I thought to write a book entitled: "Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow." How much is buried in the wreckage of yesterday—how uninteresting today is and how little is to be done—our burden we shift to the strong, young shoulders of tomorrow; tomorrow of the big heart, who in kindness hides our sorrows and whispers only of hope. I ended by writing,—this—which I have called "Chit-Chat," thus classifying the book, knowing that such a book if true to name will picture the age and find a publisher.

I have read in the Arabian Book of Knowledge that "thoughts are Tartars, vagabonds; imprison all thou canst not slay," and have seen fit to follow this suggestion and the advice given a Turkish author—

So I present to you, gentle or gallant reader, as the case may be, and quite informally, John Cornwall.

He was born at 702 West Chestnut Street, Louisville, Kentucky, on the 12th day of May, 1872. His mother was a widow; and before the days of H. C. L, the two lived comfortably on her income of $1,800.00 a year.His boyhood was as that of other boys of the city; an era of happiness and happiness has no history. He was considered a good boy as boys go; and good boys have few adventures.

Although John never attended Sunday School except when his mother made him—as she was a Presbyterian, he wore the honor pin for an unbroken three-year attendance.

School to him was such a delight, that in a spirit of emulative self-denial, he never started from home, a block away, until a minute before the tardy bell rang. He usually made it. If late, he slipped in, usually walking backwards, hoping either to escape observation or, if seen, to be told to retake his seat.

His vacations were spent on the river where he learned to handle a canoe and skiff; and before he was fourteen could swim and dive like a didapper. At that time his greatest ambition was to run the falls in a canoe; his next to be a steamboat captain.

He and two other boys built a camp on Six-Mile Island. There they usually spent the month of August; during the preceding vacation days working as bank runners or messenger boys to raise the money to finance the camping party.

He was entered in the graded school at seven, in high school at fifteen, at which time he put on long trousers and changed from stockings to socks. He insisted on discarding his stockings, as the boys had a way of lifting the bottoms of trousers to see if the one appearing for his first time in long trousers yet wore his stockings. He graduated from the high school at nineteen; and after two years at the local law school and in Judge Marshall's office, was given a position with the Kentucky Title Company; and for a year had been employed at abstracting in the Jefferson County Clerk's office.

One day a prosperous-looking stranger asked where certain records might be found and he graciously showed their location. The next day the stranger asked several questions as to local real estate laws, particularly as to leases, transfers and the rights of married women. He introduced himself as Mr. Rogers and asked John his name.

The following day about noon he came into the clerk's office and said; "Mr. Cornwall, I wish you would lunch with me today." Cornwall, after telephoning his mother that he would not be home, went with him.

When they were nearly through eating Mr. Rogers said:

"This morning I was at the office of Judge Barnett. He is attorney for our company, The Pittsburgh Coal & Coke Company. I asked him the same questions I did you and he gave similar answers. I have since made inquiries and believe our company can use you to look after its local law business in Bell, Harlan and Leslie counties. In these three counties we own about fifty thousand acres of coal lands and mineral leases on approximately two hundred thousand acres more. In addition we own several old surveys which I do not include in this acreage.

"We will pay you $1,800.00 a year, equip and furnish you with an office in our new building in Harlan and will make no objection to you attending to such local business as may come your way, provided it does not take you away from Harlan. What we need is a man on the ground. Think this over and let me know in the morning. I am at the Galt House, room 247. You had better call instead of telephoning. I shall be disappointed if you do not accept my offer."

"I thank you and I will take it up with mother tonight, then call at your room at 8:30 in the morning. Please excuse me now as I am due at the office."

Mr. Rogers and John Cornwall, several days later, arrived at Pineville on the early morning train and after lunch left on horseback, taking the Straight Creek road to Harlan.

It was not their intention to ride through that afternoon, but stop overnight at Simeon Saylor's and the following morning look over the Helton, Saylor and Brock coal properties on the south or main fork of the creek.

The road follows the creek and is canopied by sycamore, elm and birch trees or grape vines and other creepers. It is screened by thickets of pawpaw, blackberry, sumac or elderberry bushes which grow thick in the corners of the abutting worm fences.

It is not a lonely way. Every three or four hundred yards you pass a small mountain farmhouse overflowing with children, calling to mind the home of the old woman who lives in the shoe. Many squads of geese, following their corporal, march across the road towards the creek or back again to the barnyard. The thickets are alive with red birds and ground robins and an occasional squirrel, who has come down the mountain for a drink, rustles the leaves in his flight or at giddy heighth barks defiance at passing strangers.

