' since the death 
 of that man?" 
 
 ''No, but he may want to leave the impression upon 
 me that the owner of the stills was the man." 
 
 *'I would not worry about the matter. The man 
 was probably a confederate of the still-owner or a 
 moonshiner acting independently." 
 
 "If he was a confederate, why has he not opposed 
 the action we have taken under the still-owner's will?" 
 
 "Oh, well, maybe he is a whitecap, and if he is, 
 that can mean no harm to you." 
 
 "I do not know what it may mean," I said. "But 
 I do know that the whitecaps are getting too active." 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 A few days after our talk about the whitecaps my 
 friend told me that Callaway had caused some trouble. 
 There was a boy in school who was not bright, and 
 Callaway had worried him greatly. He told him that 
 whitecaps punished boys who did not make a good 
 stand in their classes, and the boy had been afraid to be 
 out at night. The following day the lad was detained 
 in town on business, and was late getting home. Calla- 
 way knew it, and went ahead of him to frighten him. 
 He wore a costume similar to that of the whitecaps, and 
 frightened the boy very much. The next day the other 
 boys told him that Callaway had fooled him. He was 
 very angry and used some strong language to Callaway. 
 Callaway then grew very angry also, and said that the 
 whitecaps really should get after the boy. 
 
 I asked my friend what he would do about it. He 
 said if Callaway were not going to graduate that year 
 he would expel him, but that, after his long and patient 
 efforts with him, he disliked to send him into life with- 
 out a single honor. 
 
 He was given military punishment, and allowed to 
 stay and receive his diploma. He had not studied well, 
 but managed to get through. 
 
 "Mr. Callaway, what do you expect to do?" I 
 asked, when he was leaving school, after his gradua- 
 tion. 
 
 **I expect to study medicine, and when I have com- 
 pleted the course and established a good practice, to 
 marry and live a quiet, useful life." 
 
 **I hope you may," I said. 
 
 "Yes, but you do not believe I will, Mr. Ramla. You 
 have never had any confidence in me." 
 
 250 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 261 
 
 "I have always had the confidence that you merited. 
 A man himself is responsible for the confidence people 
 have in him," I replied; but I felt a little guilty. 
 
 He went to a medical college in Atlanta and did as 
 he had done at Walesca, dragged along with but little 
 effort to attain real success. I was in Atlanta once 
 when he was there, and met the proctor of the medical 
 college. 
 
 "Look here," he said to me, *'you have sent us a 
 worthless student from Walesca. He does not do your 
 college justice if it really has the merit I have always 
 heard awarded it. Callaway is not only not a good stu- 
 dent, but a disreputable character." 
 
 "What has he been doing?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh ! drinking and giving general trouble. He has 
 no honor." 
 
 He soon left Atlanta without graduating, having be- 
 come so dissipated in the city, where he was exposed to 
 constant temptation, that he would not attend his lec- 
 tures. He began clerking in a store in Rome, Georgia, 
 and for a while did wf^ll, and made friends. 
 
 One Sunday my friend was in Rome, when he met 
 Callaway, who had been drinking. My friend begged 
 him to go to his boarding-house and stay until he was 
 himself. But he seemed reckless and would not go. 
 That afternoon a young boy, the son of the gentleman 
 my friend was visiting, said: "I never saw anybody so 
 reckless as that young fellow, Callaway, who has been 
 clerking here for a month. He swears he's going to kill 
 somebody to-day ; I heard him say so, and he is carry- 
 ing a pistol." 
 
 Later in the afternoon he came in, very excited and 
 pale, and said: "Callaway's done what he threatened. 
 I was down the street a while ago, and he went up to the 
 livery stable for a horse and buggy. The owner, knowing 
 he had been drinking, refused to let him have the turn- 
 out. Callaway then went to the stable, and, fearing 
 trouble, I followed. When the man refused him again, 
 
262 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 he became livid with fury, and made terrible threats. 
 Finally, the proprietor of the livery stable went into his 
 oflfice, and Callaway got the horse and buggy himself, 
 and was sitting in it ready to drive, when a clerk came 
 in. 'You cannot have that turnout, Mr. Callaway.' 
 *So your proprietor said, but I've got it.' 'But you can- 
 not keep it, Mr. Callaway,' he said taking the horse's 
 rein. 'I will show you about that,' Callaway replied, 
 and tried to drive otf . The clerk held tightly to the rein, 
 and the horse reared under the restraint and the fierce 
 lashing that Callaway w^as giving him. 'Let go that 
 bridle,' Callaway said, 'I'll show you who is the better 
 man,' and he struck the clerk with the whip. The clerk 
 made an effort to catch the whip with his left hand,, 
 holding the horse with the right. Callaway stood 
 in the buggy, the horse rearing as it was, took deliberate 
 aim and shot the clerk twice, saying, 'I will teach you 
 not to fool with me; I'm a desperate man.' The clerk 
 staggered, then fell in front of the horse. Callaway cut 
 the frightened animal a fearful blow, and drove over the 
 dying body of the brave young clerk. I screamed for 
 help and tried to catch the horse's rein, but Callaway 
 aimed at me with the pistol, and said, 'It's no more to 
 kill two men than one,' and I dropped my hand, too 
 frightened to attempt further to stop him. He drove 
 madly into the street, and I went to the dying man. 
 'He has killed me,' he said; 'bring him to justice, that 
 he may not kill another man.' He died with these 
 words upon his lips." 
 
 "Of course the officers have gone to arrest Calla- 
 way?" my friend said. 
 
 "Yes, sir," the young man replied, "but there are 
 men collecting now who will be as likely to find him as 
 the officers, and they will not deal so mercifully with 
 him." 
 
 Terrible thought ! For four years my friend had 
 labored to make a man of this boy, and this was the end. 
 He went to the men who were banding themselves for a 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 2oB 
 
 lawless mob, and begged that they leave Callaway to the 
 law. It was useless to ask it; they were infuriated, and 
 not without reason. All night the two parties searched 
 for him, but he was not found. The governor offered a 
 hundred dollars reward for his capture. It was weeks 
 before he was found. At last in an old barn the sheriff 
 found him a hundred miles from the scene of the mur- 
 der, and for protection he was taken to Atlanta. 
 
 My friend went to see him. He seemed callous. 
 Always before, no matter what the offence, he had shown 
 €ome feeling. Now he seemed perfectly unconcerned, 
 not caring for what happened nor for what should come. 
 I pitied his sister, Maggie, and wrote to her. Her reply 
 w^as pitiful indeed. It was so distressful and discon- 
 nected that I feared for the young girl's reason. She 
 begged me to do all in my power to save her brother 
 from the worst fate. 
 
 Katherine was much exercised for her friend. She 
 asked to go and stay with her during the trying time, 
 and I consented. Bill was distressed: ''Callaway was 
 my enemy from the very first, but I cannot help feeling 
 for him now." 
 
 When Bill had declared that he did not love Mol 
 any longer I had thought that he cared for Callaway's 
 sister. If this were so he should now manifest it. He 
 did not do so, however, and was almost angry with me 
 for allowing Katherine to go and stay with her. 
 
 *'It will be so trying for Miss Katherine," he said. 
 
 I was surprised, and told him what I thought. 
 
 "I care for Miss Maggie Callaway! I could not 
 think of such a thing, on account of her brother. She 
 is a fine girl, and I have always admired her but I do 
 not care for her in the least." 
 
 Before Callaway's trial began, I met one of the still- 
 keepers that had kept his pledge. 
 
 *'See here, mister, is Callaway killed a man sure 
 ''nough?" 
 
 "Yes," T said, "he really has." 
 
254 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 *'Well, 'tain't no 'eprise ter me; It's jes' what I 
 'spected ter come ter pass, only I thought mebbe how 
 it'd be Callaway that 'd be kilt instid o' hlskillin' some 
 other man. He allurs wus er coward, but he slung er 
 pistol round powerful whin he wus drunk, an' I reckon 
 that's the way 't wus. I never could see how you an' 
 'Fessor could be fooled so in that chap; he wus the 
 meanes' feller that ever come along the school, an' yit it 
 seemed as ef 'Fessor thought the sun riz an' set in that 
 boy, the things he done fur him. You dunno 'bout that 
 feller an' Lewis, what wus another bad wun ; they 
 use ter come ter the still at night, an' they'd drink 'til 
 they'd 'gin ter feel queer, an' thin they'd say better 
 stop, they reckin as how you'd find it out on 'm ef they 
 didn't; an' they'd have their bottles filled ter take ter 
 the boys an' ter las' 'm the next day. They wus terrible 
 ohaps, they wus." 
 
CHAPTER XL. 
 
 The trial came. Callaway was taken to Rome. 
 Public Bcntiment was still so bitter against him that he 
 had to be kept under close guard for his protection. 
 The Jail might have been left open, and he would 
 not have thought of escape ; he wanted the protection of 
 the law. 
 
 The trial was short. There was abundant testi- 
 mony against Callaway, and scarcely any in his favor. 
 He testified in his own behalf, going through with the 
 whole of the circumstances of the killing in a tragic 
 manner, and closed by saying : 
 
 "He insulted me, and I shot him; yes, shot him 
 down — a thing any man will do when he's insulted." 
 
 A shudder ran through the court room when he ut- 
 tered the words, and sat down with a deadly pallor on 
 his cheeks and a forced smile on his lips. 
 
 His family awaited the verdict in mental agony of 
 fiuspense. I would not allow Katherine to attend the 
 trial, but I sat by Maggie to comfort her as I might. 
 
 The jury was not long out. They came filing in in 
 solemn procession, and when the foreman was asked for 
 the verdict it was "Guilty of murder in the first degree, 
 with a recommendation to mercy because of the prison- 
 er's youth." 
 
 It was milder than any one expected, but of course 
 the family had hoped. Maggie, unnerved by all that 
 had passed, uttered a piercing shriek. Gray-haired men 
 wept. I do not think there was a dry eye in the court 
 room except the prisoner's. He looked like marble, im- 
 mobile and unfeeling. He received his sentence in the 
 same manner, apparently not even hearing what the 
 
 255 
 
256 DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 
 
 judge said when he sentenced him to penal service for 
 life. 
 
 Poor Maggie! She could scarcely walk from 
 the court room, and when we had gone with her and her 
 mother to the house where they were staying, she threw 
 her arms about Katherine, and with another piercing 
 scream, fainted. Katherine was never stronger. She 
 tried to comfort as she could, her troubled friend, 
 but Maggie was never herself again. Proud, ambitious, 
 sensitive, this blow was too great for her strength. 
 After a long spell of brain fever, she passed from life 
 and its woes. Poor life! So marred, so burdened, by 
 the sins of others ! But the world's troubles will never 
 cast gloom over it more. 
 
 Mrs. Callaway expected to take leave of her son be- 
 fore he should be taken to another sphere of existence, 
 but the people were so incensed that the sentence 
 had not been death, that it was not safe for Callaway to 
 be kept a moment over the necessary time. They hur- 
 ried him off on the next train; and his mother did 
 not even know when he left. In fifteen minutes after 
 the sentence the prisoner was on his way to the peniten- 
 tiary. They sent him to the lumber yards. He had 
 never been a strong boy, and they gave him the light 
 work of marking lumber. 
 
 I visited him soon after he was taken to the lumber 
 yards and asked permission to talk to him, in the pres- 
 ence of a guard, of course. 
 
 ''My dear young friend — " I said; but he stopped 
 me before I could say more. 
 
 "If you had only called me that and shown some 
 confidence in me before!" 
 
 "Stop, Callaway," I in turn interrupted. "I may 
 not have called you 'dear young friend,' nor shown very 
 much confidence in you, but there were others who did. 
 My friend, the president of your college, showed all the 
 confidence in you that one man can expect from another, 
 and gave you more affection than most boys receive 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEKS 257 
 
 at home. I may have been derelict in duty towards 
 jou, but he was not." 
 
 "That is true, but I wanted you to care for me, too. 
 Many a time I wished for your confidence and love ; 
 I was jealous of Bill and others, but at the same time I 
 knew that the fault was mine ; I never felt more forcibly 
 any saying than yours, that a man inspires the confi- 
 dence he receives and gets all he merits. But this 
 I will tell you : you did more than your duty by me.- 
 If I had but listened to the teachings of the Profess- 
 or and yourself I should now be free and happy. But I 
 am bound forever — a young man without a hope, with- 
 out a friend, without a home, without a name, and no ef- 
 fort, no labor, can bring them to me again. Oh ! oh ! oh! 
 my brain will soon give way, and I shall be a life with- 
 out a mind!" 
 
 *'You need your reason more than ever now," I 
 €aid; "do not break down; do not let it slip from you;" 
 and I tried to explain my meaning to him ; but it was al- 
 most useless then. 
 
 "Callaway," I said, "it is too late for reproaches 
 now; but if you will do your best in the future, you may 
 yet find peace." 
 
 "I loved the man I killed," he went on, "though I 
 had known him but a short while, and if I had been my- 
 self, bad as my real self is, I would not have committed 
 the deed ; but I was maddened with liquor. And, do 
 you know, I drank so constantly for years that now my 
 system demands alcohol, until I am sometimes almost 
 wild without it. You did not know it, Mr. Ramla, but 
 I drank all the time I was at Walesca." 
 
 "No, I did not know it then, but I learned it before 
 your trial;" and I told him what the moonshiner had 
 said. 
 
 "Yes, and he might have told you more. After the 
 distilleries were closed, I still got whiskey. The moon- 
 shiners would always have a little, though they were 
 afraid to have much. The last time that I went to the 
 
258 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 stills, though, they told me they were really going 
 to give up the busineBS altogether. It cannot matter 
 much now, Mr. Ramla, what confessions I make. The 
 worst cannot bring me lower than I am. I peddled 
 whiskey all the time among the boys while I was at 
 school. I gambled, too. Two or three times I won all 
 a young man had, and he was obliged to stop school on 
 account of it. Sometimes I would feel sorry for him, 
 and lend him a small amount to start with, and try 
 to win his money back. It was shameful ; I regret noth- 
 ing more in all the black past than depriving two or 
 three young men of a year's advantages in school." 
 
 "Another thing I will tell you : I was dishonest in 
 other ways than gambling. Do you remember having 
 charge of the school while Professor was ill at your 
 home? It was at the beginning of the term, and I 
 would not enter for some time after I heard you were 
 acting as president. I feared you would deal more 
 harshly with me than the president. I did not know 
 where Professor was, but I knew he was sick somewhere, 
 and Lewis and I were hard up for money, and we went to 
 the town in which you live to attempt what I had never 
 attempted before — burglary. We got into one house 
 and took from a man's pocket a hundred and fifty dol- 
 lars, besides other things. Your house was the next 
 we entered, and the room in which Professor lay 
 ill was the first we came to. We did not know it was 
 Tour house, or we should not have entered it. We used 
 gas upon the sleeper. I leaned over the bed and recog- 
 nized the features. The awfulness of what we were 
 doing almost overpowered me, and I told Lewis so, but 
 he was always more hard-hearted than I, and he laughed 
 at me and seemed disgusted. When Professor was un- 
 der the influence of the gas I felt very anxious ; I knew 
 he must be very weak, and was fearful he would not re- 
 cover from the effects of it. 1 never loved him so much, 
 it seemed to me, and never felt so like a criminal. If 
 he had died, I think I would have given myself up to 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CllACKERS 259 
 
 justice. Lewis did most of the stealing that night, 
 though I fumbled about the room and pretended. The 
 only thing I got was your watch, and I took that only 
 because I knew Lewis was a desperate fellow, and if he 
 suspected me of not trying to rob he might fear that I 
 would betray him and take my life. When we were 
 ready to go he said 'Come,' but I stayed behind a mo- 
 ment to see if Professor was breathing. I felt so re- 
 morseful as I looked at him, and thought of all he had 
 done for me and my evil deed to him, that 1 determined 
 I would never again lead an evil life. But I soon 
 changed my determination and continued to live in the 
 game old way. 
 
