Lizzie May could hardly wait till she was alone with her sisters in their attic bedroom to tell them that Dan Pooler had asked her to marry him. They were going to try to go to housekeeping in the spring.

The following Sunday afternoon when Dan and Lizzie May were out driving, Jerry Blackford came over to the Pippinger place. There was nothing unusual about this. Since they were mere babies the Blackford boys, Andy and Jerry, had been in the habit of coming over to play with the Pippingers. This time, however, Jerry came alone. And instead of being in overalls and torn shirt, he was wearing his new brown mail order suit, a black derby hat, a "biled" shirt, and a resplendent tie of red and green stripes. He walked up the wagon drive, hesitated for the fraction of a second before the little picket gate that led into the dooryard of the house, then walked on into the barnyard. Here he found Bill, Uncle Sam Whitmarsh, and Uncle Amos Crupper sitting on the chopping log chewing, whittling, and spitting. It was late December, but the day was mild and the sunshine pleasant to sit in. A Sabbath afternoon calm permeated the pale sunshine and the still, birdless air. A few crows cawing reproachfully over the stubble of the deserted cornfield, only intensified the silence. Between the men and the barn, Craw and Elmer were playing a game of catch with a homemade ball of twisted rubber and string.

"Where be ye a-goin' in yer Sunday clothes, Jerry?" inquired old Amos Crupper, looking up from his whittling.

"No place."

"Aw, come on naow," rallied Uncle Sam Whitmarsh, with a twinkle in his keen gray eyes. "A young feller don't stretch on his Sunday best jes to tramp the roads. You're a-goin' sparkin' some gal."

"I hain't neither. I'm a-goin to hev a game o' ketch with Craw an' Elmer. Come on, Craw, pitch 'er to me, an' we'll make it a three-handed game."

By and by Judith came out to the well to get a bucket of water. Jerry glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye as she worked the pump handle up and down. But he was careful not to turn his head in her direction.

"Jerry Blackford's aout there in all his Sunday clothes a-playin' ketch with the boys," she announced to Luella, as she set the bucket down. "I wonder where he's been to."

Jerry played catch until it was chore time. Then he went home, passing the house with his head turned in the opposite direction. Judith and Luella, peering out of the kitchen window, saw him go.

For four successive Sundays Jerry repeated this performance. By the second Sunday the girls had formed a pretty shrewd notion of the reason for his peculiar behavior.

"I'm jes a-goin' to set still an' see haow long he keeps it up," said Judith wickedly, as she sat by the kitchen window trimming a hat with peacock feathers that had molted from the tail of Aunt Eppie's peacock. "I'm a-goin' to sew the feathers all raound an' raound the brim, Elly; an' then have some a-droppin' daown behind. Won't it make a nice hat?"

The longer Jerry continued to come on Sundays in his best clothes, the more amusement he provided for Judith. She felt gratified by his attentions; but she took no interest in him any more than in any of the other young fellows of the neighborhood, with all of whom she dearly loved to coquette. So she was not at all impatient at this slow courtship. She liked to go out and draw water or hang something on the line in order to see Jerry turn his head away from her. Often she found it necessary to go into the barnyard to feed the chickens or slop the hogs; and would stop and exchange a few casual words with him for the pleasure of watching his embarrassment and enjoying his discomfiture when she turned away.

On the fourth Sunday, as Jerry was hanging about the barnyard with the boys, he saw Dick Whitmarsh drive up to the Pippinger door in a newly-washed buggy. In a few moments he was galvanized to see Judith come out, radiant in her Sunday best, with the peacock hat glowing iridescently above her black hair. She and Dick got into the buggy and drove gaily away.

Jerry went home almost immediately, feeling like a small rooster that has been chased out of the cornfield by a larger one. He savagely pulled off his good clothes, put on his comfortable old overalls, went out to the barn and fell to cursing and currying the horses with all his might.

The next Sunday Jerry appeared in the Pippinger wagon drive very early in the afternoon. He was driving Jinny, the spirited four-year-old bay mare; and the Blackford family buggy was washed and polished to resplendence.

"Hey, Judy!" he shouted in loud, careless-like fashion from the buggy seat.

He had to shout three or four times before the door at last opened and Judith appeared on the threshold.

"Say, Judy, wanta come—ahem—fer a little drive?"

Jerry was so much embarrassed that he choked in the middle of the invitation and had to clear his throat.

