When he approached the conclusion of his sermon, Brother Peter closed
with a bang the Bible, which, although he could not read a word of it,
always lay open before him while he preached, and delivered the
concluding exhortation of his sermon.

"Now, my dear brev'ren ob dis congregation," he said, "I want you to
understan' dat dar's nuffin in dis yer sarmon wot you've jus' heerd ter
make you think yousefs angels. By no means, brev'ren; you was all brung
up by women, an' you've got ter lib wid' em, an ef anythin' in dis yer
worl' is ketchin', my dear brev'ren, it's habin debbils, an' from wot
I've seen ob some ob de men ob dis worl' I 'spect dey is persest ob
'bout all de debbils dey got room fur. But de Bible don' say nuffin
p'intedly on de subjec' ob de number ob debbils in man, an' I 'spec'
dose dat's got 'em--an' we ought ter feel pow'ful thankful, my dear
brev'ren, dat de Bible don' say we all's got 'em--has 'em 'cordin to
sarcumstances. But wid de women it's dif'rent; dey's got jus' sebin, an'
bless my soul, brev'ren, I think dat's 'nuff.

"While I was a-turnin' ober in my min' de subjec' ob dis sarmon, dere
come ter me a bit ob Scripter wot I heerd at a big preachin' an'
baptizin' at Kyarter's Mills, 'bout ten year' ago. One ob de preachers
was a-tellin' about ole mudder Ebe a-eatin' de apple, and says he: De
sarpint fus' come along wid a red apple, an' says he: You gib dis yer to
your husban', an' he think it so mighty good dat when he done eat it he
gib you anything you ax him fur, ef you tell him whar de tree is. Ebe,
she took one bite, an' den she frew dat apple away. 'Wot you mean, you
triflin' sarpint,' says she, 'a fotchin' me dat apple wot ain't good fur
nuffin but ter make cider wid.' Den de sarpint he go fotch her a yaller
apple, an' she took one bite an' den says she: 'Go 'long wid ye, you
fool sarpint, wot you fotch me dat June apple wot ain't got no taste to
it?' Den de sarpint he think she like sumpin' sharp, an' he fotch her a
green apple. She takes one bite ob it, an' den she frows it at his head,
an' sings out: 'Is you 'spectin' me to gib dat apple to yer Uncle Adam
an' gib him de colic?' Den de debbil he fotch her a lady-apple, but she
say she won't take no sich triflin' nubbins as dat to her husban', an'
she took one bite ob it, an' frew it away. Den he go fotch her two udder
kin' ob apples, one yaller wid red stripes, an' de udder one red on one
side an' green on de udder,--mighty good lookin' apples, too--de kin'
you git two dollars a bar'l fur at the store. But Ebe, she wouldn't hab
neider ob 'em, an' when she done took one bite out ob each one, she frew
it away. Den de ole debbil-sarpint, he scratch he head, an' he say to
hese'f: 'Dis yer Ebe, she pow'ful 'ticklar 'bout her apples. Reckin I'll
have ter wait till after fros', an' fotch her a real good one.' An' he
done wait till after fros', and then he fotch her a' Albemarle pippin,
an' when she took one bite ob dat, she jus' go 'long an' eat it all up,
core, seeds, an' all. 'Look h'yar, sarpint,' says she, 'hab you got
anudder ob dem apples in your pocket?' An' den he tuk one out, an' gib
it to her. ''Cuse me,' says she, 'I's gwine ter look up Adam, an' ef he
don' want ter know war de tree is wot dese apples grow on, you can hab
him fur a corn-field han'.'

"An' now, my dear brev'ren," said Brother Peter, "while I was a-turnin'
dis subjec' ober in my min', an' wonderin' how de women come ter hab
jus' seben debbils apiece, I done reckerleck dat bit ob Scripter wot I
heerd at Kyarter's Mills, an' I reckin dat 'splains how de debbils got
inter woman. De sarpint he done fotch mudder Ebe seben apples, an' ebery
one she take a bite out of gib her a debbil."

As might have been expected, this sermon produced a great sensation,
and made a deep impression on the congregation. As a rule the men were
tolerably well satisfied with it; and when the services were over many
of them made it the occasion of shy but very plainly pointed remarks to
their female friends and relatives.

But the women did not like it at all. Some of them became angry, and
talked very forcibly, and feelings of indignation soon spread among all
the sisters of the church. If their minister had seen fit to stay at
home and preach a sermon like this to his own wife (who, it may be
remarked, was not present on this occasion), it would have been well
enough, provided he had made no allusions to outsiders; but to come
there and preach such things to them was entirely too much for their
endurance. Each one of the women knew she had not seven devils, and only
a few of them would admit of the possibility of any of the others being
possessed by quite so many.

Their preacher's explanation of the manner in which every woman came to
be possessed of just so many devils appeared to them of little
importance. What they objected to was the fundamental doctrine of his
sermon, which was based on his assertion that the Bible declared every
woman had seven devils. They were not willing to believe that the Bible
said any such thing. Some of them went so far as to state it was their
opinion that Uncle Pete had got this fool notion from some of the
lawyers at the court-house when he was on a jury a month or so before.
It was quite noticeable that, although Sunday afternoon had scarcely
begun, the majority of the women of the congregation called their
minister Uncle Pete. This was very strong evidence of a sudden decline
in his popularity.

Some of the more vigorous-minded women, not seeing their minister among
the other people in the clearing in front of the log church, went to
look for him, but he was not to be found. His wife had ordered him to be
home early, and soon after the congregation had been dismissed he
departed by a short cut through the woods. That afternoon an irate
committee, composed principally of women, but including also a few men
who had expressed disbelief in the new doctrine, arrived at the cabin of
their preacher, but found there only his wife, cross-grained old Aunt
Rebecca. She informed them that her husband was not at home.