 "Next day Lewis asked me what I had taken from 
 your house, and I told him your watch. 'Let's sell it; 
 we can't keep it and I don't want it anyway.' 'Lewis,' 
 I said, 'I want it, and if you will take my share of the 
 money we got last night and leave me the watch, I'll 
 say quite.' He did so, and I expected to give you the 
 watch back some time, but I never could find the cour- 
 age ; and once, when Lewis and I were playing cards, 
 and I had lost ail my money, I bet the watch and he won 
 it. 'Now, look here, Lewis,' I said, 'that watch must 
 be an old family piece of Mr. Ramla's, and he must 
 have it some day ; I would not sell it for anything.' He 
 said, 'I would, if I could get enough for it.' 'No, you 
 will not, ' I said ; 'there are the authorities, and I tell 
 you not to sell that watch until I have a chance to win 
 it back.' He promised that he would not, but before 1 
 •Duld get a chance you found the watch in Lewis' trunk. 
 I was to win it with some of the money he stole from 
 the boy Simpson. Yes, I was in that affair, too, and 
 Lewis certainly did a noble thing then. He took all the 
 blame and let me go. Lewis broke the window and got 
 in and I watched outside. Lewis was to go to New 
 York the next morning and I was to let him have my 
 share of the money for the watch. You remember the 
 morning Lewis was expelled.? I shall never forget it. 
 
^60 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 You looked at me and I grew pale as death. I f^lt as if 
 you could read my heart. No wonder that I am here. My 
 life was bad enough even if that last great crime. had not 
 been committed. One evil went on at Walesca, though, 
 that I was not connected with, and that was the cir- 
 culation of counterfeit money. I was afraid to handle 
 it. Lewis said I was a coward, and I was ; but I wish I 
 had been more cowardly about crime." 
 
 The guard announced then that I could not speak 
 to No. — any longer that day, but that I could do so on 
 the morrow. 
 
 Callaway bade me good-bye and said : "There are 
 some other things I want to confess to you." 
 
 I went the next day and Callaway continued his 
 «tory. 
 
 *'You thought I knew the stranger w^ho watched 
 you so long; I did not know him. I only knew he was 
 watching you." 
 
 *'Yes, I overheard you say so once when Bill and I 
 were on the mountain," I said. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I remember the time. I was going to 
 tell you that Lewis and I were the men who hunted you 
 ■down and shot at you, and when the trial came and 
 there was not sufficient evidence against me, I felt 
 almost like confessing my guilt; but the feeling of 
 triumph over you was too great. I hated you because 
 you interfered between Mol and me. My course in re- 
 gard to her was one of the strangest things in my life. 
 When I went to the cracker party at Bill's house I had 
 no thought except to amuse myself by guying the crack- 
 ers. I had never seen Mol Smith before, and knew 
 nothing of her relation to Bill, but I soon found from 
 his actions she was his sweetheart, and it then became 
 my pleasure to do all in my power to win her from him. 
 Mollie was not an attractive girl to me, and it was a 
 great bore to be with her ; but I was determined not to 
 allow a cracker boy to hold any girl when I chose to 
 win her from him. I have always been jealous and 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 261 
 
 spiteful, and though I never loved Mol, I was jealous of 
 her and spiteful toward Bill. But I do not think she 
 ever cared in the least for me. All that I told you about 
 hearing from her was untrue. I never heard a word 
 from her. I saw her once when she vv^as home during 
 her mother's illness, but she w^ould tell me no more than 
 she had already told you. I do not know to this day 
 where she is. As long as Bill cared for her I wanted 
 you all to believe that she would marry me, and when 
 he declared that his love for her had died out, I cared 
 nothing further about the matter ; but I was obliged ta 
 keep up the impression that I wanted to marry Molli© 
 Smith to prevent your discovering my motives. The 
 letter I showed you I wrote myself. Miss Mollie was a 
 good girl. I tried twice in every way possible to get 
 her to run off with me. The second time she left home, 
 and I flattered myself it was because she was afraid I 
 might persuade her to marry me some day, and was 
 fearful to trust herself with me, but I don't think ea 
 now. I am sure she has never ceased to care for Bill. 
 Tell Bill what I have told you, and if Miss Mollie ever 
 goes home again tell her. I would like Bill to come to 
 see me at some time if he will. He would be kind to da 
 80, for I have treated him shamefully." 
 
 I tried to talk to Callaw^ay about his final fate, but 
 he would not listen. 
 
 **At some other time come, and I will talk to you 
 about that;" and I left him. 
 
CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 The year that Callaway committed his awful crime, 
 Bill graduated. It was a momentous period of his life. 
 There are two days that a man never forgets — his grad- 
 uation day and his wedding day. On his gradua- 
 tion day a man is proud of himself; on his wedding day 
 he is proud of his bride. 
 
 Bill was not a first-honor boy. He would have 
 been, but that his health gave way from hard study cou- 
 pled with hard work at home, and he was obliged to lose 
 much time from school. It was a great disappointment 
 to him, but it was just as well as it was. So many first- 
 honor men are lauded to the skies, and start in life feel- 
 ing that their success everywhere must be as great as it 
 was at school, and taking it as a matter of course, fail. 
 It is well for people to be disappointed sometimes. Bill 
 made an excellent address. His subject was, "The Peo- 
 ple," and the peroration was as follows: 
 
 "You have heard of the leaders of men. What of 
 those who follow? I have read of sixteen great battles 
 that have decided the fate of nations, of sixteen great 
 generals who planned them, to whom all the honor of 
 victory was ascribed, and to whom the world bows in 
 homage. The battalions that went down into the fight 
 were composed of the common people. Kingdoms and. 
 republics have risen in power, and have established 
 themselves on the earth, and the annals of history have 
 been searched for the register of the people who estab- 
 lished them; but it is not to be found. But there is a 
 republic of 'the common people,' whose power is felt 
 more than that of all other republics and all empires, 
 whose strength is greater than that of the United States, 
 
 262 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 2fi3 
 
 and of Britain and of Germany combined. When it 
 was founded, the leaders of men refused to hold citizen- 
 ship, and even tried to overthrow it. They refused to 
 recognize itb founder, but the common people heard him 
 gladly. And at the last, when this great commonwealth 
 shall have become too holy for life among the nations of 
 the earth, it shall have everlasting life as the final Re- 
 public of God." 
 
 I looked around while Bill was speaking, and Mol 
 was there listening, more eagerly than anyone else. 
 Her eyes were bright and sparkling with admiration. 
 She leaned forward with nervous movement, and I felt 
 eure she must care for Bill still. 
 
 A3 soon as the exercises were over I went down to 
 speak to Mol, but she had gone. 
 
 When Bill sat down, the people applauded tremen- 
 dously. But the strain of labor, under the disadvantage 
 of physical weakness, had been too great, and he looked 
 pale and unnerved. I thought he would be ill, but he 
 soon recovered. 
 
 Bill had been under such a strain for a long time that 
 I thought he needed change and entire rest, and I took 
 him home with me to spend a month. Katherine 
 brought little Kitty McCabe home, and the child seemed 
 to enjoy the trip thoroughly. She was such a bright, 
 attractive child that she interested the entire town. 
 One of my friends wanted to adopt her, although he 
 knew the history of her father. I wrote to her father 
 and mother and told them of the desire, but they refused 
 to give up Kitty. 
 
 One afternoon when Katherine had a party of 
 friends, a young man who had just entered society in 
 our town, and whom we did not know well, was present, 
 and Kitty came into the room. He asked who she was, 
 and said to a gentleman near him, "I'm going to have 
 some fun out of that child. Say, little one, are you any 
 kin to that man who was condemned to be hung a year 
 or two ago?" Kitty was very sensitive, and understood 
 
264 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 him in an instant. She straightened up and said, "Sir^ 
 he is my father," and ran out of the room crying. 
 
 Bill, although he was now polished in manner, and 
 had 8o often manifested strong self-control, now showed 
 the lack of it, so common to people in the lower walk& 
 of life, and rose in anger, took the young man by the 
 coat collar and led him out of the room. When they^ 
 reached the gallery, Bill struck him an awful blow, and 
 said: 
 
 *'I'll teach you to hurt a little child's feelings,*'' 
 and left him. 
 
 I felt outraged with both Bill and the young man. I 
 had followed them out, and when Bill turned toward me^ 
 after what he had done, he said : 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir, but I couldn't stand that." 
 
 * 'Neither could I," I said, ''but there was a quiet 
 way of punishing it." 
 
 Bill seemed much mortified, and went to his room 
 for the remainder of the evening. Of course the entire 
 company felt embarrassed, and soon dispersed. 
 
 The next morning the young man, whom I found 
 afterward to be an objectionable character in many 
 ways, and debarred from coming to my house, sent a 
 challenge for a duel with Bill. I answered the chall- 
 enge, stating that Mr. Collins was a Christian gentleman 
 and did not fight duels. The young man then declared 
 that he would be revenged in some way, but he made no 
 attempt to molest Bill. 
 
 I thought the matter had died out, until one day 
 there was a picnic in the country about five miles, and 
 all the young people from town went. The day was 
 happily spent, and it was almost time to return, when it 
 was proposed that the party should take another ride in 
 the boats. They were on a mill-pond that was deep in 
 places. Bill had taken Kitty, and they went some dis- 
 tance up the lake. Bill got out of the boat to get some 
 grapes for her, and she held close to the bank by the 
 weeds while he was gathering them. I was near in a 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 2«6 
 
 boat with Katherine, when I saw the young man with 
 whom Bill had had the trouble row up to the boat in 
 which Kitty was. Bill came with his arms full of 
 grapes, talking gaily to Kitty ; but just as he was going 
 to step into the boat his enemy pushed it away with hi» 
 oar, and Bill fell into the deep water. Kitty screamed, 
 and a dozen boats went to them, and Bill was soon 
 hauled into one of them. The young man who perpe- 
 trated the dastardly trick jumped out of his boat and 
 got to town as soon as possible. 
 
 With the exception of these two occurrences, Kitty 
 and Bill enjoyed being with us, and the change seemed 
 to do them both good. Katherine and Bill were both 
 fond of reading, and they read and studied together a 
 great deal of the time. One afternoon I found them in 
 our flower-garden, sitting under the crape myrtle tree, 
 reading and talking as congenially as if they were in 
 every way equal. 
 
 I took Bill to my cabinet one day. 
 
 "Come," I said; "I have a rare curiosity to show 
 you. Of all my collection I value this most." 
 
 It was a small flower, pasted on a satin card. 
 
 "Do you remember when I first met you. Bill, on a 
 day in June five years ago? You were sitting on a log 
 resting from your splinter-gathering. You took me to 
 your home, and on the way we stopped to admire the 
 flowers that made the mountain beautiful. I remarked 
 on the azalias, and you, plucking this, said, 'You like 
 them big honeysuckles; I think this is erpurty thing.' " 
 
 Turning the card, I showed him the quotation, and 
 said : 
 
 "Since that day the arbutus blossom has been an 
 emblem of hope to me, and many a time when the work 
 at Walesca has been burdensome, and cares and doubts 
 have come to me, I have taken it out and turned to 
 these words, and felt hope renewed and energies quick- 
 ened." 
 
 "I remember the meeting well," he said. "I shall 
 
266 
 
 DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 
 
 never forget it ; and now that you speak of it, I remem- 
 ber the occurrence with the flower, though I had forgot- 
 ten it before. It has, indeed, been a prophecy of better 
 things, and hereafter I, too, shall regard the arbutus 
 blossom as an emblem of hope. How the condition of 
 this section has changed since this little flower bloomed! 
 Mr. Ramla, I hope my life is worthier than it was then. 
 My hopes are higher anyway, and it is time I were 
 thinking of what I shall do in life." 
 
 "I want to talk with you about it, but not just yet. 
 You have not fully recovered your strength, and during 
 your stay with us I want you to think of nothing that 
 will interfere with your pleasure." 
 
 I put the arbutus blossom carefully bnck in its place, 
 and Bill and I went out into the garden where other 
 plants bloomed. Is it not strange that this lovely flower, 
 with all the care that can be given to it, will not live 
 out of its native heath? I have tried to cultivate it, but 
 with no success. It seems to belong to lowly life, and 
 to be an emblem of hope for the people among whom it 
 blooms. It is theirs, and chooses to shed its influence 
 about them alone. 
 
 Bill And Kitty remained with us a week after this, 
 and went home looking better and happier than when 
 they came. 
 
 The mail that day brought me a note from my 
 friend, asking me to come to Walesca and aid him ; 
 there was important work on hand. So I went the next 
 day to help in it, whatever it might be. 
 
 .U« iltidd tad iii* 
 
 :?{iow f>r<^ :'^>^'-i' 
 
 -ifff-T 
 
 ;..;[ if^*? hiU 
 
 5t»dai»iflv 
 
CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 I found my friend in much perplexity. Counterfeit 
 money was being circulated again. When Lewis had 
 been there, it had been specie; now it w^as notes. My 
 friend showed me a communication that he had re- 
 ■ceived : 
 
 "You have done a wonderful work, but one who 
 would really bless this world must never fold his hands. 
 Tour work is not finished. There has lately risen an- 
 •other evil for you to suppress. A counterfeiter is at 
 work somewhere in your section, and you had better 
 make an effort to find him before your school opens." 
 
 No name was signed to the letter. 
 
 I was discouraged to think of having to brave dan- 
 gers and difficulties again. I had thought all this trou- 
 ble was over. However, I went out among the people 
 to see if I could find any clue to the criminals. They 
 knew nothing, they said, except that counterfeit money 
 was circulated. 
 
 Nicely, the gold-washer, said : *'I don't git dollars 
 €asy these days, an' whin I do git 'm I like fur 'm ter be 
 worth somethin'. I had er dollar here the other day; I 
 dunno whar it come from. It had been put away er long 
 time, mebbe two months, an' I took it over ter town fur 
 ter git t'bacco an' meat, an' fetched 'm home, an' the 
 very nex' day here come the store-keeper ridin' up an' 
 sayin' I'd gin him money what warn't good, an' he 
 wanted his stuff back or er 'nother dollar. I had done 
 used the stuff, an' don*tyou b'lieve, that man made me 
 pay him er 'nother dollar. I'm alius losin' money ; 
 ain't made that fifty dollars back yit. It's turrible times 
 on hones' folks." •* 
 
 267 
 
268 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKEKS 
 
 This seemed to be the sentiment of the entire com- 
 munity, but they had taken no steps to suppress the 
 evil. It might have gone on forever, and they would 
 never have taken steps to suppress it. The crackers 
 are the most helpless, listless people in the world. 
 
 As an illustration of this, there was no sexton at 
 the church, and the people had to attend to the lamps, 
 etc. 1 have gone to church at night between the iirst 
 and second bells , and there would be a hum of voices, 
 but no lights. When I lighted the lamps there would be 
 twenty or thirty men to be seen. They had been there 
 fifteen or twenty minutes, and abused everybody con- 
 nected with the school because there was no light, but 
 never thought it their duty to strike a match. Whatever 
 was done was done by the school. 
 
 "What did they do before the school was here?" I 
 asked my friend. 
 
 **The preacher lighted the lamps and swept the 
 church. He also furnished the oil and the broom." 
 
 *'Let's try them one night," I said, when I was to 
 lecture in the church. 
 
 We went, but there was no light, and I began lect- 
 uring in the dark. After I had spoken probably fif- 
 teen minutes, some man rose and said : 
 
 "Here, stop thar er minute; I say, don't you think 
 we'd better have er light? I can't see you, an' I hears 
 mostly with my eyes. Thar's fellers chawin' t'bacco 
 'round me, too, an' I's got on my bes' Sunday-go-ter- 
 meetin' clothes." 
 
 "I think it would be better to have a light," I said» 
 **Please strike a match;" and the man sat down. 
 
 The crackers laughed, but not one of them made 
 an effort to light the lamps, and my friend had to light 
 them. 
 
 And so counterfeit money might have been circulat- 
 ed forever, an though the old crackers would have com- 
 plained, they never would have attempted to stop the 
 evil. The cracker boys who had been to school, though. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 269 
 
 were becoming active citizens. Two of these, and Bill, 
 determined with me to try to discover some signs of 
 the counterfeiter; or, rather, to find out whether such 
 a man was operating in that section, before we wrote for 
 a detective. 
 
 We went out one night to where the stills used to 
 be. One of the moonshiners had moved from his home 
 and left it vacant. The house and still were both go- 
 ing to decay. We went there. 
 
 "There is a light in the still," one of the boys said. 
 