Pine Mountain, without a break or scarce a deep cove, walls in the narrow valley on the south, while on the north smaller mountains stand at attention. The stream, with little chance to wander, bisects the valley in its unvarying course and perforce pursues its way, true to name.

They arrive at the foot of Salt Trace just as the lively tinkling of cowbells, as well as their own appetites, and the setting sun, suggests supper time; and their chafed buttocks, more used to a swivel chair than a saddle, pleaded for the comfort of an altered position.

Simeon Saylor lives several hundred yards up the creek from where the Salt Trace Trail, the bridle path to Harlan, leaves the main road. His house is the usual stopping place for travelers. He has imposed the labor of their entertainment upon his women folks, not so much for profit as to hear the news and chit-chat of the outside world.

The house is a structure of three large pens of logs with a dog trot (hallway) between. Two front the road, the third forms an ell at the rear and is flanked by a long porch. The whole is covered by a rough clapboard roof. Each pen has a sandstone chimney and each room a large, open fireplace. The ell is used as a kitchen, dining-room and storehouse combined. On the edge of the porch, almost within reach of the well sweep, a bench holds two tin wash basins; a cake of laundry soap reposes in the former coffin of a family of sardines and a roller towel, sterilized and dried by air and sunlight, hangs pendant from the eaves.

The travelers as they rode up and stiffly dismounted noted the many chickens going to roost and the three cows occupying the road in front of the house. The barn was rather an imposing structure. These signs assured eggs, milk and butter for themselves and feed and comfortable quarters for their horses.After supper they sat out in the moonlight on a crooked, half uprooted elm overhanging the creek, until the world grew worshipfully still as it does twenty miles from a railroad; their quiet, contented thoughts undisturbed by the call of the whippoorwills in the near thickets and the hooting of a great owl far down the valley.

Then they were joined by their host, a tall, rawboned, sallow, sandy-haired man with a long, thin face on which grew a straggly beard, which had never known shears or razor. He had come out to hear more news than he had been able to learn at supper, where table manners demanded that he should eat and get through with it. At the table the men ate saying little, while the old woman and her daughters served them, and in silence.

His youngest boy, Caleb, came with him, an immodest little fellow; made so by his father, who it seemed spent most of his time boasting of the boy's accomplishments.

"Well, rested yet? Thar's a boy what's gwinter make a lawyer. He's just turned nine and you can't believe nothin' he says. He can argy any thing out'er his maw and the gals and the boys nigh bout hayr haint got no show with him; somehow he gits every thing they gits hold on. And you oughter see him shoot with a squirrel gun! Many a time he's knocked the bark out from under a squirrel and killed him without raising a hayr. Last Christmas eve I fotched a jug of moonshine from the Cliff House Still and hid it in the loft. You know that boy found out whar I hid her and when I went after hit, hit was nigh gone. He was snoozing away on the hay. When he come to, his head didn't hurt narry bit. That once I shore split his pants for him with a hame strop. He's got to leave my licker alone; that's one thing he can't put over on his paw,—no not yit. Down the crick at the mines is a dago, a fur-reen-er and his folks from Bolony. He's got a boy, Luigi Poggi, about fourteen but not as big as Caleb. That boy spends all his time with Caleb. He had jest gone home when you rid up. He talks dago to Caleb and Caleb gives him back jest plain straight Crick talk. If he's larnin as much United States as Caleb is dago, he'll make circit rider preacher in a few years. Caleb talk dago to the men."

Whereupon the boy stepped directly in front of Mr. Rogers and said; "Buona sera, Rogers avete tabacco meliore di questo?" (Good evening, Rogers, have you any tobacco better than this?—holding out a plug of long green.)

To which Mr. Rogers understanding him, replied:

"Caro ragazzo, voi mi annoiati oltre mode, buono notte." (My dear boy, you annoy me considerably, good night.)

"Ma non debbo ancora." (But I am not going yet.)

"Well you speak dago too, he's a great boy aint he, jest like his paw."

"What mought yer bissiness be, Mr. Rogers?"

"I am secretary of the Pittsburgh Coal & Coke Company."

"Yaah, that's the new crowd what's come in hayr buying out the old settlers. I hearn you bought that old Boyd Dickinson survey. Well you didn't git much. They've been trying for nigh forty year to locate the beginning corner. The first time Cal Hurst and them surveyor men came prowlin' round hayr, we got two on them. How's that trial with the Davis heirs comin' on? Old Milt Yungthank at Pineville has looked ater their bissiniss fer nigh twenty year. He had Sim and some of the boys up thayr with Winchesters about two year ago."