"I'd like to go all right, Jerry; but I promised Dick Whitmarsh I'd go with him this afternoon."

"But—uh—I'm here first, hain't I?" countered Jerry, beginning to feel indignant.

"Waal, s'pose you air! No little bird told me you was a-fixin' to come. An' I promised Dick las' Sunday I'd go with him agin to-day."

"Waal, I'll be damned!"

Jerry muttered this to himself, staring straight before him with blank, unseeing, disappointed eyes.

By this time the whole Pippinger family had collected in the dooryard and were looking at Jerry, the glossy bay mare and the newly washed buggy with the intentness with which children regard a circus parade. He looked up from his blank stare at nothing and encountered their six pairs of eyes all fixed upon him with cool, dispassionate appraisal. Then he caught a glimmer of amusement in Bill's eye and Craw winked at him significantly. He felt like a grasshopper impaled on a darning needle with a circle of boys watching its efforts to escape.

The sound of buggy wheels rattling through the Pippinger gateway made him turn his head; and he saw Dick Whitmarsh driving in.

He passed with his head down and his eyes on the dashboard and made no response to Dick's cheery "Howdy, Jerry." When he was out on the road, he turned the mare's head in the opposite direction from home, whipped her up into a gallop and used freely in muttered imprecations all the bad language that he had ever heard.

About two miles away he saw ahead of him the great gaunt figure of Jabez Moorhouse stalking along the roadside. He had slowed up by this time and was feeling somewhat calmer.

"Git in an' ride, Uncle Jabez," he said, pulling up beside his former working companion.

Jabez clambered into the buggy and disposed his long legs as best he could. He was slightly under the influence of corn whiskey and the smell of it was upon his breath. He pulled out a bottle from his hip pocket.

"Have a drink, Jerry," he said, handing it to the younger man.

Jerry took a long pull at the bottle.

"Where be you a-goin' in yer good clothes, with yer buggy an' mare all slicked up so neat?"

"No place."

"Aw, don't go to tellin' me that. I been a young feller too in my day. What gal air you a-sparkin', Jerry?"

"No gal."

"Jerry, 'tain't no youst fer the young to try to hide things from the old. They been through it all. You might as well own up you're on the track o' some wench. What's her name?"

"Aw, shet up, Uncle Jabez. You know I hain't a-sparkin' no gal."

Jerry looked straight ahead of him at the moving haunches of the mare.

"Have another drink, Jerry."

Jerry took another long pull at the bottle, and felt much better. Jabez also helped himself before returning the bottle to his pocket.

"Jerry," went on Jabez, after a long silence. "The old likes to give advice to the young—not that they look to see 'em take it o' course. For, as the Bible says, they got ears but they hear not. Jes the same, even if I'm a-talkin' to deaf ears, I gotta have my say. Jerry, don't have nothin' to do with wimmin. I've had a right smart of experience with 'em, an' I kin tell yuh, an' it's the livin' truth, all wimmin is harlots."

Jerry stirred uneasily and seemed about to open his mouth.

"It's the livin' truth, Jerry, my boy." Jabez' vague blue eyes took on a prophetic look, as though he were a seer of old exhorting the heedless to look to their ways; and his deep voice fell into the rhythmic chant of the inspired man. "Don't go after none of 'em, I tell yuh. Wimmin'll deal treacherously with yuh, Jerry. Their lips drops honey an' their mouths is smoother'n oil; but in the end they're bitter as wormwood an' sharper'n a two-edged sword. The Bible says so, Jerry; but that hain't the way I found it out. Yaas, Jerry, they're all deceitful. They'll all eat an' wipe their mouths an' say they hain't done no sin. Keep yerse'f clean of 'em, my boy."

"All wimmin hain't harlots," answered Jerry slowly and with conviction.

There was something in what Jerry said and his way of saying it that brought Jabez back to the matter of fact.

"Aw, hell," he laughed, in the tone of one descended suddenly to earth, "what youst to tell a husky young buck like you not to go after the wimmin? Might as well speak to the grass an' tell it not to grow in May. Have another drink, Jerry."

They each took another long pull at the bottle and then drove for some time in silence.

"Is she dark or fair, Jerry?" asked Jabez out of the silence.

"She's dark," admitted Jerry, the mellowing influence of the whiskey beginning to overcome his boyish bashfulness and natural taciturnity. "But her skin hain't dark. On'y her eyes an' hair is dark. Her skin is all creamy colored an' her cheeks is pink like brier roses. No, not like brier roses—a pinker pink—more like peach blossoms."