 We went nearer. Two of us went on one side of the 
 house, and two on the other. Through the window we 
 could see an old man, stooped and gray, stamping paper. 
 He would hold one up to the light, then lay it down 
 carefully on a pile of similar ones. We watched him for 
 some time. 
 
 "He will no doubt be here to-morrow night," I said. 
 "We had better get McCabe to come with us then and 
 take him." 
 
 "Let's take him now, Mr. Ramla," said Bill. "He's 
 an old man, and it would be no trouble at all." 
 
 "He is probably disguised," I said, "and not an old 
 man at all, but a young man armed and desperate." 
 
 "Well, we are armed, too," another of the boys re- 
 plied, "and we had better make sure of him now we've 
 got him." 
 
 "Very well," I replied. "We shall have to break 
 this window. Of course his doors are fastened." 
 
 We crashied the window with one blow. The light 
 went out immediately, as we expected, but instead of 
 pistol shots, we heard only a groan, and the old man 
 shuffling about the room. When all had gotten through 
 the window, we struck a match. The man was nowhere 
 to be seen. We tried the doors ; they were still bolted 
 on the inside, and the window we had not broken was 
 fastened on the inside, too. The counterfeit money was 
 lying all around, blown by a gust from the window. We 
 thought of a trap door, but there was none. We were 
 
270 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 about to leave when we heard a voice on the roof. I op- 
 ened the door and ran out with the light in my hand. 
 The boys all followed. We looked on the roof, and the 
 old man was wildly throwing up his hands. He mut- 
 tered something we could not understand, and jumped, 
 though we called to him not to. The distance was not 
 great, but he was lamed by the fall, and his head was 
 hurt. We picked him up, and took him in the house, 
 though he madly resisted. The light fell upon his face 
 now, and I recognized him. 
 ■ ' ■ It was the old miser. 
 
 **Is it really you, Mr. Denton?" I asked. "I did 
 not recognize you; I am sorry we disturbed you." 
 ;; r"I can't live in no peace," he said, and he groaned 
 with pain. "They won't let me be. They got all my 
 money wunst, and now they come ter rob me when I try 
 ter git more. Oh! it's gone, it's gone, it's gone," he 
 cried in agonized tones. "It's all gone; oh, me!" 
 
 One of the boys went for a doctor, and another for 
 one of the former moonshiners' wives. We made him as 
 comfortable as we could until they came. He kept on 
 mumbling, and now and then would grow wild and make 
 frantic gestures. Then in weakness he would lie quiet 
 for a while. At last he seemed to sleep, but in an in- 
 stant, with a sudden jump, he sprang from the bed and 
 began picking up the notes on the floor. One leg was 
 broken and he could not walk, but he dragged himself 
 about the room, and seemed to forget his pain. We 
 tried to stop him,but it infuriated him so that we thought 
 it better to let him alone. 
 
 I told the boys to pick up his money for him, but 
 when they tried to do so he screamed and threw any- 
 thing in his reach at them. He dragged himself about 
 the room, searching in every nook and corner for his 
 treasure until he had found it all; and then, clutching it 
 tightly with a grim smile of contentment, crawled back 
 to the bed. We lifted him in, and he fainted from 
 weakness. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CBACKERS 271 
 
 The doctor came. "He can live but a few hours,'* 
 he said, and we sent for his family. 
 
 Clutching his counterfeit notes tightly, he died as 
 he had lived — a miser. 
 
 His family said that they supposed, from letters 
 they had found, that he had been induced to take his 
 money to Atlanta, and that spiritual mediums had got 
 hold of it. He returned and seemed better satisfied than 
 he had been for years. He always lived in a little cabin 
 at Walesca, to himself, though, and they had known 
 very little about him. bxia ,iiiow ,i9blo 
 
 The counterfeit money that had been circulated had 
 first made its appearance about [three months before. 
 Everyone supposed that the old man, robbed of the mon- 
 ey he had hoarded, had become weak in his mind ; but 
 still his old passion controlled, and he sought to recover 
 his lost treasure by counterfeiting, jjsnijjd & ed bur. 3vj;rl 
 
 I did not like to think that the death of the Old man 
 had been caused by our coming; but the doctor relieved 
 me much when he said : 
 
 ''He could not possibly have lived a month longer ; 
 his brain and heart were both affected ; the fall is not 
 what killed him ; he had congestion of the brain, and he 
 would have died very soon anyway." 
 
CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 A few days after the old miser's death Bill and I 
 went to see Callaway. He had been in prison only a 
 little more than a year, but he looked twenty years 
 older, worn, and his brow furrowed. 
 
 *'Bill," said he, "I wronged you terribly, but I am 
 sorry for it, and if I could live my life over I would 
 atone for the evil I did you." 
 
 "It has passed, Callaway, and though I hated you 
 once for it, I have no unkind feeling now. I could not 
 have and be a human being." 
 
 ''That is true. Who would hate a fallen enemy?" 
 Callaway said. "I want to show you a letter from 
 some one; I think it must be from Miss MoUie." 
 
 Bill read the letter and handed it to me. 
 
 *'Deab Mb. Callaway; 
 
 '*I hope this little note will not serve to intensify your 
 grief at the terrible trouble that has shadowed your life. 
 It is sent as a message of sympathy. I have thought of you 
 many times since the awful event which has brought so 
 much woe to you and yours, and have hoped from the first 
 that some day, in some way, good may grow out of this evil. 
 I beg you not to allow your fate to harden you because you 
 feel that there is now no hope of a better life. Your ability 
 for being and doing good is not taken away by your present 
 condition. Even the walls of a prison cell cannot confine a 
 life that would exercise its influence for good. The soul 
 cannot be bound except by fetters of sin; I hope for you 
 greater freedom than you have ever had. Oh ! the inestima- 
 ble good that you may do to the souls about you if you will 
 but free yourself and bend all your energies toward freeing 
 them ! Some day, I trust, pardon will reach you, but I urge 
 you not to think of earthly pardon now. Think rather of 
 the pardon that earth cannot grant, and accept that. It 
 will sweeten your life and enable you to consider your sur- 
 roundings only for good, and to be and to do, where you now 
 are, all that you could be and do anywhere. Be sure that 
 the world needs brave and noble men in the penitentiary as 
 surely as it needs them everywhere else. Stand among 
 
 272 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 273 
 
 your fellows as a type of manhood amidst misery One 
 more thine:: After you have repented of your crime, and 
 feel that God has forgiven you, do not allow a sense of guilt 
 to oppress you. Grieve not always on account of the sin for 
 which Christ died once. It would be but a waste of strength , 
 and you need that strength and the world needs it. I shall 
 think of and pray for you. May the love of heaven ever 
 shadow you, and may He who is able to give you all peace, 
 all strength, all joy, ever keep you near himself. I would 
 like to hear from you sometimes, but for reasons that do not 
 pertain to you at all, it is best for me not to make myself 
 known to you. Think of me, however, as A Friend." 
 
 "That is a beautiful letter," Bill said to me. "If 
 it is from Mol I wonder who wrote it for her. The 
 thoughts are worthy of a great mind. It must have 
 helped you," he said to Callaway. 
 
 "More than anything that has come to my life in 
 its present state. What she says is true: Men are 
 needed in the penitentiary, and I will be a man here. 
 This is my answer to the letter: 
 
 "Dear Miss Mollie :— Though you have reserved 
 your name, you have not reserved your identity from me. I 
 know that no other friend could have sent me such a mes- 
 sage. You have heard of sunbeams finding their way into 
 prison cells. One has penetrated mine and tinted its gloom. 
 Not a word of condemnation, not a word of just blame. I 
 thank you for this. My conscience condemns me; the 
 world condemns me ; and I have felt so oppressed that it is 
 a relief to find a friend who can forget my guilt, and think 
 for a moment of my misery. If the one was great, the other 
 is commensurate with it. But I will try to be strong and 
 bear the merits of my sins. I thank you for your counsel, 
 and will follow it. I have never been a man, but I will be 
 from this time forth. You are right; even if one has fallen 
 so far short of the standard of manhood as to reach a condi- 
 tion like mine, he should not feel that he is beyond reforma- 
 tion, or that his life would be of no service to the world 
 should he reform. A man can be a man even in a peniten- 
 tiary, and men are needed here. It is awful to be with my 
 companions in guilt, and unless I can reform them, I cannot 
 bear their companionship. I remember the days at Wales- 
 ca as the happiest of my life. Many a time when I talked 
 with the president of the college, or Mr. Ramla, or with 
 you, did I feel an inspiration to higher living. Why did I 
 not change my course then? Those days have passed, but 
 it is well that the memory of them remains. If I ever be- 
 come what you urge me to become, it will be due to the in- 
 fluences of that time. Think of me as kindly as you can, 
 and write to me. My recollection of you will always be as 
 of a benediction. May our Father bless you as you develop 
 into the highest, purest womanhood. 
 
 "Gratefully yours, 
 
 "Robert Callaway." 
 
274 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 When we left Callaway I said : 
 iii,V,,'^Bill, if you cared for Mollie as you used to, that 
 letter would certainly arouse your interest." 
 
 *'It has aroused it very much," hereplied. "Ida 
 not care for her now, but I am still interested in her, 
 and I should like to know who is the author of the let- 
 ter. It shows that Mol is under the influence of a 
 strong character and a noble mind." 
 
 "Bill, I would not intrude upon your feelings, but 
 
 if an old friend may ask the question, whom do you 
 
 care for now? I never see you paying attention to any 
 
 girl, but you have at times spoken as if you cared for 
 
 some one." 
 n ■ 
 
 **Mr. Ramla, there are few things that I would 
 
 keep from you, but this I must. My love must be my 
 own secret until I am in a position to declare it to the 
 young lady herself." 
 V V3t begged his pardon and said no more. 
 
 I have been to see Callaway often since, and am 
 sure he is keeping his word. Some day he may be par- 
 doned ; but should he never be I do not think his nature 
 will suffer injury, since he seems in every way a changed 
 man. 
 
 iiOY yll 
 
CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 My friend and I again talked over the condition of 
 affairs. It had certainly improved. There was no evil 
 element in the school or its surroundings now, unless the 
 whitecaps should cause trouble. The discipline was ex- 
 cellent. Every student moved to the tap of the electric 
 bell. The teaching was good and the school, as an en- 
 tirety, was all that any people could wish. The condi- 
 tion of the crackers in that section was better than that 
 of many other classes in other sections. 
 
 I determined to go home and to come back to Wa- 
 lesca only when my friend needed me. My own busi- 
 ness required some personal attention for awhile, and I 
 told my friend that I would leave him. 
 
 Before I left Walesca Bill came to consult me about 
 his plans for life. It was in August, and the weather 
 was very warm. 
 
 "Let's wait until night. Bill, and go up on Pine Log 
 to talk the matter over." 
 
 "All right," he said; and he returned home. 
 
 That night I was detained at Walesca until very 
 late, but having given my promise to Bill I went any- 
 way. Riding along rapidly, my horse shied and nearly 
 threw me. Something must have frightened him, and I 
 looked to see what it was, but could discover nothing. 
 The whitecaps had of late been doing some desper- 
 ate work, and it was hardly safe for even an honest man 
 to be out at night. Two nights before they had pun- 
 ished a man who was probably innocent. 
 
 It was eleven o'clock when I reached Mrs. Collins' 
 house. The family had all retired except Bill. He was 
 still waiting for me. 
 
 276 
 
276 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 "What made you so late?" he asked, and I told 
 bim. 
 
 ''Shall we go up on the mountain now?" I asked. 
 *'The air i« cool and it will be delightful, but it may not 
 be safe. I just passed something -that frightened my 
 horse; maybe the whitecaps are out." 
 
 *'They will hardly come to the top of Pine Log 
 to look for any one, and I am so anxious to talk to you 
 about my plans that if you are willing we will go." 
 
 When we reached the top, I said : 
 
 "Bill, in five years there have been many changes. 
 I have been glad of most of them, but sometimes I like 
 to think of the past and look for an assurance that 
 it really was. Look to the heavens and behold the type 
 of constancy. 'As fixed and constant as the northern 
 star,' is no meaningless phrase. If Caesar's word was in- 
 deed of that character, and he was as wise as he was 
 constant, Mark Anthony was right to weep over his 
 body. The arbutus blooms here, and fades; the birds 
 fling their melodies , and are gone ; the trees throw 
 off their summer robes, the snows come and melt upon 
 Pine Log; but above it the stars remain. The milky 
 way divides the heavens, and its light is so soft and pale 
 that you think surely it will flicker out while you look 
 up ; but the light of your eyes shall fade first. The 
 light of millions of eyes have faded, and who knows but 
 that the milky way sheds its light in the long journey of 
 the soul when it receives its new sight through the val- 
 ley and over the river? See, Polaris guards the north, 
 and wise Major, in dazzling brillian(?e, is near by; Ca- 
 pella, girt with splendor, is yonder, and Jupiter and 
 Mars stand in twin glory, reminding us that we, too, are 
 one of the starry hosts and literally dwell in the skies ; 
 and, because we are one of them, they plead with us to 
 be worthy of our position. It seems to me sometimes, 
 when the stars twinkle so, that their hearts are heavy 
 because of our failures, and that their eyelids blink 
 with the weight of tears." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 277 
 
 I said this for Bill's sake. It is necessary to think 
 externally as well as internally when plans, especially 
 plans of life, are made. We went along till we reached 
 the white cliffs, and then sat down to talk. 
 
 "Have you decided what you will do?" I asked. 
 
 "No; I have thought of many things, but decided 
 upon nothing." 
 
 "Do you want to enter a profession?" 
 
 "I do not know. It is my taste to do so, but I 
 scarcely know whether it is my desire or not. There 
 are so many in the professions now, that it is a question 
 whether it is best to enter any of them. Some have to 
 fail." 
 
 "You need not," I said; " 'it is impossible but 
 that offense cometh ; but woe unto him by whom.* 
 Whether there be few or many, failure is always posi- 
 tive guilt. The man who fails is alone responsible for 
 it." 
 
 "But where there are so many the competition 
 is great, and the support of the profession, whatever it 
 be, is divided." 
 
 "You are not involved in that. 'There's always 
 room at the top,' as Webster said. Up there compe- 
 tition and division of support are but little felt ; there 
 alone is real excellence. Which of the professions do 
 you like best?" 
 
 "I have thought of law; they say I have talent for 
 speaking. But the bar is very corrupt." 
 
 "That does not necessitate your becoming so." 
 
 "I have thought of preaching, but I am not good 
 enough to preach." 
 
 "That is the poorest excuse any human being ever 
 gave for not doing anything. What do you think of 
 authorship? If you are a good speaker, you might be- 
 come a good writer." 
 
 "The literary market is flooded now, and there ib no 
 sale for any but the lightest or the most sensational mat- 
 ter. I would not be an author." 
 
278 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 **You are mistaken. There are writers who will 
 not stoop to such matter as you speak of, and among 
 them are men and women with names and fortunes. 
 Because such things will be, is no reason why you 
 should engage in them. You do not like the vocations?" 
 
 "No; I must say that I cannot think of one that I 
 like.'' 
 
 **Well, taste is not necessarily a consideration. 
 Talent is what you should think of. You have spoken 
 of failure as a probability. That should not be even a 
 possibility if you choose well. You have spoken of cor- 
 ruption. That is always a personal matter alone. You 
 have epoken o^ profit. That has nothing to do with 
 your choice; it does not belong to any particular busi- 
 ness, but may belong to all. You have spoken of the ne- 
 cessity of catering to the public. You have involved 
 necessity with profit. No mean thing is necessary." 
 
 "You think then that a young man starting in life 
 need not consider these things.?" 
 
 "I do; he but wearies his brain, and, shutting out 
 from it higher considerations, starts out in life a failure ; 
 no wonder he ends a failure." 
 
 "What are these higher considerations?" 
 
 "There are two only: First, that I make a success 
 of myself, not of my business ; and, second, what is my 
 capacity for doing this? Have you thought of what tal- 
 ents you must develop in order to do this? If you 
 have, that is all. The rest will take care of itself. All 
 life, with whatever it offers of influence or power or 
 fame, is free to you. You get what you choose. Make 
 yourself, and you may walk up to the whole basketful 
 of the world's goods and take any that you wish, as you 
 may select an apple from a basket or a banana from a 
 bunch. Of course you will select what suits you, and 
 herein is shown the fact that the self controls all." 
 