"He's done 'gaged hisse'f," she said, "ter cut an' haul wood fur Kunnel
Martin ober on Little Mount'n fur de whole ob nex' week. It's fourteen
or thirteen mile' from h'yar, an' ef he'd started ter-morrer mawnin',
he'd los' a'mos' a whole day, 'Sides dat, I done tole him dat ef he git
dar ter-night he'd have his supper frowed in. Wot you all want wid him?
Gwine to pay him fur preachin'?"

Any such intention as this was instantaneously denied, and Aunt Rebecca
was informed of the subject upon which her visitors had come to have a
very plain talk with her husband.

Strange to say, the announcement of the new and startling dogma had
apparently no disturbing effect upon Aunt Rebecca. On the contrary, the
old woman seemed rather to enjoy the news.

"Reckin he oughter know all 'bout dat," she said. "He's done had three
wives, an' he ain't got rid o' dis one yit."

Judging from her chuckles and waggings of the head when she made this
remark, it might be imagined that Aunt Rebecca was rather proud of the
fact that her husband thought her capable of exhibiting a different kind
of diabolism every day in the week.

The leader of the indignant church members was Susan Henry, a mulatto
woman of a very independent turn of mind. She prided herself that she
never worked in anybody's house but her own, and this immunity from
outside service gave her a certain pre-eminence among her sisters. Not
only did Susan share the general resentment with which the startling
statement of old Peter had been received, but she felt that its
promulgation had affected her position in the community. If every woman
was possessed by seven devils, then, in this respect, she was no better
nor worse than any of the others; and at this her proud heart rebelled.
If the preacher had said some women had eight devils and others six, it
would have been better. She might then have made a mental arrangement in
regard to her relative position which would have somewhat consoled her.
But now there was no chance for that. The words of the preacher had
equally debased all women.

A meeting of the disaffected church members was held the next night at
Susan Henry's cabin, or rather in the little yard about it, for the
house was not large enough to hold the people who attended it. The
meeting was not regularly organized, but everybody said what he or she
had to say, and the result was a great deal of clamor, and a general
increase of indignation against Uncle Pete.

"Look h'yar!" cried Susan, at the end of some energetic remarks, "is dar
enny pusson h'yar who kin count up figgers?"

Inquiries on the subject ran through the crowd, and in a few moments a
black boy, about fourteen, was pushed forward as an expert in
arithmetic.

"Now, you Jim," said Susan, "you's been to school, an' you kin count up
figgers. 'Cordin' ter de chu'ch books dar's forty-seben women b'longin'
to our meetin', an' ef each one ob dem dar has got seben debbils in her,
I jus' wants you ter tell me how many debbils come to chu'ch ebery clear
Sunday ter hear dat ole Uncle Pete preach."

This view of the case created a sensation, and much interest was shown
in the result of Jim's calculations, which were made by the aid of a
back of an old letter and a piece of pencil furnished by Susan. The
result was at last announced as three hundred and nineteen, which,
although not precisely correct, was near enough to satisfy the company.

"Now, you jus' turn dat ober in you all's minds," said Susan. "More'n
free hunderd debbils in chu'ch ebery Sunday, an' we women fotchin 'em.
Does anybody s'pose I'se gwine ter b'lieve dat fool talk?"

A middle-aged man now lifted up his voice and said: "Ise been thinkin'
ober dis h'yar matter and Ise 'cluded dat p'r'aps de words ob de
preacher was used in a figgeratous form o' sense. P'r'aps de seben
debbils meant chillun."

These remarks were received with no favor by the assemblage.

"Oh, you git out!" cried Susan. "Your ole woman's got seben chillun,
shore 'nuf, an' I s'pec' dey's all debbils. But dem sent'ments don't
apply ter all de udder women h'yar, 'tic'larly ter dem dar young uns wot
ain't married yit."

This was good logic, but the feeling on the subject proved to be even
stronger, for the mothers in the company became so angry at their
children being considered devils that for a time there seemed to be
danger of an Amazonian attack on the unfortunate speaker. This was
averted, but a great deal of uproar now ensued, and it was the general
feeling that something ought to be done to show the deep-seated
resentment with which the horrible charge against the mothers and
sisters of the congregation had been met. Many violent propositions were
made, some of the younger men going so far as to offer to burn down the
church. It was finally agreed, quite unanimously, that old Peter should
be unceremoniously ousted from his place in the pulpit which he had
filled so many years.

As the week passed on, some of the older men of the congregation who had
friendly feelings toward their old companion and preacher talked the
matter over among themselves, and afterward, with many of their
fellow-members, succeeded at last in gaining the general consent that
Uncle Pete should be allowed a chance to explain himself, and give his
grounds and reasons for his astounding statement in regard to womankind.
If he could show biblical authority for this, of course nothing more
could be said. But if he could not, then he must get down from the
pulpit, and sit for the rest of his life on a back seat of the church.
This proposition met with the more favor, because even those who were
most indignant had an earnest curiosity to know what the old man would
say for himself.

During all this time of angry discussion, good old Peter was quietly and
calmly cutting and hauling wood on the Little Mountain. His mind was in
a condition of great comfort and peace, for not only had he been able to
rid himself, in his last sermon, of many of the hard thoughts concerning
women that had been gathering themselves together for years, but his
absence from home had given him a holiday from the harassments of Aunt
Rebecca's tongue, so that no new notions of woman's culpability had
risen within him. He had dismissed the subject altogether, and had been
thinking over a sermon regarding baptism, which he thought he could make
convincing to certain of the younger members of his congregation.

He arrived at home very late on Saturday night, and retired to his
simple couch without knowing anything of the terrible storm which had
been gathering through the week, and which was to burst upon him on the
morrow. But the next morning, long before church time, he received
warning enough of what was going to happen. Individuals and deputations
gathered in and about his cabin--some to tell him all that had been said
and done; some to inform him what was expected of him; some to stand
about and look at him; some to scold; some to denounce; but, alas! not
one to encourage; nor one to call him "Brudder Pete," that Sunday
appellation dear to his ears. But the old man possessed a stubborn soul,
not easily to be frightened.