"Huh," grunted Jabez thoughtfully. "'Tain't Judy Pippinger, is it?"

"Yump." Then after a pause, "Would yuh say Judy Pippinger was a harlot?" Jerry looked belligerently at Jabez.

The older man was too surprised by the question even to notice the young fellow's attitude of challenge. He gave a start of shocked astonishment.

"A harlot! My gawd no, Jerry. Judy Pippinger hain't but a little gal! I allus liked that little gal. She seems more like a boy. It's on'y lately she's begun to know she's a gal an' not a boy. Too bad she hain't a boy."

He fell silent for a time, musing.

"Waal, haow's the courtin' a-comin' on?" he asked at last. "Is the day set yet?"

"No, it hain't."

Jerry's face assumed an expression of sullen disgruntlement. Jabez looked at him keenly out of the corner of his eye.

"Have another drink, Jerry."

Both men had another drink, and there fell another long period of silence.

"Where's the hitch, Jerry?" asked Jabez at last.

By this time the whiskey had thoroughly warmed Jerry through and through. The landscape was beginning to look blurred and far away; and he felt shut in with Jabez in a warm atmosphere of congeniality and comradeship. He began, haltingly at first, to tell his friend his troubles. Gradually his trickle of speech flowed more freely; then burst suddenly forth, like a stream that has broken a dam, and rushed in a torrent of picturesque curses on the head of Dick Whitmarsh.

Jabez laughed the loud, carefree laugh of inebriation.

"Why, Jerry, you bin a heap too backward," he cried, slapping his friend on the back till Jerry winced, "an' Dick Whitmarsh has sure got the start of you naow. The on'y thing fer you to do is to come up on him from another d'rection an' s'prise the enemy when he hain't a-lookin' fer yuh. Not all the courtin' is done in buggies, Jerry; though a feller born an' bred in Scott County might think so. It don't have to be done in buggies. An' Judy Pippinger 'specially hain't a gal to be courted in a buggy. You go to meetin' her accidentally when she's a-drivin' up the caows or a-stalkin' them turkeys over the hills an' hollers, an' I'll bet you'll ketch up with Dick in no time, even if he has got a head start. If yuh must go a-courtin', as I s'pose yuh must, yuh might as well go in fer to win. Good luck, Jerry!"

They had reached Jabez' house, a melancholy little weathered frame shanty shaded by two sorrowful hemlock trees that stood out blackly against the gray sky. Jabez leapt from the buggy.

Jerry turned the mare's head toward home. Knowing where she was going, she fell into a fast trot without any encouragement. The short winter day was already graying to a close and it was chore time. As he drove along over the half frozen ruts of the road, his imagination was aflame with the suggestions that Jabez had thrown out. The corn whiskey gave warmth and color to these imaginings.

The effect of the corn whiskey soon wore off, but not of Jabez' suggestions; and Jerry was now in no mood for delay. He had held off quite long enough, he told himself. The very next evening, as Judith was driving up Spot and Blackie, the successors of Roanie and Reddie, Jerry met her coming along the ridge path. She had on Craw's cloth cap, an old canvas coat of her father's and Craw's rubber boots. Shining out from this rough frame, her girlish charms looked all the more alluring to Jerry.

"Howdy, Jerry. Where you a-goin?"

"I'm a-lookin' fer our red an' white heifer. She's strayed away some place an' we hain't see hair ner hide of her since yestiddy mornin'."

"I didn't see no signs of a strange caow back yonder. But mebbe she's there. If she is she'll be in the holler by Uncle Jonah Cobb's place, 'cause you kin see all the rest from the ridge. Well, I gotta be a-gittin' on. Git along there, Blackie. It'll be dark afore I git milked. Good-by, Jerry."

"I don't reckon she's in the holler. Anyway it'd be too dark to see her agin I got there. I guess I'll go on back home."

He turned and walked by Judith's side.

They walked along the ridge path together behind the cows. Neither of them spoke a word. Before they reached the Pippinger barnyard, Jerry vaulted a rail fence and went off toward home across fields. Judith looking after him noticed with what agility he leapt the fence and how light and springy was his step as he strode away across the deserted corn fields. Yes, she admitted to herself, he was, as Lizzie May had said, much better looking than Dick Whitmarsh. On the whole she thought she liked him better than Dick.