"Young feller, what's yer name?"

"My name is Cornwall.""Ever been up heyr before? I was in yer town onct. I rid down to Livingston on the old gray mare, then took the train thar, toting my saddle bags on my arm. When I got off the train at the dee-pot, a nigger steps up and says ter me: 'Boss, give me yer verlisse.' He didn't get them saddle bags, you bet. I was too sharp for that. I went to a hotel somewheres. They stuck a big book under my nose and says, sign hayr. I done hearn tell of them confidence and lightnin' rod men and I signed nothin'. They sent me to a room with red carpyt on the floor and velvit cheers with flowers kinder scotched in them; and the man behind the counter gave the nigger a lamp and told him to cut off the gas. That nigger tried to take them saddle bags but I hung on, when he says, all right boss and left go. That place had a box lifter to it. After a while I got tired of settin' in that room and thought I would go out and see the town; so I locked the door and come down erbout forty steps to the front door. Then that first feller what wanted me ter sign the book says; Leave the key and saddle bags with me. I says, says I, You can have the key but no man gits holt of them saddle bags. It's a good thing I brung them erlong, fer I never did find that place ergin. I went erbout a quarter, when I met a smart feller and he says ter me; Old man, where're you gwinter show! I says right here, by gad! and I run my hand into them saddle bags and brung out my cap and ball. That feller shore broke the wind, he showed some speed. What moight yer bissiniss be?"

"This is the first time I was ever up here. I'm a lawyer."

"Yaah, one of them city lawyers; they tell me they is cute. I have had to do some lawing lately. Down the crick erbout a mile Elhannon Howard lives. Last winter I sold Elhannon a hawg on credit fer ten dollars like a dang fool and he wouldn't pay fer it, so I lawed him before Squire Ingram and got jedgment. That and the costs come ter fifteen dollars and a quarter. The Squire writ out an execution and I got the constable to levy on three hives of bees; the constable says that's all he's got what's exempt. We had a hell of a time moving them bees, then we had to move them back."

"How was that?"

"He got that lawyer from Pineville by the name of Marshall Bull-it and the squire thinks the sun rises whar that feller stands. The squire believed what that lawyer said and jedged that bees is poultry and the statute says poultry am exempt. I made up my mind that old Elhannon had to pay that jedgment so a couple of Sundays ago when they went to meetin', I slipped down to his house and took a look around, counting off what the statute said was exempt. He had jest what the law 'lowed him. He had jest one hoss, one yoke of oxen, Tom and Jerry, two cows and five sheep. One of them sheep was the finest Southdown ram you ever laid yer eye on. Monday morning before day I went out where my sheep was and there was a little crippled lamb about a day old. I picked it up and fotched it down to Elhannon's and drapped it over the fence into his little pasture, where his sheep were. Then I went down and got that constable and he come and executed on that ram. Elhannon killed and et one of his sheep, then he paid me up and took his ram back. If I had a thousand boys I wouldn't name narry dang one of them Elhannon. I got another little case what comes up next fall in the Bell Circit Court, 'taint much. I low ter pay a good young lawyer about twenty five bucks to git me off. 'Bout a month ago I shot Caleb Spencer as dead as a kit mackrel. I was going over Salt Trace to the mill on the river. When I got on top of the divide he raised up from behind a log about a hundred yards off and drew a bead on me. I saw him jest before he pulled and I dodged. The ball cut out this hole in my hat. I rid right peart, till I come to Gabe Perkins' then I hopped off my mule and, borrowing his Winchester, I come back the cut-off footpath. There set that cold-blooded bush-whacker on the same log, looking down the road the way I had kited, with his gun kinder restin' on his knees. I rested on a stump and took him square in the middle of the back. He gave a yell and jumped erbout five feet, but it was too late to jump. 'Taint nothing to it, a plain case of self-defense and 'parent necessity. But if you stay up in this country, I like yer looks and will give yer first chance on that easy money."

"I thank you for the offer. It is worth at least five hundred dollars to undertake your defense; as it is not a case of self-defense and apparent necessity, as you seem to think. Much depends upon the jury in such a case. You need a good lawyer who will be well acquainted with the panel, else you may be sent to the penitentiary."

"Son, you've got a lot to larn yit. Man alive! You folks have talked so much it's nigh erbout bed-time. Why that boy is asleep. Would you like to turn in?"