"Wot I says in de pulpit," he remarked, "I'll 'splain in de pulpit, an'
you all ud better git 'long to de chu'ch, an' when de time fur de
sarvice come, I'll be dar."

This advice was not promptly acted upon, but in the course of half an
hour nearly all the villagers and loungers had gone off to the church in
the woods; and when Uncle Peter had put on his high black hat, somewhat
battered, but still sufficiently clerical looking for that congregation,
and had given something of a polish to his cowhide shoes, he betook
himself by the accustomed path to the log building where he had so often
held forth to his people. As soon as he entered the church he was
formally instructed by a committee of the leading members that before he
began to open the services, he must make it plain to the congregation
that what he had said on the preceding Sunday about every woman being
possessed by seven devils was Scripture truth, and not mere wicked
nonsense out of his own brain. If he could not do that, they wanted no
more praying or preaching from him.

Uncle Peter made no answer, but, ascending the little pulpit, he put his
hat on the bench behind him where it was used to repose, took out his
red cotton handkerchief and blew his nose in his accustomed way, and
looked about him. The house was crowded. Even Aunt Rebecca was there.

After a deliberate survey of his audience the preacher spoke: "Brev'eren
an' sisters, I see afore me Brudder Bill Hines, who kin read de Bible,
an' has got one. Ain't dat so, Brudder?"

Bill Hines having nodded and modestly grunted assent, the preacher
continued. "An' dars' Aun' Priscilla's boy, Jake, who ain't a brudder
yit, though he's plenty old 'nuf, min', I tell ye; an' he kin read de
Bible, fus' rate, an' has read it ter me ober an' ober ag'in. Ain't dat
so, Jake?"

Jake grinned, nodded, and hung his head, very uncomfortable at being
thus publicly pointed out.

"An' dar's good ole Aun' Patty, who knows more Scripter' dan ennybuddy
h'yar, havin' been teached by de little gals from Kunnel Jasper's an' by
dere mudders afore 'em. I reckin she know' de hull Bible straight froo,
from de Garden of Eden to de New Jerus'lum. An' dar are udders h'yar who
knows de Scripters, some one part an' some anudder. Now I axes ebery one
ob you all wot know de Scripters ef he don' 'member how de Bible tells
how our Lor' when he was on dis yearth cas' seben debbils out o' Mary
Magdalum?"

A murmur of assent came from the congregation. Most of them remembered
that.

"But did enny ob you ebber read, or hab read to you, dat he ebber cas'
'em out o'enny udder woman?"

Negative grunts and shakes of the head signified that nobody had ever
heard of this.

"Well, den," said the preacher, gazing blandly around, "all de udder
women got 'em yit."

A deep silence fell upon the assembly, and in a few moments an elderly
member arose. "Brudder Pete," he said, "I reckin you mought as well gib
out de hyme."


SECOND EXPOSITION: GRANDISON'S QUANDARY.


Grandison Pratt was a colored man of about thirty, who, with his wife
and two or three children, lived in a neat log cabin in one of the
Southern States. He was a man of an independent turn of mind, and he
much desired to own the house in which he lived and the small
garden-patch around it. This valuable piece of property belonged to Mr.
Morris, and as it was an outlying corner of his large farm he had no
objection to sell it to Grandison, provided the latter could pay for it;
but of this he had great doubts. The man was industrious enough, but he
often seemed to have a great deal of difficulty about paying the very
small rental charged for his place, and Mr. Morris, consequently, had
well-grounded doubts about his ability to purchase it.

"But, sah," said Grandison one day when these objections had been placed
before him, "I's been turnin' dis thing ober in my min' ober an' ober. I
know jes' how much I kin make an' how much I's got to spend an' how I
kin save ter buy the house, an' if I agree to pay you so much money on
such a day an' so much on such anudder day I's gwine ter do it. You kin
jes' put that down, sah, for sartin shuh."

"Well, Grandison," said Mr. Morris, "I'll give you a trial. If, at the
end of six months, you can pay me the first instalment, I'll have the
necessary papers made out, and you can go on and buy the place, but if
you are not up to time on the first payment, I want to hear no more
about the purchase."

"All right, Mahs'r Morris," said Grandison. "If I gibs you my word ter
pay de money on de fus' day ob October, I's gwine to do it. Dat's sartin
shuh."

Months passed on, and, although Grandison worked as steadily as usual,
he found toward the end of September that, in the ordinary course of
things, he would not be able to make up the sum necessary for the first
payment. Other methods out of the ordinary course came into his mind,
but he had doubts about availing himself of them. He was extremely
anxious to make up the amount due, for he knew very well that if he did
not pay it on the day appointed he might bid farewell to his hope of
becoming a freeholder. In his perplexity he resolved to consult Brother
'Bijah, the minister of the little church in the pine-woods to which
Grandison belonged.

"Now, look-a-heah, Brudder 'Bijah," said he, "wot's I gwine to do 'bout
dis bizness? I done promised ter pay dis money on de fus' day ob de
comin' month, an' dar's six dollars ob it dat I ain't got yit."

"An' aint dar any way ter git it?" asked 'Bijah.

"Yaas, dar's one way," said Grandison, "I's been turnin' dis matter ober
an' ober in my min', an' dar's only one way. I mought sell apples.
Apples is mighty skarse dis fall, an' I kin git two dollars a bar'l for
'em in town. Now, if I was ter sell three bar'ls of apples I'd hab dat
dar six dollars, sartin shuh. Don' you see dat, Brudder 'Bijah?"