 "I certainly want to be a man. That has been my 
 liighest thought all the time." 
 
 *'I believe that. Bill; but you have thought that 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 279 
 
 circumstances and condition had something to do with 
 manhood. They positively have no more to do with it 
 than I have to do with the building of a Chinese railroad. 
 The highest advertisement that could be put in a paper 
 is put in every paper that is published, secular or relig- 
 ious : 'Wanted, men and women!' and yet employment- 
 seekers glance over the real want and see that somebody 
 is advertising for a butler or a cook or a typewriter or a 
 school-teacher. The want is for men and women who 
 will fill these positions. There is another form of ad- 
 vertisement in all papers : 'Wanted, by a young man 
 (or woman), a position; willing and able to do any- 
 thing.' These are usually, though not always, inserted 
 by persons who have failed to become men and women, 
 and are in extreme need, and deceive the public in be- 
 lieving they can do anything. If you have considered 
 that your first need is to become a man, the only thing 
 for you to do next is to consider your talent and develop 
 that. Your talent is the thing upon which God risks 
 your success in this world. And there is no competition 
 in talents. They are individual. Develop your individ- 
 uality, let it express itself in highest manhood, and you 
 must succeed ; all the powers in the world should rise 
 up to aid you. You have begun to make a man of your- 
 self. The work will not be accomplished until life ends. 
 Never waver for one moment ; never slacken your ener- 
 gies; never relax. That is all 1 need to say to you, ex- 
 cept this: What your talent is, you must decide for 
 yourself ; no one else can decide for you. If you should 
 be in doubt, try one thing, and then another, until you 
 find it. And when you do, never mind if you do not 
 make ton dollars a month in he work by which you de- 
 velop that talent, continue in it. If it calls you to the 
 blacksmifch shop, go there ; if it calls you to the pulpit, 
 go there. From what I know of you, through years of 
 close study, I think you should become a minister. Go 
 home and think about it and decide. And when you 
 have decided, I will talk with you, and will help you, 
 if I can, about the means." 
 
280 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 My friend had talked to the entire school often as I 
 was then talking to Bill alone. Bill also noticed this, 
 but said: 
 
 "It didn't sound so serious to me then as it does 
 now . ' ' 
 
 ''That is because now is the time to decide. Then 
 you felt that you could wait awhile." 
 
 We heard a sound like the tramp of soldiers, and 
 we got under the cliff as quietly as possible and waited 
 to see what it meant. Presently a party of about fifty 
 men came along. They were whitecaps, and looked 
 ghastly in the moonlight. I had never seen them before. 
 They passed near enough for us to touch them, but they 
 were marching rapidly, and did not see us. I wondered 
 what their night's work had been. 
 
 After they were out of sight, we came from under 
 the cliff. I did not know it was so late. The moon was 
 just setting, the gray dawn appeared in the east, and 
 the wild bird began to whistle its morning song. I 
 asked Bill to wait that I might see the sun rise again 
 from Pine Log. It was as beautiful as after that first 
 night I stayed with Bill. 
 
 It was well that I had come to talk with Bill that 
 night, for when I reached Walesca, I found a telegram 
 calling me home. 
 
 When I reached home I found my youngest child ill 
 with that fearful scourge, diphtheria. All night long 
 his mother, Katherine, and I watched. The little fellow 
 was strong, and able to run about the room. There was 
 no gradual sinking, no slope before the \ alley was 
 reached. The terrible germ was simply choking him to 
 death, but he struggled for life bravely. He would run 
 from one to another, clutch his throat, throw his little 
 hands up convulsively, and gasp. Then he would take 
 his bag of oxygen and press it to his lips and breathe 
 more quietly. I took him in my arms fifty times or 
 more that night, and each time he clasped me so lovingly 
 that my brain almost turned. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CBACKERS 281 
 
 Holmes was seven years old, my only boy and my 
 hope. 
 
 "Oh that I could take your place, my son !" I said, 
 
 "No, father, better the branch than the vine." 
 
 Wonderful ansv^^er for a child ! He was not far 
 
 from the Gates then. He jumped from my lap, ran to 
 
 his mother, buried his face in her dress, and, before we 
 
 knew it, had passed through the Gates of the City. 
 
 For only two years of his life had I been with him 
 
 much, and just the week before, my wife had written 
 
 that she was so glad I was coming home to stay, on 
 
 Holmes's account especially; he was just at the age at 
 
 which he should feel theforceof each parent's character. 
 
 I felt that I must have been wrong in staying at Walesca. 
 
 But who can tell? 
 
 Of all sad things that have come to my life, this 
 seems the saddest. It^has now been ten years since that 
 awful telegram came. I have received others that have 
 brought news of business loss and sudden trouble, but 
 none like this. Ten years since that fearful night 
 watch ; I have passed through many a night's watch 
 since, but none like this. Ten years since Holmes left 
 us; I have said many a good-bye since, but memory still 
 regards this the saddest. 
 
CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 When, five years previously, my friend had asked 
 me to come to Walesca and aid him in the work, I had 
 been a man of some means. My assets had been twenty 
 thousand dollars in bank stocks, a comfortable home, 
 with even some of the luxuries of life, and a profitable 
 business. My liabilities had been few. I had begun to 
 think that I might take some ease, and not feel that to- 
 morrow's life depended upon to-day's labors. When 
 my friend's letter came asking me to come and help him 
 in his work, I took it to my wife. 
 
 ''This is from a young man who is trying to help 
 the world ; he is laboring among a class that needs help 
 more than any other in this country ; it has been longer 
 neglected than any other; no crusade of Christians or 
 philanthropists has reached it; no writer has spoken of 
 it except in jesting manner or exaggeration, depicting 
 the life of this people in such a way that reformers have 
 thought it folly to attempt to do them good. They are 
 the 'crackers' or 'mountain whites.' The crackers as a 
 class live in the low piney-woods country, and are infe- 
 rior to the mountain whites, but my friend has found 
 both classes around Walesca, and has established a work 
 there that I believe will be of great benefit to our civili- 
 zation and culture. I will leave this letter with you to 
 think over, and we will decide to-night what I shall do." 
 
 When I came home that evening, she said : "We 
 will talk that matter over now. What would become of 
 your business should you go? Do you think it is in 
 such condition that you can leave it for a time?" 
 
 "I think it is. We have enough bank stock to in- 
 sure us a comfortable living always, and lean attend to 
 
 282 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 288 
 
 my business well enough by coming home every few 
 weeks, and you can consult with my partner during my 
 absence and decide many things yourself. Bewides, if 
 we should lose something, the cause of humanity must 
 be considered, and any good we may accomplish will re- 
 pay us for all loss." 
 
 "If that is the plea, then you must go at once. 
 Tour family needs you, but humanity needs you more." 
 
 "My family is not lost sight of; I have spoken of us 
 as one, with one thought and one purpose ; it is not a 
 choice between my family and humanity, but it is my 
 family laboring for humanity," I said; and my wife 
 agreed with me. 
 
 The first year I was at Walesca my business pros- 
 pered almost as well as if I had been at home. The 
 school was in great needof money when I went to it, and 
 to help the work more 1 gave of my means as well as my 
 labor, but what I gave in money was only part interest 
 on my bank stock, and I really did not miss it except in 
 a few little sacrifices that amounted to nothing. The 
 second year, by peculiar management of my partner, we 
 lost $10,000. I do not say that I should have saved it 
 bad I been there, but he was kind enough to say so. He 
 begged me to come home then, but I did not feel that I 
 -could leave my friend. The third year of my stay we 
 lost more, but I did not feel half so troubled about 
 money losses as I did about the interests of the people 
 with whom I was associated. After the work at Walesca 
 was so firmly established, however, and seemed to need 
 me no longer, I went home determined to recover 
 my losses if possible. I settled with my partner for my 
 absence. He had not spoken of it, but it was only just 
 to him that he should lose nothing by my being away. 
 This left me but a small interest in our business, though 
 I had been the senior partner. 
 
 One day, about a month after Holmes's death, the 
 president of the bank in which I had stock said to me: 
 *'I am troubled; I fear we shall sustain heavy loss soon, 
 ■even if we do not have to make an assignment.*' 
 
284 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 **What is the matter?" I asked. 
 
 "Do you know that I believe our trusted manager^ 
 the man who has been with us for years, is an em- 
 bezzler?" 
 
 ''Impossible," I said; *'he is one of the best men I 
 ever knew." 
 
 "Well, the bank inspector will be here in a day or 
 two, and we shall know then ; I trust my fears are 
 groundless." 
 
 I called at the manager's house that night. "He 
 is yet at the bank," the servant said. 
 
 It was after ten o'clock. I had often called at that 
 hour, and had always found him at home. 
 
 I went to the bank to see him ; he was still at 
 work. 
 
 "What is the matter, that you are here at this 
 hour?" I asked. "Stop work for the night and talk 
 with me. You look weary and need rest." 
 
 He (lid, indeed, look weary; I had never seen him 
 look so haggard. 
 
 "My brain has been dull to- day," he said, "and I 
 am not yet through ;" but he left his work and came 
 and sat near me. He was very nervous, however, and 
 did not sit still ten minutes. 
 
 "What is the matter?" I asked, and he looked up 
 startled, as if he had been accused. 
 
 "I am not well," he said. 
 
 The following day the inspector came. The man- 
 ager was in his office, and excused himself for a moment. 
 He went out of a side door into the street, and when the 
 inspector sent for him it was found that he had fl^d, 
 and he has never been found. An old man he was, and 
 left wife and children, who keenly felt the disgrace. He 
 had embezzled a large sum. The bank made an assign- 
 ment, and I was left almost penniless — all gone but my 
 horn© and a small interest in a business that was not 
 very profitable now. I was an old man, and had to be- 
 gin life over again as far as money was concerned. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CBACKEKS 285 
 
 "We have been called upon to realize that a man 
 may lose all that he has in helping humanity," my wife 
 «aid. 
 
 I was sorry for the loss on her account and Kather- 
 ine's, but they both bore it bravely, as women can bear 
 such things. I was not the only one who suffered loss. 
 When my friend had gone to Walesca he had been a 
 young man of means. His father had left him a con- 
 siderable amount, but he spent every cent for the school. 
 Buildings had to be erected, appliances bought, and 
 teachers paid from his private purse. The school was 
 not self-supporting for a long time. 
 
 I heard from Bill not long after I left Walesca. He 
 had decided upon his talent. "I will study for the 
 ministry ; I believe that any power of tongue or pen that 
 I have I can use best for that." I was glad of this, for 
 I had felt for a long time that Bill should become a min- 
 ister. I was sorry for my loss of fortune on his account, 
 too. It had been my purpose to aid him financially. 
 The Methodist Church does not require a student for 
 the ministry to enter a theological seminary. It re- 
 quires him to study a certain course privately, and the 
 annual Conference examines him upon that course. In 
 one respect this is an excellent plan : it saves students 
 much expense. But it deprives him of lectures and 
 other benefits of the regular theological school. Bill 
 wanted these, and I had intended furnishing him the 
 means to procure them. I went to Walesca, however, 
 to see Bill. He was much worried. He wanted to go 
 to Union Theological Seminary, but had not the means. 
 Besides, he did not see how he could leave his mother 
 with all the care of the family. I told him that I would 
 borrow enough for his course, and would aid in the sup- 
 port of his mother and the children the next year, if he 
 would work in the summer and pay it back. He was 
 delighted. 
 
 He went to the Union Seminary during the next 
 term, and did well. He came home in June, and I pro- 
 
286 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 cured him a lucrative position, by means of which he 
 could return a large part of the sum he had borrowed. 
 He stayed until November, when he attended the Con- 
 ference and stood his first examination. 
 
 The same year my wife said: 
 
 **We must send Katherine off for one or two years." 
 
 We had spoken of it before, but were waiting until 
 her character should be fully formed. A boarding- 
 school is not always the best place for a girl whose char- 
 acter is not developed. 
 
 Ah me ! I had thought of Katherine's disappoint- 
 ment; it was the most trying thing involved in my loss, 
 so trying that I could not bear to speak of it to my wife 
 before she mentioned it. I told her it would be impos- 
 sible to send Katherine now. 
 
 "Do you think I have had no foresight?" she said; 
 **I did not know how long we should have money, and I 
 have saved enough for Katherine's education." 
 
 O woman, what would the world do without your 
 forethought? 
 
CHAPTER XL VI. 
 
 Out of her monthly drawings my wife had saved a 
 considerable amount, and we sent Katherine to Welles - 
 ley College. The next summer she came home delighted, 
 having accomplished much. 
 
 Bill came hack to Georgia also, and I got him a 
 position in the town in which I lived. He stayed with us 
 that summer, and it was a great pleasure to have him. 
 He had become, in his seven years' training, elegant in 
 manners, and he had always had a good heart and deli- 
 cate sensibilities. He was a remarkable young man. 
 Few, with the opposition of his fellows, would have 
 come out from among them as he had. But for him, the 
 crackers might never have changed their views, and the 
 college might now be untenanted and decayed. 
 
 He and Katherine and I went to Walesca for a week 
 that summer. The night after we got there we were in- 
 vited to a cracker entertainment, about fifty miles away. 
 There was just such a class assembled as I had met at 
 Bill's party seven years before, except that here were 
 people of all ages, from a child five years old to a woman 
 seventy-five. 
 
 An old woman said to us : 
 
 "We uns hearn tell o' you uns at Warlesky, an' how 
 you done give up the old ways an' is livin' in er new- 
 fangled fashion, what we uns dunno nothin' 'bout; an* 
 we uns thought we'd ax you uns up ter our kind o' 
 party, so you uns wouldn't forgit the olo way. We 
 uns is Jes' heard tell o' what you uns is doin' down 
 thar. Er long, tall, smart-lookin' man come through 
 here week 'fore last, an' he tole us 'bout it; must be er 
 cur'osity. We uns would 'a' come down ef we'd er 
 
 287 
 
288 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 known 'bout it 'fore. They say it's been a-goin' on six 
 years or more; but that ain't nothin' ; we uns don't go 
 ter Warlesky les' somethin' smart's goin' on, an' folks 
 sends us word; we don't hear from thar oft'n. You uns 
 mought er sent us word, I think, but that don't matter 
 now. You jes' come 'long in, an' thin whin you uns go 
 back to Warlesky, you uns give er party o' yer kind, an' 
 we uns '11 come sure. Never knowed whether you got 
 the invite or not; that long, tall, smart-lookin' man said 
 he'd take it. What'd he tell you 'bout we uns?" 
 
 We had not seen the man to whom she referred, and 
 the invitation had come through the mail, my friend 
 said, with a request that it be announced at a meeting 
 of the citizens. 
 
 *'Well, now, that's cur'us. I didn't think 's how 
 that man would er done so, but it's all right. You come 
 here, honey," she said to Katherine and two or three 
 other girls with their chaperons. "Brother Ike, you 
 take keer o' the men folks." 
 
 ''Brother Ike" took us to one side: "Bein' 's how 
 you come so fur, you mout want ter liken yerselves up 
 er bit," he said; and he furnished us scanty means for 
 toilet-making. 
 
 I said aside to my friend: "The school is in the 
 wrong place. These are certainly the worst specimens 
 1 have seen." 
 
 The children had their games in one corner of the 
 building, the young men in another, the young girls in 
 a third, the old men in a fourth, and the old women in 
 the center. 
 
 "We uns '11 jes' talk an' have er quiet time; can't 
 jump 'bout now like the young uns;" and they sat there 
 talking and freely using snuff. 
 
 One woman said she wasn't "neither mighty old nor 
 yit mighty young, an' reckin I'll have ter 'vide my 
 time." She went from one group of her own sex to the 
 other, and attracted much attention, as she probably 
 wanted to do. She was very tall, and weighed perhaps 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 289 
 
 two hundred pounds. She wore a lawn skirt, a little 
 short in front and much too long behind, a long red vel- 
 vet basque with a ruffle around it, a black leather belt 
 with a tin buckle, a large bouquet of red and yellow 
 flowers pinned on her dress, and a black hat, curiously 
 bent, with a wreath of natural flowers around it, that 
 faded before we had been there long, and dropped off, a 
 flower at a time, as she skipped across from one group 
 to another, until they had all disappeared and left the 
 hat bare. The flowers on her dress were artificial. 
 
