Mrs. Lucy Cleaver McElroy, author of "uneuphonious feminine, but very characteristic Dickensy sketches," was born near Lebanon, Kentucky, on Christmas Day of 1861. She was the daughter of the late Doctor W. W. Cleaver, a physician of Lebanon. Miss Cleaver was educated in the schools of her native town, and, on September 28, 1881, she was married to Mr. G. W. McElroy, who now resides at Covington, Kentucky. Mrs. McElroy was an invalid for many years, but she did not allow herself to become discouraged and she produced at least one book that was a success. She began her literary career by contributing articles to The Courier-Journal, of Louisville, The Ladies' Home Journal, and other newspapers and periodicals. Mrs. McElroy's first volume, Answered (Cincinnati), a poem, was highly praised by several competent critics. The first book she published that won a wide reading was Juletty (New York, 1901), a tale of old Kentucky, in which lovers and moonshiners, fox-hunters and race horses, Morgan and his men, and a girl with "whiskey-colored eyes," make the motif. Juletty was followed by The Silent Pioneer (New York, 1902), published posthumously. "The silent pioneer" was, of course, Daniel Boone. Both of these novels are now out of print, and they are seldom seen in the old book-shops. Mrs. McElroy died at her home on the outskirts of Lebanon, Kentucky, which she called "Myrtledene," on December 15, 1901.

Bibliography. The Critic (May, 1901); Library of Southern Literature (Atlanta, 1910, v. xiv).

OLD ALEC HAMILTON[32]

[From Juletty (New York, 1901)]

"If you remember him at all, doctor, you remember that he was a curious man; curious in person, manner, habits, and thoughts.

"He was six feet two inches in height and tipped the Fairbanks needle at the two hundred notch; I believe he had the largest head and the brightest eyes I have ever seen. That big head of his was covered by a dense growth of auburn hair, and as every hair stood separately erect it looked like a big sunburned chestnut burr; his eyes twinkled and snapped, sparkled and glowed, like blue blazes, though on occasion they could beam as softly and tenderly through their tears as those of some lovesick woman. His language was a curious idiom; the result of college training and after association with negroes and illiterate neighbors. Of course, as a child, I did not know his peculiarities, and looked forward with much pleasure to seeing him and my grandmother, of whose many virtues I had heard. My father had expatiated much on the beauty of my grandfather's farm—three thousand broad acres (you have doubtless noticed, doctor, that Kentucky acres always are broad, about twice as broad as the average acre) in the heart of the Pennyrile District. As good land, he said, as a crow ever flew over; red clay for subsoil, and equal to corn crops in succession for a hundred years. But I am going to tell you, doctor, of my visit as a child to my grandfather. I had never seen him, and felt a little natural shrinking from the first meeting. My mother had only been dead a few weeks and—well, in short, my young heart was pretty full of conflicting emotions when I drew near the old red brick house. He was not expecting me, and I had to walk from the railway station. It was midsummer, and the old gentleman sat, without hat, coat, or shoes, outside his front door. As I drew near he called out threateningly:

"'Who are you?'

"'Why, don't you know me?' I asked pleasantly.

"'No, by Jacks! How in hell should I know you?' he thundered.

"There was nothing repulsive about his profanity; falling from his lips it seemed guileless as cooings of suckling doves, so nothing daunted, I cried out cheerily as one who brings good news:

"'I'm Jack Burton, your grandson!'

"'What yer want here?'

"'Why, I've come to see you, grandfather,' I answered quiveringly.

"'Well, dam yer, take er look an' go home!' he roared.

"'I will!' I shouted indignantly, and more deeply hurt than ever before or since, I turned and ran from him.

"Then almost before I knew it he had me in his great, strong arms, his tears and kisses beating softly down like raindrops on my face, while he mumbled through his sobs:

"'Why, my boy, don't you know your old grandfather's ways? Eliza's son! First-born of my first-born, you are more welcome than sunshine after a storm. Never mind what grandfather says, little man; just always remember he loves you like a son.'

"He had by that time carried me back to his door; there all at once his whole manner changed, and putting me on my feet, he cried: 'Thar, yer damned lazy little rascal, yer expec' me ter carry yer eround like er nigger? Use yer own legs and find yer grandmother.'

"But he could not frighten me then nor ever any more; I had seen his heart, and it was the heart of a poet, a lover, a gentleman, do what he might to hide it."

The doctor had allowed me to have my head, and talk in my rambling, reminiscent fashion, and agreed in my estimate of my grandsire.

"Yessir, just like him for the world!" he cried.

"I was at his house one day when the ugliest man in Warren County came out; he did not wait to greet him, but shouted, 'My God, man, don't you wish ugliness was above par? You'd be er Croesus.'"