ere is an hereditary distrust; conceit has no show at all
in a young itinerant.

But Chough wisely confines his remarks to asking questions about the
bishops, and agrees with us that Doctor Bim's address on the church
extension cause was sound as the Fathers, and finally gives us his own
extraction, which we trace to the respectable Choughs of Caroline
County, and at once fraternize with him.

Those were happy days for us children! Cornfield and barn and negro
quarter rolled by us like things of fable. We watched the squirrels in
the scrubwood as never again we shall take interest in human
companionship, and stopped at farm-house troughs to water our nag with
keener joy than that with which we have since gazed upon far blue seas
or soft cis-alpine lakes and rivers.

At last we reach the place; the complement of free negro cabins lies
on its outskirts; we ask the way to the Methodist preacher's
residence, and learning with feigned surprise that "he has just gone
an' lef town for good," cross a sandy creek and bridge, climb a hill,
and stop at our future threshold.

It is an ancient edifice of brick; a pigmy stable stands beside it,
with a gate intervening, and in the rear we have a lot big enough to
graze one frugal horse, and a garden sufficiently large to employ us
boys. Our father starts off immediately to find the keys; but in the
face of a gathering of small lads in pinafores and jack-knives, who
come to gaze at us, we scale the gate, enter a back shutter, and cry
a welcome to our mother from the second-story front.

We hastily scan the several chambers to claim all that we find in the
drawers and closets; are gratified to observe the bow-gun and
shinney-sticks of the young Wigginses departed, and quite fall out
among ourselves over the wooden effigy of an Indian which has tumbled
down from the barn-top.

Soon the nearest neighbor of our persuasion arrives with our father,
and takes our mother and the baby away to his dwelling. A fat old
trustee and local preacher carries off ourself and sister, and we go
bashfully and wonderingly into the heart of the town, past the church,
past the market-house, past the tavern and court and public hall,
until the door of our host closes upon us, and our short sandy hairs
appear at the windows to scan the street and the people.

Yeasty, our host, is the only local preacher in Crochettown, where he
also keeps a store, but is said to be as rich as Croesus, and
miserly as ge