The next evening he met her in the same place.

"Howdy, Jerry. You still a-searchin' for that red an' white heifer?"

She looked at him with laughing challenge in her dark eyes. Instantly he was put at ease by this frank admission of things as they really were. She had placed him where he wanted to be. He turned and walked beside her.

On the third evening he took her hand in his and they walked along together swinging the joined hands between them like two children. Her restless, work-hardened hand, neither small nor delicate, nestled comfortably in Jerry's large, warm palm. There was something comforting, something restful and satisfying about that firm, enfolding male pressure. Her hand, lying in his, felt relaxed and at peace, like a child rocked by its mother.

On the fourth evening it was raining in a fine, mild drizzle. The damp air made Judith's fresh pink cheeks fresher and pinker. Last year's dead leaves were soggy under their feet. In a little grove of second growth maples and beeches, Jerry released her hand and slipped his arm around her waist underneath the coarse old canvas coat. The exquisite curve of her body intoxicated him. A surge of desire swept over him and he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately on the lips. She kissed him back with answering passion. For a long time they stood together in the soft drizzle, the shade of the beeches and maples deepening about them into twilight gloom.

It was all easy after that for Jerry. It was a speedy, simple, natural courting, like the coming together of two young wild things in the woods. Jerry, who was of a practical turn of mind, immediately began to plan for their future.

"I think I'll sign a contract with old Hiram Stone for next year, Judy," he said to her one spring evening, when they had met down by the brook in the hollow, a spot that they had chosen as a trysting place. "It's too late to get any land for this year. But next first of March we'll move into a little home of our own. Won't that be nice, Judy?"

"I dunno if it'll be nice or not," doubted Judy, looking straight at him. "I hain't never been very fond of keepin' house, Jerry."

She had a disconcerting way of stating a disagreeable fact quite baldly and then nailing it to his consciousness by looking him through and through with those clear, level, gray eyes of hers. He felt saddened and frustrated by her lack of enthusiasm for the little home on which he had pondered so fondly. Instinct told him what to do on such an occasion. He took her in his arms, kissed her, fondled her, made her love him. Then the feeling of unity came back and they were at peace again.

"You know," he went on, "old man Stone has got the best land anywheres around here. An' if I kin raise about five acres of tobacco on his ground, we'll be able to lay by a little money, Judy. An' after a few years we kin buy us a little place of our own. I don't want to be like all these poor devils that lives all their lives from hand to mouth a-workin' on somebody's else's ground an' never havin' a foot o' land that they kin call their own. It hain't no way to live, Judy. You an' I'll do better'n that. I want to own my own place; so if I don't like a feller's looks I kin tell him to git off of it."

Jerry took on a male and belligerent expression. Judith looked at him and laughed mockingly.

"You look jes like a Tom turkey with its head a-swellin' up with blood," she teased. "Why does a man allus like to feel hisself big an' important an' better'n every other man? You 'member Uncle Tom Pooler at the party. 'I'm a baar in the woods, I am. Yaas, sir, I'm a baar in the woods!'" She imitated his whiskey-fuddled mutterings.

"An' you men hain't the on'y ones," she went on. "All male critters is the same. Look haow proud a Tom turkey struts, an' haow a big rooster cranes his neck an' crows an' chases the smaller roosters out o' the yard. An' look haow two big, bellerin' bulls'll fight jes fer the love o' fightin'. Wimmin hain't like that, allus makin' the most o' theirselves. They tend their own business and let other wimmin tend theirs."

"The hell they do so," countered Jerry. "Aunt Sally Whitmarsh was into our place las' night, an' I jes wish you cud a heard her. I was in the little room off the kitchen a-shavin' an' the door was open atween. An' if Aunt Sally wa'n't a-spittin' out pizen about the neighbors acrost the kitchen stove to mammy, then I don't know a dirty tongue when I hear it. The ugly thing about wimmin is they never say a thing right out an' have done with it, like a man does. They jes set with their hands in their laps an' say a little bit an' leave the rest to the other woman's dirty 'magination. An' my own mammy herse'f hain't much better'n the rest. I don't like wimmin, Judy. There's sumpin' small an' mean an' underhand an' foul about most all of 'em. Uncle Jabez was purty nigh right when he told me they was all harlots. You're the on'y woman I know that's got a man's ways, Judy. You hain't spiled."