 One man seemed to be peculiarly eccentric, also. He 
 was old, and was quiet in his manner, but he had a 
 strange habit of touching his right ear when he met cer- 
 tain people. I asked a man who seemed more intelli- 
 gent than the rest why the old man did this. He said 
 that some years before he had gone to a town some miles 
 off and received a mock degree of masonry, and that 
 this sign had been given to him as the sign of recogni- 
 tion with masonfe. Since then he had always used it 
 when he saw a man whom he thought might be a mason. 
 
 The old man came up to me. 
 
 "You be a mason?" he asked. 
 
 "I am," I answered; and he touched his ear. 
 
 I did not respond, and he said : 
 
 *'We uns that's masons in these parts alius gives the 
 sign ; fine thing 'tis, sure, but that calf butted me down 
 fust pop." They had used a calf instead of the prov- 
 erbial goat. "I don't think it'd er done it though ef I 
 hadn't 'a' run ag'in it whin I war blindfolded, 'caze 
 calves ain't fightin' animules giner'ly." 
 
 The girls played games of one kind, and the boys of 
 another, and the children kept up a merry laughter. A 
 little girl of seven or eight years of age wore, apron 
 fashion, a banner with "The Hope of the Church," em- 
 broidered upon it ; another, a banner with "Of Such is 
 the Kingdom of Heaven." They were fighting over a 
 stick of candy. I inquired of the man whom I asked 
 about the old mason why the children wore their banners. 
 
290 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 He said that some time before, the 'minister had orga- 
 nized a Sunday school, and some lady friend of his had 
 worked the banners for the children's classes. The Sun- 
 day school did not last long, however, and the banners 
 were now worn by the children upon such occasions as 
 this. I asked him if they belonged to the two who now 
 wore them. No, he said, all the children in the neigh- 
 borhood took it turn about to wear them , and it was 
 now their turn. The mottoes seemed so incongruous 
 upon these ignorant, unenlightened children, that I 
 laughed as 1 called my friend's attention to them, and he 
 laughed heartily too. 
 
 I looked around for Bill to call his attention to the 
 children, but he was nowhere to be seen, so I went out- 
 side to look for him, and found him lying on the grass 
 under some trees, near a house in which there was a 
 light. 
 
 * 'Bill," I said, "I was looking for you a few mo- 
 ments ago to show you a ludicrous sight." 
 
 "The sights here are not ludicrous [to me," he re- 
 plied. "I left them because they were revolting. This 
 is no way for human beings to live. It disgusts me to 
 see it, but it saddens me when I think of it calmly." 
 
 "There is hope for them. Bill," I said. 
 
 "Yes; there was hope for me." 
 
 Just then a woman came to the door, and I asked 
 her if we might come in. 
 
 "You uns ain't tired o' the party this time o' night, 
 is you? We uns ain't had supper yit; we's jes' fixin' it 
 now." 
 
 I told her we only wanted to rest a few minutes, and 
 would go back. 
 
 "Well, you uns kin come in." 
 
 We went in and rested while she bustled around 
 getting supper ready. I noticed on the mantelpiece a 
 curious mass of wheels, and asked her what it was. 
 
 "Oh! that's we uns' clock, you know. You see, 
 thar war er man come through here sellin' 'm. They 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 291 
 
 had wood 'round 'm, an' face an' hands like clocks gin- 
 er'ly have, an' the man made us pay er whole lot o' mo- 
 ney, an' said we could pay the res' whin he come ag'in ; 
 an' er year arter that he come 'round an' we didn't have 
 no more money fur ter give him fur the clock, an' he 
 sed he wus goin' ter take it thin ; an' so I tole the ole 
 man ter take him out'n the field an' show him the crap& 
 an' I'd fix the matter, 'caze we warn't a-goin' ter lose 
 what we'd paid; an' while they wus gone I knocked the 
 wheels out. Whin they come back I tole 'm they'd bet- 
 ter let me take the clock down, 'caze men wus so keerles& 
 like. 'It got broke whin you put it up,' I said ter the 
 man. Me an' the ole man holp him fix it up, an' he 
 went off. 'Bout er month arter that he come back an' 
 wanted his pay ennyhow. I hid the wheels whin I saw 
 him comin', an' he said er lot had treated him so 'bout 
 clocks an' he know'd I wus one, 'caze I wus so keerful 
 like 'bout handlin' the wun what wus here; an' I know'd 
 ef er lot had done fooled him he couldn't fix on no wun, 
 an' I never let on. Yes, it keeps time, but it's er leetle 
 inconvenient, 'caze thar ain't no hands ter p'int it out. 
 We jes' know by the tickin it's keepin' time. What 
 you say, Jimmie? Yes, I'm er comin' with the supper," 
 as some one called, "Mam, ain't you never comin'? We 
 uns is most starved." 
 
 Bill looked at me, and when the woman was out of 
 hearing we both laughed heartily. Then we went back 
 to the building where the party was. Three or four 
 tables had been spread, and everyone was making ready 
 to partake of the supper. There was cabbage boiled 
 and served cold ; potatoes and one or two other vegetables 
 were served in the same way. The meats were boiled, too, 
 and the pies were stacked and of doubtful character. 
 The cakes were covered with little bits of candy. The 
 whole was not inviting. The woman I had just been 
 talking to brought me some layer cake filled with molas- 
 ses. I tried to handle it, but could not. The people of 
 the place all enjoyed the supper very much, but our par- 
 
292 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 ty, even those who had been crackers, did not seem to 
 relish it particularly. 
 
 We pitched our tents that night; there were too 
 many of us to stay with the people. We remained a 
 part of the next day, and my friend and I visited two or 
 three families. A mother was Justin the act of punish- 
 ing a little boy when w© stopped at a door, and we hesi- 
 tated about going in. 
 
 "Jes' come right 'long in. He's so bad I have ter 
 whip him ever' day. 'Tain' no owcommon thing; vis'- 
 tors don't stop fur that." 
 
 My friend thought that a child whipped so often 
 must be hardened, and that the punishment could not 
 be effectual. He asked the mother if she ever punished 
 him in any other way. 
 
 "Won't no other way do," she replied. 
 
 "Let's see," my friend said ; and he asked the child's 
 name. "Johnny, which had you rather for your mother 
 to do, to whip you now or to be mad with you for three 
 weeks.?" 
 
 "I'd ruther fur her ter be mad with me fur three 
 weeks." 
 
 We all laughed, but my friend and I spoke after- 
 wards of how these cracker children are raised, and how 
 differently another child might have felt, though the 
 switches looked formidable. He asked the question, he 
 said, to suggest to the woman that she, more than the 
 <jhild was to blame. 
 
 But she was not so impressed at all. She only said : 
 *'He'd better gay that; he knows I whip hard." 
 
 That afternoon we started on our return trip to Wa- 
 lesca. 
 
 Bill, Katherine, and I went home when the week 
 had passed. Bill was very attentive to Katherine that 
 summer, but I was glad for him to be with her. I knew 
 that her influence over him was good. Sometimes, though, 
 I would find myself frowning as I watched them to- 
 gether. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 29^ 
 
 It was not strange that Bill liked Katherine. They 
 had been together a great deal, and she had always sym- 
 pathized with and aided him much. At Christmas the 
 year before, he sent my wife a lovely present, simple and 
 delicate, and wrote her a beautiful letter; he was a 
 thoughtful boy. This year, at Christmastide, he sent 
 a picture of himself. It seemed a little strange. I told 
 Katherine he had better have, sent it to me or to the 
 household. 
 
 "Why, father, I do not regard it in that way," she 
 said; "Bill and 1 are nearly the same age. We have 
 been together much, and our interests have been the 
 same. It is very common for young people to exchange 
 pictures." 
 
 "Do you expect to send Bill your picture?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "I had thought of it," she replied. 
 
 How angry I was ! 
 
 "I object to that," I said; and Katherine did not 
 send the picture. 
 
 She h&& corresponded with Bill for some time. To 
 this I had not objected; I thought it helpful to Bill and 
 not hurtful to Katherine. She often showed me his let- 
 ters, and I enjoyed them ; but now I began to feel that 
 their correspondence was not best. It could not be 
 stopped, though; I could not consent to Katherine's 
 treating Bill unkindly. 
 
CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 The next year Bill graduated from Union Theologi- 
 -cal Seminary, and was given a good charge for a young 
 man, in the Methodist Church in Georgia. He accom- 
 plished a wonderful work for his church that year, 
 made "the waste places blossom as a rose," through his 
 active eiforts. 
 
 He consulted me about taking his mother to where 
 lie preached, so that she might be more comfortable than 
 she could be at Walesca, but I advised him not to do it. 
 The educational advantages at Walesca were better, and 
 I thought she had better keep the children there until 
 educated. He did as much as he could for his mother at 
 home, and paid off all the debts, with great personal 
 sacrifice. 
 
 The first year of his ministry, Katherine graduate d 
 from Wellesley. She had improved very much in other 
 things than book-lore. Her womanhood had further de- 
 veloped, and she was stronger and more lovely than ever 
 before. Katherine had all her life been loved by young 
 and old, and when I would allow it she had much atten- 
 tion from young men; but she had never seemed to care 
 especially for such attention, and had never shown a 
 preference for any young man except when I thought 
 she cared for my friendat Walesca. 
 
 During his summer vacation that year Bill spent two 
 weeks with us. He gave himself up entirely to rest and 
 recreation. Katherine gave up to these, too. After her 
 year's hard work in college she ne6ded ease and pleas- 
 ure. The two rode together, went boating, and engaged 
 in other enjoyments. I was glad to see them refreshed 
 And brightened by the summer delights, but now and 
 
 S94 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CltACKERS 295 
 
 then, when I saw them together, the old frown would 
 come to my face, and 1 looked away impatiently. 
 
 At last, one night. Bill came to my study and 
 knocked. It was late, and I was about to leave my work 
 for the night. Katherine had left the parlor long before, 
 and I had heard Bill pacing up and down the front 
 gallery. 
 
 "Come in," I said; and he quietly opened the 
 door. 
 
 *'Sit down," I said, "and rest me before I go to my 
 room, so that my dreams may be peaceful instead of the 
 Incubus of business worry that oppresses me at night.' 
 He looked at me intently. "Yes, I am growing old ; 
 the signs of years and troubles both mark my hair and 
 brow. But do not remind me of it; I would have lighter 
 thoughts now." 
 
 "WouM that you could have them always!" he an- 
 swered, feelingly. 
 
 "No that would not be well. It is better to be op- 
 pressed sometimes. But you look burdened, too, to- 
 night. What is the matter?" 
 
 "You are right; I am troubled to-night." 
 
 "Unburden your heart," I said; "it will do mine 
 good to share your cares." 
 
 "You have shared them for years," he answered, 
 "and there is little I would keep from you; but to-night, 
 when I come to speak to you of what fills my mind, I feel 
 a greater hesitancy than I have ever felt before in speak- 
 ing to anyone." 
 
 "Feel no hesitancy. Bill. Know that your interests 
 are always mine, your joys lighten my life, and your 
 troubles are mine." 
 
 "Have I spoken of this as trouble?" he asked. "I 
 am not myself. Out of it I hope may come the greatest 
 joy of ray life. I have come to you to-night to ask the 
 right to care for your daughter. I do care for her more 
 than everything else in life, and I ask your permission 
 to address her." 
 
296 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 I arose impatiently; I was very angry. My first 
 impulse, I regret to say, wag to knock him down. The 
 idea of the cracker boy whom I had brought from ignor- 
 ance, abject poverty, rags, and splinter-gathering to his^ 
 present state, having labored with him and for him for 
 years, repaying me in this way! And then the thought 
 came: "You have proved his excellence and found him 
 worthy of your daughter!" Worthy? How could he 
 be.? I thought of the boy of eight years before, poorer 
 in mind than in material estate — the son of old 
 James Collins. I thought of that old man as my daugh- 
 ter's father-in-law, of the children as her brothers, of 
 the home as her home, of his mother, who could never 
 be anything but Mrs. Collins. 
 
 "You do not speak; I am embarrassed," he said. 
 
 * 'You cannot be more embarrassed than I am, ' ' I an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Whatever my unworthiness, I am at least entitled 
 to an answer," he said. 
 
 "Pardon me, Bill; you are entitled to an answer, 
 and I should have spoken sooner, but I was entitled to 
 think. These things cannot be answered in a moment.' ' 
 
 "You are right, " he said; "they do require thought ; 
 I was too impatient." 
 
 "How long have you cared for Katherine?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "Since the night I told you that I no longer cared 
 for Mol. I realized then for the first time that I cared 
 H great deal for your daughter, and since that time the 
 feeling has steadily increased, making itself more and 
 more evident to me, until now I am conscious of a last- 
 ing devotion. I would not speak of it before because I 
 was not worthy of Miss Katherine ; but I have labored 
 hard and long to bring my life to some measure of 
 worthiness, not for her, but to be a man; and yet in all 
 my efforts I have thought of her. I am now able to sup- 
 port her, not as she should be supported, but in some 
 comfort. My debts are all paid, and my mother and 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 297 
 
 brothers are in a better condition than they have ever 
 been. The children will soon be educated, and can take 
 care of themselves; mother alone will be left me to sup- 
 port. I thought you had learned my feelings before 
 this and had thought over the matter, but since you 
 have EOt, I will say no more to-night. I beg you to 
 think of me as kindly as you can, and to answer me 
 when you will." 
 
 He rose to retire. "Do not go," I said; **we must 
 talk over this matter a little longer just now, and I will 
 answer you later. Have you told Katherine of this?" 
 
 "No," he answered; "I would not tell her until I 
 had spoken to you." 
 
 Bill was certainly a man of correct feeling. This 
 had always been the old-school way, and we old men are 
 apt to think that better. I thanked him. 
 
 "Bill, will you pardon me if I speak very plainly? 
 It is my way of speaking and you will understand it, I 
 think?" 
 
 He insisted on my saying just what I felt. 
 
 "Then, Bill, I think you have made a great mistake. 
 Allow me to repeat to you what I have often said: you 
 are wrong in not loving Mol." 
 
 He flushed crimson. "You have a perfect right to 
 object to my caring for your daughter, but in kindness 
 tome, do not speak again of Mollie Smith. My love for 
 her was a fancy of boyhood, and has passed." 
 
 "It was a fancy that lasted twenty years, and 
 though you insist that it was only fancy, I think that 
 you may yet find that it was real." 
 
 "Never; and I ask you again, please, not to men- 
 tion it. I came to you to-night to speak of Miss 
 Katherine. If you will not speak of her, I must go." 
 
 He was angry, and I grew angry too. 
 
 "Bill, you force me to speak more plainly than I 
 cared to. Do you not see that I have a reason for 
 thinking it best that you should care for Mol? There 
 are indeed two reasons : it is your duty to her after 
 
298 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 twenty years of devotion on the part of both, and 
 when j'ou do not know that she does not care for 
 you still; and you are from the same people, the 
 same place, the same life. I would not hurt you, Bill, 
 but do you not think it would be better for you to 
 marry one of your home girls?" 
 
 **Do you mock me like this?" he asked. "Have 
 all your efforts for me and my people been a mock- 
 ery? I believed you when you said you were trying 
 to elevate us and bring us into a new and better life. 
 Now you tell me I must ever be tied to the old one. 
 You have brought me to where I can see and wish 
 for the highest and best life, and say, 'Thus far and 
 no farther.' I am glad that jou have, at least, shown 
 me the Christ, who taunts me with no binding link to 
 the past, and promises that heaven shall not be a place 
 of social castes." 
 
 "You speak bitterly." 
 
 "My speech does not belie my feelings. You must 
 regard me as a man now rather than a minister, if you 
 consider my feelings as a reflection upon my sacred 
 calling. You have touched the quick, and it quivers." 
 *'I am sorry, indeed, to have hurt you, Bill," I 
 said; "I love you next to my own family, and I admire 
 you more than my modesty will permit me to say. I 
 have been too blunt ; forgive me ; but when you are your- 
 self you will understand me better and know that I did 
 not mean to wound you." 
 