"Dat's all clar 'nuf," said the minister, "but whar you gwine ter git
three bar'ls o' apples? You don' mean ter tell me dat you's got 'nuf
apple-trees in your little gyardin fur ter shake down three bar'ls o'
apples."

"Now look a-heah, Brudder 'Bijah," said Grandison, his eyes sparkling
with righteous indignation, "dat's too much 'to 'spec' ob a man who's
got ter work all day to s'port his wife an' chillun. I digs, an' I
plows, an' I plants, an' I hoes. But all dem things ain't 'nuf ter make
apple-trees grow in my gyardin like as dey was corn-field peas."

"Dat's so," said 'Bijah, reflectively. "Dat's too much to spec' ob any
man. But how's you gwine ter sell de apples if you ain't got 'em?"

"I's got ter git em," said Grandison. "Dar's apples 'nuf growin' roun'
an' not so fur away dat I can't tote 'em ter my house in a bahsket. It's
pow'ful hard on a man wot's worked all day ter have ter tote apples
ahfter night, but dar ain' no other way ob gittin' dat dar money."

"I spec' de orchard whar you's thinkin' o' gwine is Mahs'r Morrises,"
said the minister.

"You don' 'spose Ise gwine ter any ob dose low down orchards on de udder
side de creek, does ye? Mahs'r Morris has got the bes' apples in dis
county. Dat's de kin' wot fetch two dollars a bar'l."

"Brudder Gran'son," said 'Bijah, solemnly, "is you min' runnin on takin'
Mahs'r Morrises apples inter town an' sellin' em?"

"Well, he gits de money, don't he?" answered the other, "and if I don't
sell his apples 'taint no use sellin' none. Dem udder little nubbins
roun' heah won't fetch no two dollars a bar'l."

"Dem ain't justifyin' deeds wot's runnin' in your mind," said 'Bijah.
"Dey ain't justifyin'."

"Ob course," said Grandison, "dey wouldn't be justifyin' if I had de six
dollars. But I ain't got 'em, an' Ise promised to pay 'em. Now, is I ter
stick to de truf, or isn't I?"

"Truf is mighty," said the preacher, "an' ought not to be hendered from
prevailin'."

"Dat's so! dat's so!" exclaimed Grandison. "You can't go agin de
Scripters. Truf _is_ mighty, an' 'tain't fur pore human critters like us
to try to upsot her. Wot we're got ter do is ter stick to her through
thick an' thin."

"Ob course, dat's wot we oughter do," said 'Bijah, "but I can't see my
way clar to you sellin' dem apples."

"But dar ain't nuffin else ter do!" exclaimed Grandison, "an' ef I don't
do dat, away goes de truf, clar out o' sight. An' wot sort o' 'ligion
you call dat, Brudder 'Bijah?"

"'Tain't no kind at all," said 'Bijah, "fur we's bound ter stick to de
truf, which is de bottom corner-stone ob piousness. But dem apples don't
seem ter git demselves straightened out in my mind, Brudder Gran'son."

"It 'pears ter me, Brudder 'Bijah, dat you doan' look at dem apples in
de right light. If I was gwine ter sell 'em to git money ter buy a lot
o' spotted calliker ter make frocks for de chillen, or eben to buy two
pars o' shoes fur me an' Judy ter go to church in, dat would be a sin,
sartin shuh. But you done furgit dat I's gwine ter take de money ter
Mahs'r Morris. If apples is riz an' I gits two dollars an' a quarter a
bar'l, ob course I keeps de extry quarter, which don' pay anyhow fur de
trouble ob pickin' 'em. But de six dollars I gibs, cash down, ter
Mahs'r Morris. Don' you call dat puffectly fa'r an' squar, Brudder
'Bijah?"

'Bijah shook his head. "Dis is a mighty dubersome question, Brudder
Gran'son, a mighty dubersome question."

Grandison stood with a disappointed expression on his countenance. He
greatly desired to gain from his minister sanction for the financial
operation he had proposed. But this the solemn 'Bijah did not appear
prepared to give. As the two men stood together by the roadside they
saw, riding toward them, Mr. Morris himself.

"Now, den," exclaimed Grandison, "heah comes Mahs'r Morris, and I's
gwine ter put dis question to hisse'f. He oughter know how ter 'cide
bout it, if anybody does."

"You ain't truly gwine ter put dat question to him, is ye?" asked
'Bijah, quickly.

"No, sah," replied the other. "I's gwine to put the case on a dif'rent
show-pint. But 'twill be the same thing as de udder."

Mr. Morris was a genial-natured man, who took a good deal of interest in
his negro neighbors, and was fond of listening to their peculiar humor.
Therefore, when he saw that Grandison wished to speak to him he readily
pulled up his horse.

"Mahs'r Morris," said Grandison, removing his hat, "Brudder 'Bijah an'
me has been argyin on de subjick ob truf. An' jes' as you was comin' up
I was gwine ter tell him a par'ble 'bout sticken ter truf. An' if you's
got time, Mahs'r Morris, I'd be pow'ful glad ter tell you de par'ble,
an' let you 'cide 'tween us."

"Very well," said Mr. Morris, "go on with your parable."

"Dis yere par'ble," said Grandison, "has got a justifyin' meanin' in it,
an' it's 'bout a bar an' a' possum. De 'possum he was a-gwine out early
in de mawnin' ter git a little corn fur his breakfus'--"

"Very wrong in the opossum," said Mr. Morris, "for I am sure he hadn't
planted any corn."