The year passed quickly for them both in their delirium of early love. Accident was kind to them and did not thrust upon them with untimely speed the physical results of the sweet intimacy that they enjoyed. So they did not have to hasten their marriage, and the neighbors were deprived of a juicy bit of scandal. In February Jerry procured a license; and one day late in the month they drove over to Clayton and, through the medium of Obe Applestill, local Justice of the Peace, they secured the blessing of the law on their relations. After that Jerry did not rest easy until they were in a home of their own.

In early February Jerry signed a contract with old Hiram Stone.

The house that he was to have was a little two-room frame shanty in a deep hollow between two hills and about half a mile from the main road. The five acres of tobacco ground and the ten acres of corn land that were to be in Jerry's charge for the year, lay close at hand. The little cabin was more attractive than most of the tenant houses in Scott County, bare, boxlike sheds, most of them standing starkly on barren hillsides or marshy stretches, as though the hand of some careless giant had scattered them with no thought whatever of the use that they were to serve. Jerry had picked the house from three because he wanted to bring his bride to something that looked like a home. Two tall hickory trees rose high into the air and intertwined their branches above the little house. It nestled comfortably under the hill. The low roof projected over the eaves and gave it a snug, homelike look. Inside it had a fireplace, though a small and crude one. Some former tenant had planted a lilac bush by the door; and a grape vine clambered over a rude trellis at one end. A little brook trickled through the hollow a few rods away and made pleasant murmurings.

Jerry had "worked out" during most of the year and had assiduously saved money. Judith too had worked again at Aunt Eppie's for several months and with her savings had bought bedding, towels, a dress or two and a few pieces of coarse muslin underwear gaily strung with crass pink ribbons. Jerry's mother had contributed two new patchwork quilts. Luella had made her a nice warm comforter tied with red wool. And Aunt Abigail, much to Judith's surprise, had come forward with one of her best Log Cabin quilts.

"This here quilt," she said, unfolding it impressively, "was patched by me when I was a little gal on'y fourteen year old. Gals don't patch quilts naow like they did when I was young. I've allus took good care of it, an' I want you to do the same, Judy. When you have a pack o' young uns of yer own, don't let 'em ramp an' tear all over it. Nothin' ruins a quilt quicker'n young uns a-pitchin' an' a-scramblin' a-top of it. If they've got to pitch an' scramble, let 'em do it on the grass or on the floor an' not a-top o' this here good quilt."

"Naow, Judy, we don't want to buy no new furniture," Jerry had said, when they were planning for their home. "New furniture costs too much. You can't git a new cook stove under about twenty-five dollars. An' at a sale you kin pick up one jes as good fer about eight or ten. Same with tables an' beds an' dressers. You kin git all sech plunder fer nex' to nothin' at sales. Fust sale there is anywhere within ten miles we'll go."

A short time after this a sale was advertised. Uncle Nat Carberry, who lived over near Dry Ridge, had died at the age of eighty-three, leaving his farm, stock, and personal possessions to be divided among his eight children. Everybody for miles around knew about the sale and nearly everybody was going whether they wanted to buy anything or not.

When Jerry and Judith got to the scene of the sale there were already many buggies and wagons hitched to the fence. One lonely automobile, a Ford, belonged to Pete Whitmarsh who was overseer for Hiram Stone. It was quite generally whispered of Pete that he managed to get away with a good deal more than his wages.

It was a mild, springlike day in late February, with the young grass already showing green in damp sheltered spots. The men were in the barnyard. The women and children were mostly clustered about the door, going in and out of the house, looking at the things set out for sale, peering into this and prodding at that with discreet curiosity. When they got tired of doing this, they sat down stiffly on the chairs that were for sale and stared straight ahead of them. They were dressed primly in their best clothes, with clean aprons and smoothly combed hair.

The house, a very old one, was much fallen into decay. Since his wife's death some twenty-odd years before, Uncle Nat Carberry had lived in it quite alone. The repairs that he had made during that time had been of a makeshift character.

"It'll last fer as long as I'm a-goin to need it," he had been in the habit of saying for the last twenty years, whenever he pasted paper over a broken window pane or stuffed rags into a chink in the wall where the mud had fallen away. Now at last he needed it no more.