 "I believe now that you did not, but this is a mat- 
 ter that cannot be touched without heart-quivers. Re- 
 garding this affair as you do, I feel that you expect and 
 deserve an apology for my presumption ; but feeling as 
 I do, I shall not withdraw my request, except to trans- 
 fer it from you to Miss Katherine. I hope she will feel 
 differently." 
 
 "I meant to tell you to do that, Bill. Speak to 
 Katherine. Whatever her feeling is, I shall abide by it. 
 After all, it is a matter that can be between you two 
 only." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 299 
 
 He started towards the door, and I caught his arm : 
 *'Bill, if all your people had become what you are, it 
 would be very different with me now. Remember, this 
 is not a personal quarrel." 
 
 "It cannot be anything else, since I am more in- 
 volved in its consequences than anyone else." 
 
 "I cannot talk any longer with you now; the con- 
 versation would only continue to be a battle ; but what- 
 ever comes, remember this : I love you and always 
 shall." 
 
 I put my arm around his shoulder. He did not re- 
 spond to the touch or the words. As he went out ho 
 said simply, "Good-night." 
 
 I heard him go down the front steps and out of the 
 yard. I started to call him back, but nothing that I 
 could have said would have helped the matter that night. 
 It was best for him to be alone with his thoughts, for 
 me to be alone with mine. 
 
 It was three o'clock when I heard Bill come in. His 
 coming aroused me, and I heard the clock strike. I had 
 not left the table, but with head bowed upon my hand, 
 had sat through the hours thinking, thinking, until my 
 brain seemed nearing dissolution. When I went to my 
 room, daylight had come. 
 
CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 I wrote to Bill and aeked him to remain with us a 
 week longer, and to withhold his addresses to Katherine 
 for that time, when I thought we should both feel 
 calmer over the matter. He answered very sweetly, and 
 said that he intended to see me again before he ad- 
 dressed Katherine, and had now fully made up hi& 
 mind not to address her at all without my consent. 
 I talked the matter over with my wife, and she felt as I 
 did. We both loved and admired Bill, but we did not 
 think it best for Katherine to marry him. My wife 
 thought I had been wrong in speaking so plainly to him, 
 and perhaps I had, but plain speech seemed to me nec- 
 essary. Before the end of the week I went to Walesca 
 to consult my friend. 1 found him at home and glad ta 
 see me, but surprised. 
 
 "Well, old fellow, what has brought you?" he 
 asked. "I feared you had deserted the cracker in dis- 
 gust after the party we attended some time ago." 
 
 "Nothing at that party disgusted me half so much 
 as what has happened lately. If anything could cause 
 me to desert the crackers, I think this would." 
 
 "Why, what has happened?" he asked. "1 wa& 
 only joking about the party's disgusting you. I thought 
 you were proof against anything of the kind." 
 
 "I labored here five years, with many trials and 
 dangers, but was not hurt by the whole experience as I 
 have been by one of a few moments lately." And I 
 told what had happened. *'To think that my eflPorts- 
 for the crackers should end in this way ! Time, money ,^ 
 strength, all gone on their account, and this is my 
 reward." 
 
 300 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 301 
 
 "It is a very great reward if you have been able to 
 lift one of those people to a plane with yourself. Bill 
 is certainly a w^onderful man. Not only in the Confer- 
 ence of his Church is he so regarded, but some of our 
 ablest preachers refer to him. I understand how you 
 feel about his origin and his connections, but I think you 
 are wrong. You should regard only the man himself." 
 
 I looked at him in astonishment. I was shocked at 
 the idea of the matter ; but when I saw him I vv^as more 
 shocked at his appearance. He was as pale as death, 
 and his face wore the most peculiar expression I had 
 •ever seen on it. I forgot for a moment my trouble. 
 
 •'You are sick," I said. "Let me do something for 
 you." 
 
 "No, it is nothing. — But about Bill, you are wrong. 
 Personal worth is the only consideration of weight. 
 The unpleasant connections need not be thought of ser- 
 iously. His brothers will all soon be educated, except 
 the married one ; he would be the only thorn in the 
 flesh. His mother will not live long. Association with 
 you and your family would soon elevate the entire fam- 
 ily very much. Come, do not look so gloomy. Let me 
 tell you the only thing to do. Allow Miss Katherine to 
 decide this. She is the proper one to do it. Do you 
 think she cares for Bill?" 
 
 "I am afraid so, and that is why I want to prevent 
 his addressing her. I am afraid she cares for him with- 
 out knowing it, and that his declaring himself would 
 call attention to her own feelings." 
 
 "Well, come what may, it is, in my opinion, best to 
 leave it to them entirely." 
 
 I left immediately, and when I said good-bye and 
 thanked him for his counsel, he replied : 
 
 "There are other things I should like to speak to 
 you of, but not now. Let me know how this affair 
 ends. Whatever comes, I do not think you need worry. 
 Bill is a very excellent man, and many a father in high 
 position would be glad to have him for a son-in-law." 
 
302 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 **I am not a judge of what would be gratifying to 
 other men,'' I said; "I only know what would please 
 me, or rather, what would not please me." 
 
 When I reached home the week was nearly out, and 
 all of our household looked troubled except Katharine, 
 Bill, I knew, was staying only at my request. He 
 looked ill at ease. 1 sent for Katherine that night when, 
 the rest of the household had retired. 
 
 * 'Katherine, I have something to tell you, and I 
 trust that your feelings about it will dispel my gloomy 
 thoughts." 
 
 "What is it, father? I have noticed for several 
 days how depressed and sad you and mother look. Is 
 there other business worry? That will not depress me, 
 I have grown used to it ; and, do you know, father, 
 I have thought that it would be best for me to become 
 self-supporting? You are so burdened now." 
 
 "It is the fear that I may soon not have to support 
 you that is oppressing me now. Our good friend, Bill, 
 has come to me with a request. He has cared for you 
 for years, he says, and he now asks the right to tell you 
 bo. Katherine, let there be no reserve between you and 
 me. Tell me plainly your feelings towards Bill. Do 
 you care for him?" 
 
 "I have never had the right to think of caring for 
 him, father. Do you remember a little trouble we had 
 about a matter like this once before?" 
 
 "I remember it well. Katherine, you have never 
 had the right to think of Bill before, but now, since he 
 has given you the right, do you care for him? I shall 
 give my consent to his asking you ; and I speak to you 
 now that you may have time to think before he comes to 
 you." 
 
 She left me with a blush upon her cheeks and a 
 strange light in her eyes. The next night, before tea, 
 I sent for Bill. 
 
 "You have my full consent to speak to Katherine 
 now, and, whatever comes, know that my love and 
 my blessing are with you." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 303 
 
 He came back after he had seen Katherine. 
 
 "She will not think of an engagement now, though 
 ihe has consented to my caring for her, and promises to 
 think of responding to my love some day." 
 
 I felt somewhat relieved to know that no engage- 
 ment had been made. 
 
 The next night, after Bill had gone home, Kather- 
 ine stole into my room and said : 
 
 "Father, I love him better than life, but I am 
 afraid you and mother will not consent to our marriage. 
 You might consent formally for my sake, but in your 
 hearts you would never feel satisfied to have it so. I 
 know how you feel. I know you do not think Bill worthy 
 of such a marriage; but he is more than worthy; and 
 as far as his people are concerned, that would not 
 trouble me at all." 
 
 "I cannot help my feelings, Katherine. This pro- 
 posal is the most indelicate thing I ever knew Bill to 
 be guilty of. If he loved you he should never have 
 said so ; but now that he has, your happiness is the 
 highest consideration, and if you care for him, the only 
 thing to do is to marry him." 
 
 Weeks went by. Katherine would not consent to 
 an engagement. It was best to wait, she said. At last 
 she wrote, withdrawing her promise to care for him. 
 I was miserable. I felt sometimes that I should be 
 really glad if Katherine would marry Bill ; it would re- 
 lieve me. And when I saw how pale and unhappy she 
 looked I felt for the second time in my life that I was 
 almost a child murderer. To her letter Bill replied that 
 he, too, thought it was best that they should not care 
 for each other, and while his aflPection yet remained he 
 would endeavor to repress it, and never speak of it to 
 her again. 
 
 He wrote to me also : "It would be painful to go 
 into a detailed explanation of my feelings. I will 
 simply say this: I understand you now, and you are 
 perfectly right. I withdraw all that I said to you, and 
 
304 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 instead of the request I made of you once, I now ask 
 that what has passed be forgotten, and that we be the 
 same cordial, sincere friends as of yore. I shall forget 
 my presumption if I can, but the hope that once pos- 
 sessed me has become a part of my life, and whatever 
 comes in the future neither Miss Katherine nor I can 
 help the fact that my nature has been purified because I 
 once thought of loving her." 
 
 I did not show Katherine this letter. I thought it 
 would make her more unhappy than she really was. 
 When I told her of the letter a kind of sickening flush 
 came to her cheeks, succeeded by that deathlike pallor 
 that always betrays the heart's feelings; but after a 
 week or two she seemed relieved and regained her wont- 
 ed serenity of mind. 
 
 I wrote to my friend, "Katherine seems bright and 
 cheery again," and he came to see me. 
 
 "What happy thought possessed you to come and 
 see a gloomy old man? Our family is just getting over 
 a long depression on account of Katherine and Bill, and 
 I have not fully recovered yet." 
 
 "I came to be cheered myself," he said. "I have 
 a request to make of you, and I hope you will not be as 
 unkind to me as you were to Bill. Can I speak to Miss 
 Katherine?" 
 
 "Your abruptness completely disconcerts me, else 
 my brain is duller that I thought. What can you 
 mean?" 
 
 "I mean what Bill meant, only I am bolder than 
 he ; I would tell Miss Katherine of my feeling for her 
 when I am not quite sure that she does not even yet 
 love another man." 
 
 "Do you really mean that you care for Katherine?" 
 
 "Care for her! You are the blindest mortal I ever 
 saw. I have loved her for years. I could not speak of 
 my affection when she was my pupil. Since then my 
 broken fortune has not allowed me to do it until last 
 year, when the school began to be self supporting, and I 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 305 
 
 felt that I could take care of her. I was thinking of 
 mentioning the matter to you when you came to tell me 
 about Bill." 
 
 "Do you really mean that you have cared for Kath- 
 erine so long, and that you had just thought of address- 
 ing her yourself when you advised me to let Bill press 
 his suit?" 
 
 "I have loved her since before you took her from 
 school years ago. I thought then that you suspected it 
 and feared to trust me not to address her, and I was 
 thoroughly indignant. When you came to speak to me 
 of Bill I could not speak of myself. It almost broke my 
 heart when you wrote to me that Miss Katherine cared 
 for Bill, and when your last letter came, I determined 
 to tell her my feelings at once, with your permission. 
 May I speak with her?" 
 
 "With all my heart; and my richest benediction go 
 with you. I will not tell Katherine what she may ex- 
 pect, ae I did with Bill, but let you surprise her. I 
 think you will find her in the summer-house. She often 
 sits there after tea. Bring her in, please, the October 
 nights are getting cool." 
 
 I heard them go in the parlor, Katherine talk- 
 ing gaily. I went in to tell my wife what had hap- 
 pened and we rejoiced together; my friend was just 
 such a man as I had alw^ays wanted Katherine to marry. 
 Not that he was better than Bill, but he was different, 
 I loved them both, but I thought of them differently. 
 My friend and Katherine came to us. 
 "I have won her," he said. 
 
 "Father and mother, I am sure this is better. I 
 never felt that I loved Bill as I love now. I am sure my 
 feeling for him was not real, though I thought then that 
 it was," 
 
 "Yes, this is better," I said, "and we are all hap- 
 pier. Even Bill will be glad to know it. My dear fel- 
 low," I said to my friend, "I have always felt guilty of 
 a mean thing when I have thought of having objected 
 
306 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 to Katherine marrying Bill on account of his connec- 
 tions ; it showed a weak point in my character." 
 
 "You are unjust to yourself," he said; "it was not 
 so much an actual distaste for the connection as an in- 
 explicable sense of unfitness, which was natural and 
 right." 
 
 It was decided that our daughter, should marry the 
 next spring. It had been a long while since Holmes's 
 death, but none of us felt like having a gay wedding, so 
 the marriage was quiet. It was in the little home church 
 where Katherine and Holmes had been christened. Bill 
 officiated. 
 
 "Strange for a man to officiate at the marriage of 
 his sweetheart !" he laughingly said, **but such is the 
 mockery of life sometimes." 
 
 I wondered if he still felt a pang of bitterness ; I am 
 sure he felt great tenderness, for after the ceremony 
 was over I saw him brush a stray tear from his cheek. 
 
 The bridal party went off for the usual tour, and my 
 wife and I went home with feelings of joy and sorrow 
 commingled. 
 
 "We shall live the rest of our lives alone ," I said, 
 "but there is love enough yet to fill all vacancies and 
 make life beautiful to its close." 
 
 The roses had gone from her cheeks, the freshness 
 from her brow, but in their stead character had drawn 
 its picture in lines more beautiful than the pencilings on 
 an evening sky, and she seemed more lovely to me than 
 in all the years that had gone. 
 
CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 That fall my wife and I went to spend a few weeks 
 with our children at Walesca. Their home was as sweet 
 and beautiful as such lives make homes. The people 
 were rejoiced at the marriage. They came to see my 
 wife and me, and I took her to see many of them. Their 
 life had changed wonderfully. They were becoming a 
 cultured people. 
 
 Kittie McCabe and Bobbie Sims were almost grown, 
 and that year would finish school. It seemed very strange 
 to me, but I had not lived at Walesca for five years. 
 
 We went to see the berry- picker and his wife, and 
 the old man was more rheumatic than ever. I feared 
 the drawn form would soon break, and asked him of his 
 life and his hopes for the future. 
 
 "No use ter talk 'bout that now; it's all settled. 
 Ain't you never heard 'bout it? How slow folks is ter 
 tell things. Yes, I have been er Christian nigh on ter er 
 year now, an' Betsey's wun too. Seems as how we're all 
 happier than we used ter be." 
 
 The boy, their heart's joy and pride, was a fine fel- 
 low six years old. 
 
 "Goin' ter send him ter school nex' year, an' hope 
 he'll do as well as Bobby Sims," Miss Betsey said. 
 
 "1 am sure he will, Miss Betsey," I replied. 
 
 "He'll soon be all I've got. Jane an' Ann's gone 
 long ago, an' the ole man can't be here many more days.'* 
 
 From the berry-picker's we went to see Mol's moth- 
 er. Mrs. Smith was feeble, and looked much older than 
 when I had seen her last, but she was cheerful and 
 bright. 
 
 "Mol'll be home in er year," she said, "an' she's 
 307 
 
SOS DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 goin' ter take me ter live with her, wharever she is. 
 She's doin' well 'nough, she says. The onlie^t thing, I 
 hates leavin' the ole place; 'tain't much — mighty leetle 
 scrap o' er farm, but it's been home er long time, you 
 know; 'pears ter me like it won't be nat'ral nowhar 
 else ; but ef Mol kin do better, I'm anything fur her. 
 She's sech er good gal, Mol is ; sends me ten dollars ever' 
 month, an' takes keer o' Becky Jane fur stayin' with me. 
 Ain't many gals like Mol." 
 
 "Do you know where she is now?" I asked. 
 
 "Naw, not yit. Mol says 's how she'll tell me all 
 'bout it whin she comes, an' I'll be glad she's done like 
 she is." 
 
 My wife liked Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Collins, both. 
 ''Simple, honest souls," she said; ''some day they will 
 attain a higher life." 
 
 Mrs. McCabe and my wife became great friends; 
 Mrs. McCabe looked like a different woman now. She 
 was the only one of the crackers who looked younger to 
 me, unless it was her husband. But she was really not a 
 cracker; she came from more cultured people. The 
 new life was like renewed life to her. The baby was now 
 a healthy boy of seven. 
 
 "He's in school an' I'arnin' fast," hisjfather said,an' 
 he 'pears so much happier an' more cheerful 'n the other 
 chillun used ter." 
 
 One afternoon Katherine and I went to the moun- 
 tain. We talked there for some time while we sat on 
 the -white cliffs, and then went to the lonely grave. The 
 old man came after a while. He was very feeble now. 
 He stopped twice to rest, and when he reached us he was 
 exhausted. 
 