"Well, den, sah," said Grandison, "p'raps 'twas akerns; but, anyway,
afore he was out ob de woods he see a big, ole bar a-comin' straight
'long to him. De 'possum he ain't got no time ter climb a tree an' git
out on de leetlest end ob a long limb, an' so he lay hese'f flat down on
de groun' an' make b'lieve he's dead. When de ole bar came up he sot
down an' look at de 'possum. Fus' he turn his head on one side an' den
he turn his head on de udder, but he look at de 'possum all de time.
D'reckly he gits done lookin' an' he says:

"'Look-a-heah, 'possum, is you dead or is you libin'? If you's dead I
won't eat you, fur I neber eats dead critters, but if you's libin' den
I eats you for my breakfus', fur I is bilin' hungry, not havin' had
nuffin sence sun-up but a little smack dat I took afore gwine out inter
de damp air ob de mawnin'. Now, den, 'possum, speak out and tell me is
you 'libe or is you dead?'

"Dat are question frew de 'possum inter a pow'ful sweat. If he told de
truf an' said he was alibe he knowed well 'nuf dat de bar would gobble
him up quicker'n if he'd been a hot ash cake an' a bowl of buttermilk;
but if he said he was dead so's de bar wouldn't eat him, de bar, like
'nuf, would know he lied, an' would eat him all de same. So he turn de
matter ober an' ober in his min', an' he wrastled with his 'victions,
but he couldn't come ter no 'clusion. 'Now don't you tink,' said de bar,
'dat I's got time to sit here de whole mawnin' waitin' fer you ter make
up your mind whether you's dead or not. If you don't 'cide pretty quick,
I'll put a big rock a-top o' you, an' stop fer you answer when I come
back in de ebenin'.' Now dis gib de 'possum a pow'ful skeer, an' 'twas
cl'ar to his min' dat he mus' 'cide de question straight off. If he tole
de truf, and said he was alibe, he'd be eat up shuh; but if he said he
was dead, de bar mought b'lieve him. 'Twarn't very likely dat he would,
but dar was dat one leetle chance, an' he done took it. 'I is dead,'
says he. 'You's a long time makin' up your min' 'bout it,' says de bar.
'How long you been dead?' 'Sence day 'fore yestidday,' says the 'possum.
'All right!' says de bar, 'when dey've on'y been dead two or free days,
an' kin talk, I eats 'em all de same.' An' he eat him up."

"And now, Grandison," said Mr. Morris, "where is the moral of that
parable?"

"De moral is dis," said Grandison; "stick ter de truf. If de 'possum had
tole de truf, an' said he was alibe, de bar couldn't eat him no more'n
he did eat him; no bar could do dat. An' I axes you, Mahs'r Morris, don'
dat par'ble show dat eb'rybody oughter stick ter de truf, no matter what
happens."

"Well, I don't think your moral is very clear," said Mr. Morris, "for it
would have been about as bad for the 'possum one way as the other. But,
after all, it would have been better for the little beast to tell the
truth and die with a clear conscience."

"Dat's so!" cried Brother 'Bijah, speaking in his ministerial capacity,
"de great thing in dis worl' is ter die wid a clear conscience."

"But you can't do dat," said Grandison, "if you let dis thing an' dat
thing come in ter hinder ye. Now dat's jes' wot we's been disputin'
'bout, Mahs'r Morris. I 'clared dat we oughter stick ter de truf widout
lookin' to de right or de lef'; but Brudder 'Bijah, his min' wasn't
quite made up on de subjick. Now, wot you say, Mahs'r Morris?"

"I say stick to the truth, of course," said Mr. Morris, gathering up his
reins. "And, by the way, Grandison, do you expect to make that payment
on your place which is due next week?"

"Yaas, sah, sartin shuh," said Grandison. "I done tole you I'd do it,
Mahs'r Morris, an' I 'tends ter stick ter de truf."

"Now, den," said Grandison, in a tone of triumph, when Mr. Morris had
ridden away, "you see I's right in my 'clusions, and Mahs'r Morris
'grees with me."

"Dunno," said Brother 'Bijah, shaking his head, "dis is a mighty
dubersome question. You kep' dem apples clar out o' sight, Brudder
Gran'son; clar out o' sight."

It was about a week after this, quite early in the morning, that
Grandison was slowly driving into town with a horse and a wagon which he
had borrowed from a neighbor. In the wagon were three barrels of fine
apples. Suddenly, at a turn in the road, he was greatly surprised to
meet Mr. Morris, riding homeward.

"What have you in those barrels, Grandison?" inquired his landlord.

"Dey's apples, sah," was the reply, "dat I's got de job ob haulin' ter
town, sah."

Mr. Morris rode up to the wagon and removed the piece of old canvas that
was thrown over the tops of the barrels; there was no need of asking any
questions. No one but himself, for many miles around, had
"Belle-flowers" and "Jeannettes" like these.

"How much do you lack, Grandison," he said, "of making up the money you
owe me to-morrow?"

"Six dollars, sah," said Grandison.

"Six dollars--three barrels--very good," said Mr. Morris. "I see you are
determined to stick to the truth, Grandison, and keep your engagement.
But I will trouble you to turn that wagon round and haul those apples to
my house. And, if you still want to buy the place, you can come on
Monday morning and work out the balance you have to make up on the first
instalment; and, after this, you can make all your payments in work. A
day's labor is fair and plain, but your ways of sticking to the truth
are very crooked."

It was not long after this that Grandison was ploughing in one of Mr.
Morris' fields, when Brother 'Bijah came along and sat upon the fence.

"Brudder Gran'son," said he, when the ploughman had reached the end of
the furrow and was preparing to turn, "jes' you let your hoss res' a
minnit till I tells you a par'ble."

"Wot par'ble?" said Grandison, in a tone of unconcern, but stopping his
horse, all the same.

"Why, dis one!" said 'Bijah. "Dar was an ole mule an' he b'longed to a
cullud man named Harris who used to carry de mail from de Coht House ter
Cary's Cross-roads. De ole mule was a pow'ful triflin' critter an' he
got lazier an' lazier, an' 'fore long he got so dreffle slow dat it tuk
him more'n one day ter go from de Coht House ter de crossroads, an' he
allus come in de day ahfter mail-day, when de people was done gone home.
So de cullud man, Harris, he says:

"'You is too ole fur ter carry de mail, you triflin' mule, an' I hain't
got no udder use fur you.'