The household goods had been moved out into the yard. The heirs, the old man's eight children, were keeping a watchful eye on them to see that nobody stole any of the smaller articles. A walnut dropleaf table covered with a square of hideous yellow oilcloth worn through at the corners, was spread with coarse white earthenware dishes, a few pieces of old blue willow ware, an eight-day clock, a handful of wooden-handled steel knives and forks, a few bits of cheap glassware, two small glass lamps and a pair of beautiful brass candlesticks. Near by stood an old horsehair-covered walnut couch with broken springs and stuffing sticking out through many holes in the horsehair; a mahogany chest of drawers, solid and massive, but much scarred and with most of the drawer knobs gone, a walnut bedstead and a few chairs.

On a battered kitchen table was massed a collection of smoked-up pots and pans, bowls, skillets, strainers, and the like. Underneath stood kegs, buckets, crocks of various sizes, stone jugs, and other cellar accumulations. Several dozen balls of carpet rags that had been sewn by Uncle Nat's wife before she died and had lain in the bottom of an old chest ever since, were piled in a clothes basket.

Jerry and Judith strolled about among the things looking them over. They came to an old rocking chair of hard maple. The back, high and comfortably curved, was of woven cane. The original cane seat had long since given out and been replaced by narrow strips of horsehide neatly interwoven in basket fashion. The curved arms were worn paintless and smooth and polished by the laying on of many shirt sleeves.

"That's a good lookin' chair," said Judith, regarding it. "An' I bet it sets comfortable."

"But don't let's buy it, Judy," whispered Jerry. "They say Uncle Nat died in it."

"Why, Jerry Blackford, don't be silly. What odds if he died in it or not?" she scoffed. "Hain't people allus a-dyin' in beds? An' folks keeps on a-sleepin' in 'em, don't they? It's a nice chair, an' I'm a-goin' to try to hev it."

All at once the auctioneer was heard calling: "Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, all ye good people." Obe was proud of his legal language. He mounted upon a box beside the kitchen door. "Naow ladies an' genlums, the terms of this here sale is as follers: Everything under five dollars, cash. All over five dollars, note payable in six months at six per cent interest, said note to be endorsed by a responsible party ownin' property an' acceptable to the executors of Uncle Nat Carberry's will. Uncle Nat Carberry is gone to his long rest, an' we're here this afternoon fer to sell his goods. Naow what'll ye gimme fer this here skillet? It's a good, old fashioned steel skillet—no flimsy sheet iron stuff—an' it'll fry yer pancakes the way ye like 'em fried, nice an' braown on the outside an' done clear all the way through. What, nobody won't gimme a bid on this here skillet? All right, we hain't got no time to waste a-foolin' over this small stuff. It's gotta go quick. Hand me that there iron stew pan. Naow here's yer stew pan all ready to make the mush an' milk fer breakfast or bile the taters fer dinner. Who'll gimme a bid on the two of 'em?"

"Ten cents."

"All right, take 'em away. Ten cents; an' Jerry Blackford is the buyer. Goin' to housekeepin', Jerry?"

Jerry blushed furiously and set the skillet and pot back in a corner beside the fence.

The auctioneer was Obe Applestill, local Justice of the Peace, who had lately performed the marriage ceremony for Jerry and Judith. Obe was a general utility character of a sort that is to be found in most rural communities, one of those legal hangers-on that one finds in very small towns. He functioned as Justice of the Peace, Notary Public, insurance agent, tax assessor, real estate broker, auctioneer, and in a number of other allied activities. He was a little man with a jolly round face, keen bright blue eyes and a mouth shrunken from missing teeth, which he was always wetting with his tongue. Every few minutes this small red tongue would dart forth adder-like, make a quick circle around his lips and then retreat again behind the snags and withered gums of his mouth. He wore a pepper and salt suit whose creases were of the body rather than of the pressing iron; and his hair, which had not been cut for some time, was beginning to follow the curve of his ears. He was something of a wag, was fond of a joke and a drop of whiskey, and knew everybody within ten miles of Clayton.

"Naow, gimme a bid on this here pair o' brass candlesticks like granmammy used to light the haouse with. Nobody don't hardly use a grease lamp like this no more; but they're mighty handy to pick up to go to bed with. You don't have to bother with no lamp chimney. Who'll gimme ten cents for 'em?"

He waited for a few seconds with the candlesticks in his hand.

"What, hain't this pair o' candlesticks wo'th ten cents to nobody. All right, hand me some o' them plates to go with 'em."

One of the eight children, a middle aged woman with pinched features, handed up a couple of coarse white plates.