 "How are you, Mr. Brown?" I asked. 
 
 "I ain't very peart these days; seems like I'm 
 wearin' out; 'twon't be long, I reckin, 'till I'll go too. 
 May's mam'U be more lonesome then ; won't be nobody 
 ter look arter her, though 111 leave her plenty ter keep 
 her kinder comfort'ble. Please, Mr. Ramla, ef enny- 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 309 
 
 thing should happen, an' I should be tuk off suddent, 
 please tell her how I've tried ter keep the bes' keer of 
 her I could, an' I've saved up er leetle money. You'll 
 find it in er ole sock right in the straw o' my bed, an' I 
 hope she'll be contented till May comes fur her." 
 
 "Certainly, Mr. Brown; but you are sad this even- 
 ing. Cheer up and see life in a better light." 
 
 "Naw; 'tain't 'caze I'm extra sad; but I feel kinder 
 cur'us. I dunno what's goin' ter happen." 
 
 He arose, gathered some flowers, covered the grave, 
 and made it look as I had seen it many times before, like 
 a beautiful bouquet. He stood over the grave looking 
 down for a moment, and then in an ecstacy of joy, threw 
 up his hands and his head. 
 
 "The Saviour !" he exclaimed, and fell heavily 
 across the grave. 
 
 We felt that his fears were removed, and that he 
 had gone to be with little May. 
 
 Katherine went to break the news to May's mother, 
 and I to find help to take him to his home for the last 
 time he should enter it. A coroner's jury was deemed 
 unnecessary, and I was glad of it. All in connection 
 with his death should be as quiet and peaceful as hi& 
 life had been. 
 
 The next afternoon at sunset, when the mild beam& 
 of that hour fall softly on all, aad on this day shot down 
 into the tomb to lighten it, we laid him to rest beside 
 May. Then there were two graves on the mountain, and 
 both were covered with flowers. 
 
 I told the mother what the old man had said, and 
 found for her in the straw of the bed the sock with its 
 treasure. It contained five hundred dollars, which hard 
 labor had earned. He must have sacrificed much to 
 save it. 
 
 We all tried to comfort and cheer the mother, but 
 we felt, as she did, that not many years would pass be- 
 fore she would go to meet her children. 
 
 "The money's er power too much fur me," sha 
 said; "I won't live ter pay it out." 
 
CHAPTER L. 
 
 Not long after the old man's death Bill came to 
 Walesca with new plans and hopes for himself and for 
 the world. 
 
 The crackers of the eection \^here we had gone to a 
 party some years before heard that he was at Walesca, 
 and invited him to come and assist in conducting a camp- 
 meeting. They also invited my son-in-law; and he, 
 Katherine, Bill and I went. 
 
 The crackers had pitched a tent and built an arbor; 
 also some log-huts instead of comfortable cottages, and 
 entertained in them ; and it happened that we were in- 
 vited to stay with the woman who had met us the night 
 of the party. 
 
 "So you uns is come ter we uns meetin'? We uns is 
 glad you uns is come; jes' walk in and make yourselves 
 at home. I hope you uns will enjoy the meetin.' " 
 
 It was Saturday night, and we retired early that we 
 might be fresh for the Sabbath service. I arose early 
 the next morning, but the cracker girls and boys were up 
 before me, the former preparing breakfast, the latter 
 impatiently waiting to partake of it. There is only one 
 time of the year at which a cracker boy rises early, and 
 that is during camp-meeting. 
 
 The boys were lounging around, discussing the hopes 
 of day,but these were not of a religious character. They 
 expected to see their sweethearts and have "er big time," 
 as I heard one express his anticipations. They all wore 
 brogans that had never felt the touch of a blacking- 
 brush, pants three inches too short, coats that came a 
 little below the waist line, and hats too large, having to 
 be put far back on the head to prevent their interfering 
 
 810 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 311 
 
 with the sight. Every boy had a ten cent Japanese fan, 
 which at that early hour he was using. To each fan 
 was attached at least three yards of red ribbon about an 
 inch wide. When the fan was not in use the ribbon was 
 wound carefully around it to the end, about two yards 
 being left free. The cracker then put it in his coat 
 pocket, leaving the two yards of ribbon streaming. On 
 one lapel of his coat was a bow of red ribbon two inches 
 or more in width, on the other a red rose. Many ot 
 these young fellows were schoolboys, and they had prob- 
 ably improved in dress since their contact with the 
 teachers, and yet their attire seemed to me as fantastic 
 as when I first saw them on the night of their party. 
 
 Love feast was held at nine o'clock, and a large 
 number assembled in the tent to attend it. Men who 
 had not spoken to each other for years were present, but 
 I noticed that they did not speak when the meeting was 
 over; it had not been a feast of love for them, though 
 they had testified that it was. Women, whose main 
 employment out of the cotton patch or corn field was 
 gossip, were there, but they did not leave the tent be- 
 fore the gossiping began again. It had not been a love 
 feast for them either, though they believed at the time 
 that it was. 
 
 At the beginning of the service the minister had 
 prayed that the Lord would come down ^ ^precisely at 
 nine o'clock" and meet with them, but some hearts had 
 not been ready to receive Him at that hour. 
 
 Bill preached at eleven o'clock. There was atten- 
 tion but no excitement, and I saw the crackers were not 
 pleased. 
 
 **Bill done fine, but we uns likes er preacher what 
 tin stir us up. Bill ain't the stirrin' kind. We uns '11 
 ax yer son ter preach ter night, and see what he kin do. 
 Thar ain't no way ter bring folks 'round 'out you kin 
 gin 'em in shoutin' order." 
 
 In the afternoon I took a walk and on my return 
 lay down on the grass not far from the tent. Several 
 
312 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 buggies were near, and in each a young man and woman 
 were sittiag. I was in an atmosphere of cracker court- 
 ship. One couple I had noticed before ; they were now 
 in the buggy nearest me. 
 
 "Thar ain't no use in waitin' ter git er edication 
 'caze it takes too long, Melindy. Me and you orter 
 marry now, right shortly; what you say ter gittin' off 
 here at the camp ground? You'd be looked at more'n 
 you ever wus 'fore, and ever' body 'd be talkin' 'bout 
 'Miss Melindy;' now 'tain't wuth while to talk 'bout 
 puttin' it off, 'caze ef you do I'll go an' talk ter some 
 other gal what keers more fer me'n she do fer school.'^ 
 
 *'Naw you won't, Tim Beck, 'caze I'll marry you 
 right here 'fore this camp's broke up; but thar s wun 
 thing I ain't never tole you what I expects I orter tell 
 you 'fore we uns wed. I's kinder 'shamed ter, too.'^ 
 
 ''Don't be 'shamed, Melindy; we uns is mos' wed 
 now. You alius wus er backward gal, though ; you 
 never will speak right out, an' you'll blush ef I look at 
 you hard. Tell me, Melindy; it won't matter now." 
 
 "Well, I don't like ter, but Tim, we uns, dad an' 
 mam an' the chillun an' me, is all metaphysicians, an'^ 
 mebbe you won't like that?" 
 
 "Oh! that don't matter, Melindy; dad an' mam 
 an' me an' the chillun at our house is all Meth'dists, an' 
 I reckon they must be kinder 'like er they wouldn't 
 sound the same. We won't fuss 'bout the Church. 
 What does you all b'lieve in?" 
 
 "We uns b'lieve the same as you, but we uns callt 
 ourselves dif'rent; I thought mebbe you wouldn't like 
 the name." 
 
 "Oh! that's all right, Melindy; now let's take er 
 ride an' sot the day," and he hitched the old farm mule 
 to the rickety buggy with trace chain and shuck collar 
 instead of regular harness, and they drove off. 
 
 Their case was not so bad as that of a Georgia rep-^ 
 resentative, who, when asked the altitude of his section,, 
 said: "I never went into stertisticks, but jedgin' from 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CK ACKERS 31 a 
 
 what I've seed, I should say they wus moBtly Baptists." 
 
 "Yer son ain't the stirrin' sort neither," my hostess 
 said, with a sigh, after the night service. 
 
 I slept well until I turned in the night and touched 
 something sticky. I tried to discover from feeling what 
 it was, but could not. I lighted a tin lamp near my bed 
 and looked ; the substance was some kind of preserve. 
 The noise I made in rising had awakened the cracker 
 woman's husband, as well as Bill and my son-in-law, 
 who were all in the room with me. 
 
 "It will happen so sometimes, Mr. Ramla ; 'tain't 
 very pleasant ter sleep on 'sarves; I's sorry. Sary is 
 too keerless. She ought not ter 'a' let the 'sarves drap. 
 But mebby 'twarn't Sary; thar's so many folks eats at a 
 table." 
 
 I had seen the woman winding the sheet off of the 
 bed the day before, and her husband's words confirmed 
 my suspicion. 
 
 The next day great preparation was made for the 
 morning service. 
 
 *'We uns is goin' ter have er shoutin' preacher ter- 
 day, what'll do us all good. Yer preachers may do fur 
 Warlepkey, but they don't do fur here." 
 
 Dinner was being prepared before the service. Mut- 
 ton was the only meat, I thought; certainly I was con- 
 scious of the fact that it was one of the meats. There 
 was great excitement and much shouting at the tent be- 
 fore the sermon; a prayer-meeting service had been held 
 and had aroused the people. My hostess called to her 
 daughter: 
 
 "Here, Jinny, come tend ter the mutton an' let me 
 go an' jine the happy folks down ter the tent. I's so 
 glad they's woke up." 
 
 She walked rapidly off, and I followed her. She 
 had hardly got inside the tent before she began shout- 
 ing. After the usual exclamations and peculiar move- 
 ments that characterized her shouting had lasted a half 
 hour or more, she thought of her mutton, and continu- 
 
814 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 ing the movements she shouted, to the tune of "How 
 Happy are They who the Saviour Obey," "Jinny, don't 
 let the mutton burn," and finished in the words of the 
 song. The shouting continued until the people were ex- 
 hausted, and the morning services began. 
 
 I have seen people shout and really feel they served 
 the Lord shouting. I have teen others shout when they 
 were merely screaming, and seemed to have no real holi- 
 ness of feeling at all, and they kept up their screaming 
 until it became a dissipation and did them positive injury. 
 
 After the morning sermon the minister, who, not 
 withstanding the excited condition of the people, 
 preached in a manner to excite them still more, called 
 one of the old crackers to pray. The cracker prayed 
 with great effort of voice : 
 
 "The devil is in ever' wun of we uns, an' we uns 
 needn't ter say he ain't. I wish ever' body know'd jes' 
 how he's pesterin' me now, an' tormentin' ter git me ter 
 go his way." 
 
 Just then a stray goat came into the tent, and the 
 old man being the most conspicuous object, it ran 
 toward him, stood off a short distance as if considering 
 what to do, and then butted him in the rear just as he 
 was saying, "Yes, the devil pesters me before an' be- 
 hind an' ter the side." He stopped short and looked 
 around. 
 
 '''Tain't the devil this time, Uncle Bob; it's my old 
 Billy goat," someone said. 
 
 The old man kept praying, "Come down an' wipe 
 folks off o' the earth." 
 
 "I'd ruther he'd come down and wipe out the 
 devil," another voice said. 
 
 That night a number of persons professed to be con- 
 verted. The minister called on a young cracker boy to 
 pray. The boy began : 
 
 "Lord, you jes' orter 'a' been here; we uns has had 
 fourteen or fifteen o' the brightest conversions you ever 
 saw; but you missed it all, Lord, by not bein' here." 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 315 
 
 The prayer was so peculiar that the minister stopped 
 the boy ; and yet, is it not true that at some so-called 
 conversions the Lord is not present? It would be wrong, 
 and my conscience would not allow me, to tell these 
 things if they were not true, but every incident I have 
 recited really occurred. 
 
 Another character at the camp-meeting was an old 
 woman who kept shouting, "Praise the Ram." 
 
 "You are mistaken, sister," the minister said; "it 
 is not 'Ram' but 'Lamb.' Praise the 'Lamb.' " 
 
 "Oh! well," she said, "I know'd it was somethin' 
 with wool on its back." 
 
 This was too ridiculous to make the relating of it 
 sacrilegious; the Lord beareth with ignorance. 
 
 Another character was a little girl about ten years 
 old who came to Bill and asked him the way to life. Bill 
 taught her plainly and simply, and she started "in the 
 straight and narrow way," in which it is said, "a little 
 child shall lead them," a road so plain that a child may 
 never lose the way, and so plain that many men and 
 women never find it. I did not doubt this child's con- 
 version at the time, and have never doubted it since. 
 She is now a leader in the school and in the church. 
 
 "I should not know what to do without her," the 
 president of the college near her home said to me. 
 
 Shall any say that the camp-meeting was a failure? 
 Surely it was not. It was the dawn of new life to this 
 child and to hundreds through her, and it was a help to 
 many of the older crackers. 
 
 The marriage took place just before we left, but 
 whether the difference between Metaphysicians and 
 Methodists really made any difference in the family pol- 
 icy or not I never heard. 
 
CHAPTER LI. 
 
 A few days after our return to Walesca I said to my 
 friend : 
 
 "Do you remember that, when Callaway was here^ 
 there was some trouble with the whitecaps? I am afraid 
 they are going to give us more trouble now." 
 
 "What has happened?" he asked. 
 
 "They have punished several men lately, who allege 
 that they were innocent, and that they were maltreated 
 on account of some personal dislike on the part of cer- 
 tain members of the band. If the motives of the white- 
 caps were ever considered good, they were now im- 
 pugned. They are said, too, to be in league with the 
 moonshiners; indeed, it is asserted that some of them 
 are moonshiners. I have heard also that some of the 
 school boys belonged to the band. Such association, 
 even if they never engage in the evil practices of the or- 
 ganization, is bad." 
 
 "But there are no moonshiners here now," he said. 
 
 "Not in this section, but there are some in the moun- 
 tains." 
 
 "Well, I will see that the students do not belong to 
 this lawless band. But what more we can do to lessen 
 the evil I do not know." 
 
 "Nor do I ; and I am afraid you will endanger your- 
 self by doing even that much," I said. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Why the whitecaps will make you suffer for it." 
 
 "I think not; but if they should, I must still do my 
 duty." 
 
 The next day the fall term of school began, and a 
 few days later the president called the attention of the 
 school to the matter. 
 
 316 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 317 
 
 "The whitecaps may have the good of the commu- 
 nity at heart, but their methods are doubtful, and their 
 organization is lawless. We are trying to teach you to 
 observe law and order, so that when you leave here you 
 may never subject yourselves to the punishments of the 
 law, but may become worthy and useful citizens of your 
 commonwealth, and thus become worthy and useful citi- 
 zens at last of the Great Commonwealth. I understand 
 that some of you are members of the whitecap band. I 
 am fearful for those boys ; whatever good they may 
 accomplish, if any, is of small weight with the erroneous 
 principles they may learn, and I must beg that they 
 withdraw from the organization at once. From this 
 time a new law is written in the college code : No stu- 
 dent will be allowed to belong to the society calling 
 itself 'The White Cap Band.' Any student connected 
 with that organization when he enters school and not 
 withdrawing immediately, or any student joining the 
 society while here, will be subject to expulsion. Every 
 male student must subscribe to this law now." 
 
 The students, all but one, subscribed without hesi- 
 tation. The young man who did not subscribe came to 
 the president privately and said he could not honestly 
 sign the law, because he was a whitecap and did not 
 care to withdraw from the organization. Other mem- 
 bers of it in the school had signed the law with no in- 
 tention of keeping it, but he was not willing to do that. 
 He refused to tell who they were, but was so honest 
 about himself that the president gave him time to think 
 over the matter. We made an eifort to find out who the 
 boys were, and found proof against two. 
 
 One morning not long after this my son-in-law 
 found a notice posted upon his door : 
 
 "Any man who interferes with the White Cap 
 Band, or forbids membership in it, endangers himself.'* 
 
 "As I expected," I said; "you had better be on 
 your guard." 
 
 He laughed : "Surely they will not attack a minis- 
 ter." 
 
818 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 **They will attack anybody who interferes with 
 them." 
 