"So he put him in a gully-field, whar dar was nuffin but bar' groun' an'
hog weed. Now, dar was nuffin in dis worl' dat triflin' mule hated so
much as hog weed, an' he says to hese'f: 'I's boun' ter do somefin'
better'n dis fur a libin. I reckin I'll go skeer dat ole Harris, an'
make him gib me a feed o' corn.' So he jump ober de fence, fur he was
spry 'nuf when he had a min' ter, an' he steals an ole bar skin dat he'd
seen hangin' up in de store po'ch, an' he pretty nigh kivered himse'f
all up wid it. Den he go down to de pos' offis, whar de mail had jes'
come in. When dis triflin' ole mule seed de cullud man, Harris, sittin'
on de bottom step ob de po'ch, he begin to kick up his heels an' make
all de noise he could wid he mouf. 'Wot's dat?' cried de cullud man,
Harris. 'I's a big grizzly bar,' said de mule, ''scaped from de 'nagerie
when 'twas fordin' Scott's Creek.' 'When did you git out?' said de
cullud man, Harris. 'I bus' from de cage at half pas' free o'clock dis
ebenin'.' 'An' is you reely a grizzly bar?' 'Dat's de truf,' said de
triflin' mule, 'an' I's pow'ful hungry, an' if you don' go git me a feed
o' corn I'll swaller you down whole.' An' he begun to roar as like a
grizzly bar as he knew how. 'Dat all de truf, you tellin' me?' de cullud
man, Harris, ask. 'Dat's all true as I's libin',' says de triflin' mule.
'All right, den,' says de cullud man, Harris, 'if you kin come from de
ford on Scott's Creek in a hour an' a half, you kin carry de mail jes'
as well as any udder mule, an' I's gwine ter buy a big cart whip, an'
make you do it. So take off dat bar skin, an' come 'long wid me.' So you
see Brudder Gran'son," continued 'Bijah, "dar's dif'rent kinds ob truf,
an' you's got ter be mighty 'ticklar wot kind you sticks ter."

"Git up," said Grandison to his drowsy horse, as he started him on
another furrow.




PLAIN FISHING.


"Well, sir," said old Peter, as he came out on the porch with his pipe,
"so you came here to go fishin'?"

Peter Gruse was the owner of the farm-house where I had arrived that
day, just before supper-time. He was a short, strong-built old man, with
a pair of pretty daughters, and little gold rings in his ears. Two
things distinguished him from the farmers in the country round about:
one was the rings in his ears, and the other was the large and
comfortable house in which he kept his pretty daughters. The other
farmers in that region had fine large barns for their cattle and horses,
but very poor houses for their daughters. Old Peter's ear-rings were
indirectly connected with his house. He had not always lived among those
mountains. He had been on the sea, where his ears were decorated, and he
had travelled a good deal on land, where he had ornamented his mind with
many ideas which were not in general use in the part of his State in
which he was born. His house stood a little back from the high road,
and if a traveller wished to be entertained, Peter was generally willing
to take him in, provided he had left his wife and family at home. The
old man himself had no objection to wives and children, but his two
pretty daughters had.

These young women had waited on their father and myself at supper-time,
one continually bringing hot griddle cakes, and the other giving me
every opportunity to test the relative merits of the seven different
kinds of preserved fruit which, in little glass plates, covered the
otherwise unoccupied spaces on the tablecloth. The latter, when she
found that there was no further possible way of serving us, presumed to
sit down at the corner of the table and begin her supper. But in spite
of this apparent humility, which was only a custom of the country, there
was that in the general air of the pretty daughters which left no doubt
in the mind of the intelligent observer that they stood at the wheel in
that house. There was a son of fourteen, who sat at table with us, but
he did not appear to count as a member of the family.

"Yes," I answered, "I understood that there was good fishing hereabout,
and, at any rate, I should like to spend a few days among these hills
and mountains."

"Well," said Peter, "there's trout in some of our streams, though not
as many as there used to be, and there's hills a plenty, and mountains
too, if you choose to walk fur enough. They're a good deal furder off
than they look. What did you bring with you to fish with?"

"Nothing at all," I answered. "I was told in the town that you were a
great fisherman, and that you could let me have all the tackle I would
need."

"Upon my word," said old Peter, resting his pipe-hand on his knee and
looking steadfastly at me, "you're the queerest fisherman I've see'd
yet. Nigh every year, some two or three of 'em stop here in the fishin'
season, and there was never a man who didn't bring his jinted pole, and
his reels, and his lines, and his hooks, and his dry-goods flies, and
his whiskey-flask with a long strap to it. Now, if you want all these
things, I haven't got 'em."

"Whatever you use yourself will suit me," I answered.

"All right, then," said he. "I'll do the best I can for you in the
mornin'. But it's plain enough to me that you're not a game fisherman,
or you wouldn't come here without your tools."

To this remark I made answer to the effect that, though I was very fond
of fishing, my pleasure in it did not depend upon the possession of all
the appliances of professional sport.