"My, it looks like everything's a-goin' to go awful cheap!" she sighed dolorously.

Obe rattled on until he had sold all the household goods. They sold for almost nothing, as such things always did. The heirs looked on in dismay. Glad to be rid of this "wimmin's plunder," Obe led the way to the barn where the stock, tools and implements were waiting for him. Most of the women did not follow to the barn but remained sitting or standing stolidly about the house, waiting for their menfolks to come back.

The men who swarmed after Obe to the barn looked like a throng of animated scarecrows. Unlike the women, they had not dressed for the occasion; but had come in the clothes in which they had been following the plow or hauling out manure onto the tobacco ground. Their ancient garments, mostly bleached to a common drabness by exposure to rain and sun, were torn and patched in the most unexpected places. Long, straggly hair hung about the filthy necks and ears and over the frayed collars. There were gaunt, gawky bodies, small, shriveled, distorted bodies, bent shoulders, slouching legs, and shambling feet. The faces, most of them with weirdly assorted features, were skinny, pinched, and bleary-eyed. Only a few of the young men were straight and ruddy and shone out healthy and wholesome from their dingy clothes.

At the barn were several sets of harness in different stages of decay, hoes, rakes, pitchforks, tobacco knives, a few tools, and a great pile of scrap iron, which latter Obe bought himself because in addition to his other activities he handled junk. There was also an old buggy, a sled, two wagons, and a plow.

The men strolled about among these things looking them over critically, shaking wagon wheels to determine the play, examining the prongs of pitchforks, and straining bits of the harness to see how rotten the leather was.

Obe soon got rid of this accumulation and led the way around to the hogpen where there was a black sow ready to farrow and another black sow with eleven little pigs squealing about her. The men crowded about the hogpen. The livestock always excited their special interest and brought the liveliest bidding.

"Naow then, who'll gimme a bid on this here black sow ready to farrow? She's a-goin' to have pigs any day naow; an' every one o' them little pigs'll be ripe fer butcherin' agin nex' Thanksgivin' Day comes raound. They'll git along nice through the summer on scraps an' weeds an' dishwater; an' agin fall comes you'll have yer corn to fatten 'em. They won't cost ye much to keep. Gimme a bid."

"Five dollars."

"Five dollars! Why, any one of her shoats'll be wo'th five dollars afore long. Somebody gimme a real bid on this here hawg."

At last the bidders reached nine dollars.

"Nine I'm bid. Naow gimme nine-fifty."

Uncle Sam Whitmarsh, who had been bidding on the hog against Tom Pooler, turned away and spat disgustedly into the straw.

"No, by Gawd, I don't pay no nine dollars fer no brood sow. I'm done."

Obe glimpsed him with his watchful little eyes and knew that the top figure had been reached.

"Nine-fifty, nine-fifty, nine-fifty. Hain't nobody willin' to bid nine-fifty on this fine brood sow all ready to farrow? Is she a-goin' to be give away at nine dollars? You all through? You all done? Watch aout! Daown she goes, an' sold at nine dollars to Tom Pooler. You've got a mighty good hawg there, Tom; an' you got 'er dirt cheap."

After the other sow had been sold the two cows were driven out of the barn and the men formed a circle around them. They came out sniffing the air and looking all around with startled eyes, frightened by the solid human fence that hemmed them in on all sides. One was a big, angular brindle cow with a great sagging udder showing signs of advanced age. Nobody wanted an old cow nor a thin cow; so she sold for only twenty-three dollars.

The other was a young Jersey heifer with her first calf at her heels, both of them slim, deer-like little creatures with large, liquid eyes. This cow was the subject of some lively bidding.

"What am I bid fer this here purty young heifer with her first calf by her side?" Obe started out.

The bidders ran the cow up to seventy-five dollars. Here the bidding lagged. Uncle Amos Hatfield, Sam Whitmarsh, and Ezra Pettit were bidding.

"Seventy-five," called out two of the bidders almost in one breath.

"Seventy-five. I'm bid seventy-five. She's a-goin', she's a-goin', she's a-goin'. You all through? You all done? Sold to Amos Hatfield for seventy-five dollars."

"Hey," called out old man Pettit in an aggrieved tone. "I jes done gone bid seventy-five on that air caow. What's the reason Amos Hatfield gits 'er?"

"Sorry, Uncle Ezra; I didn't hear yer bid. Did anybody else hear Uncle Ezra bid seventy-five on the caow?"

