e power in her
short character sketches.

A BLACKSMITH IN LOVE.

BY CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.

The pine-knots flamed and glistened under the great wash-kettle. A
tree-toad was persistently calling for rain in the dry distance. The
girl, gravely impassive, beat the clothes with the heavy paddle. Her
mother shortly ceased to prod the white heaps in the boiling water, and
presently took up the thread of her discourse.

"An' 'Vander hev got ter be a mighty suddint man. I hearn tell, when I
war down ter M'ria's house ter the quiltin', ez how in that sorter
fight an' scrimmage they hed at the mill las' month, he war powerful
ill-conducted. Nobody hed thought of hevin' much of a fight--thar hed
been jes' a few licks passed atwixt the men thar; but the fust finger ez
war laid on this boy, he jes' lit out, an' fit like a catamount. Right
an' lef' he lay about him with his fists, an' he drawed his
huntin'-knife on some of 'em. The men at the mill war in no wise pleased
with him."

"'Pears like ter me ez 'Vander air a peaceable boy enough, ef he ain't
jawed at an' air lef' be," drawled Cynthia.

Her mother was embarrassed for a moment. Then, with a look both sly and
wise, she made an admission--a qualified admission. "Waal,
wimmen--ef--ef--ef they air young an' toler'ble hard-headed _yit_, air
likely ter jaw _some_, ennyhow. An' a gal oughtn't ter marry a man ez
hev sot his heart on bein' lef' in peace. He is apt ter be a mighty sour
an' disapp'inted critter."

This sudden turn to the conversation invested all that had been said
with new meaning, and revealed a subtle diplomatic intention. The girl
seemed deliberately to review it as she paused in her work. Then, with a
rising flush: "I ain't studyin' 'bout marryin' nobody," she asserted
staidly. "I hev laid off ter live single."

Mrs. Ware had overshot the mark, but she retorted, gallantly reckless:
"That's what yer Aunt Malviny useter declar' fur gospel sure, when she
war a gal. An' she hev got ten chil'ren, an' hev buried two husbands;
an' ef all they say air true, she's tollin' in the third man now. She's
a mighty spry, good-featured woman, an' a fust-rate manager, yer Aunt
Malviny air, an' both her husbands lef' her suthin--cows, or wagons, or
land. An' they war quiet men when they war alive, an' stays whar they
air put now that they air dead; not like old Parson Hoodenpyle, what his
wife hears stumpin' round the house an' preachin' every night, though
she air ez