"Perhaps you think," said the old man, "from the way I spoke, that I
don't believe them fellers with the jinted poles can ketch fish, but
that ain't so. That old story about the little boy with the pin-hook who
ketched all the fish, while the gentleman with the modern improvements,
who stood alongside of him, kep' throwin' out his beautiful flies and
never got nothin', is a pure lie. The fancy chaps, who must have
ev'rythin' jist so, gen'rally gits fish. But for all that, I don't like
their way of fishin', and I take no stock in it myself. I've been
fishin', on and off, ever since I was a little boy, and I've caught nigh
every kind there is, from the big jew-fish and cavalyoes down South, to
the trout and minnies round about here. But when I ketch a fish, the
first thing I do is to try to git him on the hook, and the next thing is
to git him out of the water jist as soon as I kin. I don't put in no
time worryin' him. There's only two animals in the world that likes to
worry smaller creeturs a good while afore they kill 'em; one is the cat,
and the other is what they call the game fisherman. This kind of a
feller never goes after no fish that don't mind being ketched. He goes
fur them kinds that loves their home in the water and hates most to
leave it, and he makes it jist as hard fur 'em as he kin. What the game
fisher likes is the smallest kind of a hook, the thinnest line, and a
fish that it takes a good while to weaken. The longer the weak'nin'
business kin be spun out, the more the sport. The idee is to let the
fish think there's a chance fur him to git away. That's jist like the
cat with her mouse. She lets the little creetur hop off, but the minnit
he gits fur enough away, she jumps on him and jabs him with her claws,
and then, if there's any game left in him, she lets him try again. Of
course the game fisher could have a strong line and a stout pole and git
his fish in a good sight quicker, if he wanted to, but that wouldn't be
sport. He couldn't give him the butt and spin him out, and reel him in,
and let him jump and run till his pluck is clean worn out. Now, I likes
to git my fish ashore with all the pluck in 'em. It makes 'em taste
better. And as fur fun, I'll be bound I've had jist as much of that, and
more, too, than most of these fellers who are so dreadful anxious to
have everythin' jist right, and think they can't go fishin' till they've
spent enough money to buy a suit of Sunday clothes. As a gen'ral rule
they're a solemn lot, and work pretty hard at their fun. When I work I
want to be paid fur it, and when I go in fur fun I want to take it easy
and cheerful. Now I wouldn't say so much agen these fellers," said old
Peter, as he arose and put his empty pipe on a little shelf under the
porch-roof, "if it wasn't for one thing, and that is, that they think
that their kind of fishin' is the only kind worth considerin'. The way
they look down upon plain Christian fishin' is enough to rile a
hitchin'-post. I don't want to say nothin' agen no man's way of
attendin' to his own affairs, whether it's kitchen-gardenin', or whether
it's fishin', if he says nothin' agen my way; but when he looks down on
me, and grins at me, I want to haul myself up, and grin at him, if I
kin. And in this case, I kin. I s'pose the house-cat and the cat-fisher
(by which I don't mean the man who fishes for cat-fish) was both made as
they is, and they can't help it; but that don't give 'em no right to put
on airs before other bein's, who gits their meat with a square kill.
Good-night. And sence I've talked so much about it, I've a mind to go
fishin' with you to-morrow myself."

The next morning found old Peter of the same mind, and after breakfast
he proceeded to fit me out for a day of what he called "plain Christian
trout-fishin'." He gave me a reed rod, about nine feet long, light,
strong, and nicely balanced. The tackle he produced was not of the fancy
order, but his lines were of fine strong linen, and his hooks were of
good shape, clean and sharp, and snooded to the lines with a neatness
that indicated the hand of a man who had been where he learned to wear
little gold rings in his ears.

"Here are some of these feather insects," he said, "which you kin take
along if you like." And he handed me a paper containing a few artificial
flies. "They're pretty nat'ral," he said, "and the hooks is good. A man
who came here fishin' gave 'em to me, but I shan't want 'em to-day. At
this time of year grasshoppers is the best bait in the kind of place
where we're goin' to fish. The stream, after it comes down from the
mountain, runs through half a mile of medder land before it strikes into
the woods agen. A grasshopper is a little creetur that's got as much
conceit as if his jinted legs was fish-poles, and he thinks he kin jump
over this narrer run of water whenever he pleases; but he don't always
do it, and then if he doesn't git snapped up by the trout that lie along
the banks in the medder, he is floated along into the woods, where
there's always fish enough to come to the second table."

Having got me ready, Peter took his own particular pole, which he
assured me he had used for eleven years, and hooking on his left arm a
good-sized basket, which his elder pretty daughter had packed with cold
meat, bread, butter, and preserves, we started forth for a three-mile
walk to the fishing-ground. The day was a favorable one for our purpose,
the sky being sometimes over-clouded, which was good for fishing, and
also for walking on a highroad; and sometimes bright, which was good for
effects of mountain-scenery. Not far from the spot where old Peter
proposed to begin our sport, a small frame-house stood by the roadside,
and here the old man halted and entered the open door without knocking
or giving so much as a premonitory stamp. I followed, imitating my
companion in leaving my pole outside, which appeared to be the only
ceremony that the etiquette of those parts required of visitors. In the
room we entered, a small man in his shirt-sleeves sat mending a
basket-handle. He nodded to Peter, and Peter nodded to him.

"We've come up a-fishin'," said the old man. "Kin your boys give us some
grasshoppers?"

"I don't know that they've got any ready ketched," said he, "for I
reckon I used what they had this mornin'. But they kin git you some.
Here, Dan, you and Sile go and ketch Mr. Gruse and this young man some
grasshoppers. Take that mustard-box, and see that you git it full."

Peter and I now took seats, and the conversation began about a black
cow which Peter had to sell, and which the other was willing to buy if
the old man would trade for sheep, which animals, however, the
basket-mender did not appear just at that time to have in his
possession. As I was not very much interested in this subject, I walked
to the back-door and watched two small boys in scanty shirts and
trousers, and ragged straw hats, who were darting about in the grass
catching grasshoppers, of which insects, judging by the frequent pounces
of the boys, there seemed a plentiful supply.

"Got it full?" said their father, when the boys came in.

"Crammed," said Dan.