There was no response.

"Ye'll have to learn to talk laouder, Ezra."

Obe smiled wickedly. The crowd snickered. Ezra turned away muttering disgustedly. Obe was occasionally suspected of playing favorites in this way and sometimes aroused considerable bad feeling. But when the joke was on Uncle Ezra everybody sided with the auctioneer and the other fellow.

The door into the horse stall was now thrown open and the horses came out. One of the old man's grandsons, a handsome, dark-eyed boy in a ragged red sweater, rode one and led the other. The men formed a wider circle to give the animals room to show themselves. There was no male inhabitant of Scott County who did not consider himself an expert judge of horses. Around the circle of onlookers went an increased buzz of talk, a craning of unshaven necks, a fastening of critical eyes on the horses and a great deal of emphatic spitting.

"Naow then," bellowed Obe, girding himself for the grand finale of the sale. "I'm a-goin' to sell ye the best team o' work hosses this side o' Cynthiana. They're five an' six year old, not a day more. Uncle Nat Carberry raised 'em hisse'f from foals an' he raised 'em careful. Nobody in Scott County knew better haow to raise an' break a colt than Uncle Nat. There hain't spot ner blemish on nary one of 'em. If anybody here'll point me spot or blemish on ary one o' them hosses, I'll hand him a ten dollar bill out o' my own pocket."

Obe reached down in his hip pocket, brought out a small roll of bills, flourished them for a moment or two and put them back. In the meantime the horses, ridden and led by the boy in the ragged red sweater, had been trotting around and around the enlarged ring. They were gray horses of the Percheron breed, strong, stockily-built animals with broad backs, heavy haunches, and gentle, if rather dull faces.

Obe's face glowed with genuine pride and enthusiasm as he waited for the bid.

"Hundred an' fifty."

He ran the horses up to two hundred and eleven dollars. There for some time they hung. Judith and Jerry, leaning over a bit of rail fence side by side, were flushed with excitement. Their healthy young faces shone out vividly by contrast with the faded scarecrows about them. Jerry was bidding on the horses.

"You'd best get 'em, Jerry, they're good uns," Judith whispered excitedly in his ear. "Don't let Edd Whitmarsh git away with 'em."

"Two hundred an' twelve. I'm bid two hundred an' twelve. Naow gimme thirteen, gimme thirteen, gimme thirteen. You don't wanta be unlucky? Waal gimme fourteen then, gimme fourteen, gimme fourteen, gimme fourteen."

His practised eye saw that the bidding was over.

"Air these fine hosses a-goin' to sell fer two hundred an' twelve dollars? Don't nobody want a extry good work team? Two hundred an' twelve I'm bid. Uncle Nat'd turn in his grave if he cud see me a-sellin' his good team fer two hundred an' twelve dollars. You all through? You all done. Watch out! Daown she goes an' sold to Jerry Blackford fer two hundred an' twelve dollars. Jerry, if you live to be a hundred you won't never own a better work team nor what you got right naow. Take good care of 'em, Jerry, an' they'll treat you good."

The sale was over. Obe, flushed with his exertions and the few drinks of whiskey that had been handed to him, took out his big red handkerchief and wiped his face. The crowd began to disperse.

When Jerry and Judith came to load their wagon they found that they had almost equipped themselves for housekeeping. They had bought the mahogany chest of drawers for a dollar and a half, and the walnut bedstead for a dollar, four rush-bottomed chairs for twenty cents each and the old cane-backed rocking chair for fifty cents. Judith had secured some of the blue dishes, not because she knew them to be of any value, but because they looked and felt nicer than the coarse white ware. In addition to these, they had an assortment of pots and pans, stone jars, kegs and the like.

Together they loaded their new possessions onto the wagon. Jerry tied his horses behind, and they rattled away toward home. The boy and girl were excited and jubilant over these treasures passed on to them from the ancient dead. All the way back they chattered together, planning for their new home. It was one of those mild clear February evenings that show already the lengthening of the days and give a subtle promise of spring. Bare trees and barns and little houses, standing out against the pure sky, made an ever-changing series of silhouette pictures for them as they drove along. Before they reached home the sun had set, and the evening star beside a slim new moon was silver in the deepening blue. Sheep bells tinkled across the darkening fields, the smoke of supper fires rose up into the still air; and out of the sky a great peace seemed to descend and brood over the earth and the affairs of men.