 That afternoon he said to me: *'I must go to see 
 Mol's mother to-night; she is very sick." 
 
 Remembering the threatening notice of the white- 
 caps, and being anxious for his safety, I said: 
 
 '*I will go with you. I had thought of going be- 
 fore you mentioned it." 
 
 We rode out together in the evening, and found 
 Mr»3. Smith very ill indeed. She asked for Mol, but we 
 had no means of notifying the girl. I felt sure she 
 would hear, though, and come as she had done before. 
 Mrs. Smith asked to see Bill also, and I rode over to his 
 mother's, and brought them both back with me. 
 
 Becky Jane, the girl whom Mol had hired to be 
 with her mother, was there. She said : 
 
 **The doctor seys she kin git well ef her speerits 
 don't git too low. Her speerits is pow'ful low now, 
 though. Mol ain't here; that's what's pestering 
 her." 
 
 I told Mrs. Smith again that I was sure Mol would 
 come, and the assurance seemed to brighten her. Bill's 
 presence comforted her most, however, and she said to 
 him; 
 
 "You alius did 'pear like my child, Bill, most as 
 much as Mol, an' whin she ain't here, I likes ter have 
 you by. Bill, I wish it had 'a' been so you an' Mol could 
 'a' wed, but I reckin' it's all right like it is." 
 
 We went out and left them alone, and when we re- 
 turned I am sure Bill had sweetened the old woman's 
 life by kind words. 
 
 We stayed until a late hour, trying to cheer the 
 sick woman, and, leaving Becky Jane and Mrs. Collins 
 with her, started to Walesca about one o'clock. Bill, 
 who was as anxious as I about my son-in-law, went with 
 us. 
 
 When we reached the top of the mountain, a man 
 emerged from the bushes and cried : 
 
 *'Halt!" 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 319^ 
 
 We urged our horses so as to pass him, but he gave 
 a low whistle, and about a hundred men from behind 
 bush and tree were in the road in an instant. The pe- 
 culiar dress showed that thej were whitecaps. They 
 caught the horses' bridles and commanded us to dis- 
 mount. Bill rose in his stirrups. 
 
 "What is this for?" he asked. **We have all lived 
 among you, and you know our characters. What have 
 we done that you should thus attack us?" 
 
 "Zow have done nothing; we do not want you, but 
 these men with you have told lies about us and have in- 
 terfered with our work by forbidding the students of 
 Reinhart College to be members of our organization. 
 They have no right to do this, and we will show them 
 that men who attempt to injure our organization will 
 not escape punishment." 
 
 "They only sought to protect the students under 
 their care from the injurious influences of your Society. 
 However much good you may do, your organization is 
 not one to which boys should belong. You teach them 
 lawlessness, and lawlessness may make criminals of 
 them." 
 
 "You are a little too glib, Bill; we will take you 
 too;" and they pulled us all from our horses. 
 
 They bound our hands and took us into the woods. 
 We tried to reason with them, but they would not listen. 
 We begged to be released, but they paid no heed to our 
 entreaties. 
 
 "Nothing will save you but to retract what you 
 have said." 
 
 My son-in-law was very calm. "I have said nothing 
 that I should retract." 
 
 "Annul the law forbidding your students to belong 
 to our organization." 
 
 "Never!" he said. 
 
 "This is barbarous!" Bill exclaimed. "Here are 
 the men who have served you for years ; the whole state 
 has felt their good influence, but because they oppose 
 
320 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 the lawlessness that you have put in action, you waylay 
 and maltreat them." 
 
 *'Be careful, Bill; there are other punishments than 
 the one we are going to inflict to-night." 
 
 Just then a voice that I recognized, though I had 
 never heard it in such fiercely commanding tones before, 
 rang out : 
 
 "Halt men! What does this mean?" 
 
 "Who is this?" they asked. 
 
 "You know me." 
 
 I knew him, too. It was the apparition of the 
 mountain. 
 
 "If you have any influence with these men, make 
 them release us," I said. 
 
 "Release them!" he commanded. "Shame upon 
 your organization, that claims to deal with the vicious ! 
 Bill Collins, a spotless, peerless minister, a man whom 
 you all know and should honor; the president of Rein- 
 hart College, who for ten years has served you better 
 than any other man who has been in the country, and 
 his co-laborer, Mr. Ramla. They have been wearing 
 their lives out in your service, and this is the reward you 
 offer them. This act is sufficient to justify the disper- 
 sion of this band, and I here and now disperse you." 
 
 They slunk back and were soon lost to sight in 
 the woods. The man whom I had begun to regard 
 as my protector, released us and started off without a 
 word. 
 
 "Stay!" I said; and we thanked him for his time- 
 ly intervention. 
 
 "It was nothing but common humanity," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 "Will you not reveal you identity?" I asked. 
 
 "Not now," he answered. "Be on the mountain 
 to-morrow at noon." 
 
 He disappeared and we reached Walesca without 
 further molestation. 
 
 When I went to the mountain the next day the 
 strange man was already there. 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 321 
 
 "I have been waiting for you," he said ; "I am now 
 ready to reveal myself." 
 
 "To reveal your identity, you mean," I said; '■'your- 
 self was revealed to me long ago." 
 
 He smiled. ''I shall be brief; I am McCabe's 
 brother. There was a large family of us. We lived in 
 South Carolina. When quite young, one of my brothers 
 — not the one you know — and myself left home. We 
 went North, educated ourselves, and might have become 
 men of influence but we were dissipated. We have both 
 been private detectives and that was my business when 
 I first came here. I was employed by the still-owner 
 who died some time ago, to see that you did not inter- 
 fere with the whiskey traffic, and, if possible, to keep 
 you from staying. For this purpose I tried to frighten 
 you by my mysterious appearances and peculiar dress 
 at night, and on one occasion, by firing in the road just 
 in front of you. Some nights I stayed in a little hut 
 here on the mountain ; that was after I found you came 
 here so often. I was in the hut the night you were 
 caught In the snowdrift. I was rarely here except at 
 night, however. I lived in Cartersville. Few people in 
 this section know me even yet, and they know me by 
 another name than McCabe. I watched you closely, and 
 soon became convinced that you were doing a self-sacri- 
 ficing work. I then told the still-owner that I would not 
 interfere with you if you should close every still in the 
 mountains. I gave you a map of this section, and when 
 you made your perilous journeys to the stills, watched 
 you as I would have done my brother. I saved your 
 life more than once, Mr. Lamar, for that is your real 
 name." 
 
 I thanked him. "Yes," I continued, "Lamar is my 
 name ; I told the crackers so, long ago, but they still^ 
 <;all me 'Ramla, ' since that is the iiame by which they 
 first knew me, and my occupation is rambling, they say." 
 
 "I did not know for a long while that the desperado, 
 McCabe, was my brother. I had not heard from my 
 
322 DOWN AMONG THE CEACKERS 
 
 family since I was a boy, and did not know that they had 
 moved to Georgia. I was present at McCabe's trial, 
 though you did not know it, and I became convinced 
 that he was my brother. I did not care to make myself 
 known, however, partly because I was a detective, and 
 it was best not to be known in this section where so 
 many crimes were being committed, and partly because 
 I could not have watched you so closely had you known 
 me. After the still-owner's death I got appointed on 
 the regular detective police force, and I have been de- 
 tailed for some time to watch the whitecaps. I was 
 preparing to present three of them before last night's af- 
 fair, and that has determined me more than ever to have 
 the leaders punished. Some of the leaders knew that I 
 am an officer of justice, and they were afraid of the con- 
 sequences if they had obstructed me in the performance 
 of my duty. In the presence of so many it was neces- 
 sary to make a bold stroke, and the bluff coupled with 
 their surprise at my unexpected appearance, had the de- 
 sired effect." 
 
 **Yes," I said, ''it was indeed a bold stroke, and 
 we have to thank your bravery for escaping outrage by 
 those ruffians. You ran a great risk." 
 
 **Well," he replied, with feeling, *'I was but repay- 
 ing a small part of my debt to you. Your life here has 
 converted me from the error of my ways," 
 
 "Not my life," I said, "but the Christian work 
 here." 
 
 **The work has been wonderful," he replied. '*I 
 do not care to be a detective any longer, and when I get 
 through with these whitecaps I will quit the business* 
 1 have made myself known to my relatives here, and 
 henceforth will try to help them and the world a 
 little." 
 
 I promised to aid him, and we parted with a cordial 
 handshake. 
 
 He was as -good as his word, and after bringing the 
 ringleaders of the whitecaps to justice, and breaking up 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 32a 
 
 the organization, he went to live among the crackers 
 whom we had visited at the time of their camp-meeting, 
 and he ie now doing excellent work in helping to civilize 
 that benighted people. 
 
CHAPTER LII. 
 
 Mol came in a few days, and I hoped her mother 
 would be much benefited, but it was too late; her 
 strength was gone. 
 
 "Mighty glad ter see you, Mol, glad you come 'fore 
 yer mam dies. Don't cry, chile, you's been right ter 
 stay 'way. Thar won't no chance of doin' nothin' 
 here, an' you wus too smart ev gal ter be here alius. I's 
 got 'long the best kind. Becky Jane has been good, an' 
 «ver' body else has, too. Mr. Ramla has been here, and 
 Miss Katherine and her husband, an' they has all done 
 er heap fur me. Thar ain't been no trouble 'cept I 
 missed you." This was harrowing to Mol. "Taint no 
 use ter cry, Mol, you wus right. I's glad you went. 
 Now, take keer o' yerself, Mol, an' be good like you's 
 alius been." 
 
 Bill was with Mrs. Smith to the last, and w&n a great 
 <jomfort to Mol in her trouble. They seemed drawn 
 nearer to each other by this sorrow, and I thought were 
 learning to care for each other again. 
 
 After her mother's death and funeral Mol was very 
 lonely. 
 
 "MissMollie, what will you do?" I asked her one 
 day. 
 
 '*I do not know yet. I have few personal interests 
 now. I think I shall devote myself to helping the 
 world. My first thought now is to educating Eecky 
 Jane." 
 
 Mol was educated herself. She hardly seemed like 
 the same girl. 
 
 "It is so strange that just as I had provided a com- 
 fortable home for mother, and was ready to take her to 
 
 884 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 325 
 
 it, she should be taken from me. It seems almost like 
 punishment for my long absence from her ; but I thought 
 I was staying for her good." 
 
 I went to the mountain one afternoon. It had 
 never looked more beautiful. Rich in the garb of Octo- 
 ber, the thousand trees spread their branches in gor- 
 geous beauty; red and orange and brown and yellow 
 blended with wonderful harmony of color; and waving 
 in the wind, with rare beams of sunlight upon them, the 
 leaves seemed an undulating sheet of iridescent loveli- 
 ness. The white cliffs stood gaunt and rugged and 
 glistening. 
 
 I sat on them and watched Hogarth's line as it ap- 
 peared in curve of mountain, slope of valley, and bend 
 of stream, and I thought, "This is the creative line." 
 The rush of the mountain waters was musical, and my 
 mood was happy. Like a boy at play, I rolled stones 
 and worm-eaten logs down the mountain side, and 
 watched them as they leaped from crag to crag with in- 
 creasing impetus, and at last found rest in the valley. 
 
 Presently a young woman approached and Mol 
 came and sat on the opposite side of the cliffs. I 
 watched her for a while without speaking. She had aa 
 easel, and began to sketch the scene upon which I had 
 been gazing with such delight. Her touch was that of 
 a master. Finally, laying her work aside, she rested her 
 head against her easel. Her weariness was of mind 
 rather than of body. Poor soul! she was so lonely. 
 She sighed heavily, and I knew she was crying. I 
 thought at first of leaving her in her sorrow, but some- 
 times it is a relief to have a friend know our griefs. 
 
 "Miss Mollie," I said, "what is it?" 
 
 She started, then recognizing me, answered : 
 
 "I cannot tell you what burdens my heart; I do not 
 often think of it myself. 1 know it is selfish. Pardon 
 my weakness and leave me ; in a little while I shall feel 
 stronger and braver." 
 
 "You have always been strong and brave, Miss Mol- 
 
326 DOWN AMONG THE CKACKERS 
 
 lie; it is not a weakness to feel as you do now. Tell me 
 your troubles ; be sure I am your friend, and if I shall 
 not be able to help you materially, I shall feel for you ; 
 your care shall be mine." 
 
 *'It is only my loneliness and the feeling that, try 
 as I will, I may not hope to realize the ends for which 
 I have labored. I have planned so many things, and 
 labored with such earnestness, hoping that some day my 
 heart's desires would be satisfied, but my efforts, as far 
 as personal happiness is concerned, seem to have been 
 in vain. You remember when you and Bill tried to per- 
 suade me to enter school, and you thought it stubborn- 
 ness in me not to yield ; but I was not stubborn; I knew 
 it was not best for me to be educated with Bill and Mr. 
 Oallaway. Bill really cared for me then, and Mr. Cal 
 laway, though he never loved me, was inordinately 
 jealous, and besides, felt the greatest delight in worry- 
 ing Bill. I was ambitious, though, on my own account, 
 and because I expected some day to become Bill's wife. 
 I talked to Mias Katherine and she advised me to go off 
 to school. I received a kind letter from your wife, ask- 
 ing me to come to her. I thought it best not to tell 
 Anyone. Perhapg I ought to have told my mother, but 
 I wanted to surprise her, as well as Bill. I knew, too, 
 that if she had known where I was, she could not help 
 telling Bill, and it was certainly best for him not to 
 know. I asked Miss Katherine to write to me often of 
 my mother, and of Bill, too. But of course she could 
 not know much of Bill's feeling, so I was troubled, and 
 had almost decided to ask you to write me of Bill, when 
 I met a strange man, the one who inquired about you at 
 our house." 
 
 **Ye8, I know him," I interposed; *'he was the man 
 who watched me so long." 
 
 "Well," she went on, "he advised me to have no- 
 1;hing to do with Mr. Callaway. You had already given 
 me this advice, and I had determined to be governed by 
 it ; but'you never knew that. The man spoke so kindly 
 
DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 327 
 
 that I talked [freely to him. He said he knew every- 
 thing that happened around Walesca, and that if Bill 
 should cease to care for me, he would be sure to 
 know it. I then asked him to write to me when he 
 thought it necessary. I thought I should be able to for- 
 get Bill whenever I tried, but when I first heard that he 
 no longer cared for me, it almost broke my heart. I 
 made greater efforts, however, to learn, trying to forget 
 my heart's pain in work. Mr. Ramla, I have never for- 
 gotten it. Then I labored to make my mother's last 
 years years of happiness and ease, and just as I had 
 fitted a sweet, comfortable home for her, she was taken 
 from me." 
 
 *'It is best as it is," I said, "or our Father would 
 not have permitted it. Tell me," I continued, trying to 
 help her forget her sorrows, "where you were all those 
 years." 
 
 **At first I was with your wife, except when you 
 were at home," she said, smiling, for I had never seen 
 her there. "I graduated in a female college in your 
 town, and when Miss Katherine went to Wellesley, I 
 went too, and we graduated together, with honors. We 
 were both offered positions as sub-professors. You and 
 Mrs. Ramla did not wish Miss Katherine to accept a 
 position then, but the offer was a blessing to me. The 
 income enabled me to pay Mrs. Ramla all that I owed 
 her — that is, all in money ; I can never pay her in kind- 
 ness. It enabled me, too, to buy the home for mother. 
 But that is now vacant, and I am alone." 
 
 I heard a step, and turning, saw Bill. I left them, 
 feeling that all would be right. 
 
 That night Bill told me that all was right; that he 
 had for some time felt that his love for Mol had come 
 l^ack ; and that he loved her with a deeper, purer and 
 more unselfish love than he had ever felt in the past. 
 
 They are now married, and as happy as they de- 
 serve to be. 
 
 My son and daughter still remain at Walesca ; there 
 
328 DOWN AMONG THE CRACKERS 
 
 Beems never a time when they can leave ; the place needs 
 them. 
 
 All^is!peaceful and pleasant at Walesca now. The 
 old crackers still complain of the changes, but they are 
 happy even in complaining. 
 
 Surely, then, I may at last rejoice over the triumph 
 of **Light'in Darkness.*' 
 
 THE END. 
 
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