Old Peter took the little can, pressed the top firmly on, put it in his
coat-tail pocket, and rose to go. "You'd better think about that cow,
Barney," said he. He said nothing to the boys about the box of bait; but
I could not let them catch grasshoppers for us for nothing, and I took a
dime from my pocket, and gave it to Dan. Dan grinned, and Sile looked
sheepishly happy, and at the sight of the piece of silver an expression
of interest came over the face of the father. "Wait a minute," said he,
and he went into a little room that seemed to be a kitchen. Returning,
he brought with him a small string of trout. "Do you want to buy some
fish?" he said. "These is nice fresh ones. I ketched 'em this mornin'."

To offer to sell fish to a man who is just about to go out to catch them
for himself might, in most cases, be considered an insult, but it was
quite evident that nothing of the kind was intended by Barney. He
probably thought that if I bought grasshoppers, I might buy fish. "You
kin have 'em for a quarter," he said.

It was derogatory to my pride to buy fish at such a moment, but the man
looked very poor, and there was a shade of anxiety on his face which
touched me. Old Peter stood by without saying a word. "It might be
well," I said, turning to him, "to buy these fish, for we may not catch
enough for supper."

"Such things do happen," said the old man.

"Well," said I, "if we have these we shall feel safe in any case." And I
took the fish and gave the man a quarter. It was not, perhaps, a
professional act, but the trout were well worth the money, and I felt
that I was doing a deed of charity.

Old Peter and I now took our rods, and crossed the road into an enclosed
field, and thence into a wide stretch of grass land, bounded by hills
in front of us and to the right, while a thick forest lay to the left.
We had walked but a short distance, when Peter said: "I'll go down into
the woods, and try my luck there, and you'd better go along up stream,
about a quarter of a mile, to where it's rocky. P'raps you ain't used to
fishin' in the woods, and you might git your line cotched. You'll find
the trout'll bite in the rough water."

"Where is the stream?" I asked.

"This is it," he said, pointing to a little brook, which was scarcely
too wide for me to step across, "and there's fish right here, but
they're hard to ketch, fur they git plenty of good livin' and are mighty
sassy about their eatin'. But you kin ketch 'em up there."

Old Peter now went down toward the woods, while I walked up the little
stream. I had seen trout-brooks before, but never one so diminutive as
this. However, when I came nearer to the point where the stream issued
from between two of the foot-hills of the mountains, which lifted their
forest-covered heights in the distance, I found it wider and shallower,
breaking over its rocky bottom in sparkling little cascades.

Fishing in such a jolly little stream, surrounded by this mountain
scenery, and with the privileges of the beautiful situation all to
myself, would have been a joy to me if I had had never a bite. But no
such ill-luck befell me. Peter had given me the can of grasshoppers
after putting half of them into his own bait-box, and these I used with
much success. It was grasshopper season, and the trout were evidently on
the lookout for them. I fished in the ripples under the little
waterfalls; and every now and then I drew out a lively trout. Most of
these were of moderate size, and some of them might have been called
small. The large ones probably fancied the forest shades, where old
Peter went. But all I caught were fit for the table, and I was very well
satisfied with the result of my sport.

About noon I began to feel hungry, and thought it time to look up the
old man, who had the lunch-basket. I walked down the bank of the brook,
and some time before I reached the woods I came to a place where it
expanded to a width of about ten feet. The water here was very clear,
and the motion quiet, so that I could easily see to the bottom, which
did not appear to be more than a foot below the surface. Gazing into
this transparent water, as I walked, I saw a large trout glide across
the stream, and disappear under the grassy bank which overhung the
opposite side. I instantly stopped. This was a much larger fish than
any I had caught, and I determined to try for him.

I stepped back from the bank, so as to be out of sight, and put a fine
grasshopper on my hook; then I lay, face downward, on the grass, and
worked myself slowly forward until I could see the middle of the stream;
then quietly raising my pole, I gave my grasshopper a good swing, as if
he had made a wager to jump over the stream at its widest part. But as
he certainly would have failed in such an ambitious endeavor, especially
if he had been caught by a puff of wind, I let him come down upon the
surface of the water, a little beyond the middle of the brook.
Grasshoppers do not sink when they fall into the water, and so I kept
this fellow upon the surface, and gently moved him along, as if, with
all the conceit taken out of him by the result of his ill-considered
leap, he was ignominiously endeavoring to swim to shore. As I did this,
I saw the trout come out from under the bank, move slowly toward the
grasshopper, and stop directly under him. Trembling with anxiety and
eager expectation, I endeavored to make the movements of the insect
still more natural, and, as far as I was able, I threw into him a sudden
perception of his danger, and a frenzied desire to get away. But,
either the trout had had all the grasshoppers he wanted, or he was able,
from long experience, to perceive the difference between a natural
exhibition of emotion and a histrionic imitation of it, for he slowly
turned, and, with a few slight movements of his tail, glided back under
the bank. In vain did the grasshopper continue his frantic efforts to
reach the shore; in vain did he occasionally become exhausted, and sink
a short distance below the surface; in vain did he do everything that he
knew, to show that he appreciated what a juicy and delicious morsel he
was, and how he feared that the trout might yet be tempted to seize him;
the fish did not come out again.

Then I withdrew my line, and moved back from the stream. I now
determined to try Mr. Trout with a fly, and I took out the paper old
Peter Gruse had given me. I did not know exactly what kind of winged
insects were in order at this time of the year, but I was sure that
yellow butterflies were not particular about just what month it was, so
long as the sun shone warmly. I therefore chose that one of Peter's
flies which was made of the yellowest feathers, and, removing the snood
and hook from my line, I hastily attached this fly, which was provided
with a hook quite suitable for my desired prize. Crouching on the
grass, I again approached the brook. Gaily flitting above the glassy
surface of the water, in all the fancied security of tender youth and
innocence, came my yellow fly. Backward and forward over the water he
gracefully flew, sometimes rising a little into the air, as if to view
the varied scenery of the woods and mountains, and then settling for a
moment close to the surface, to better inspect his glittering image as
it came up from below, and showing in his every movement his intense
enjoyment of summer-time and life.