Old Man Ledbetter came jolting along the stony mountain road in an ox cart, the tin-tipped ends of the shoe-string that confined his plaited beard dancing upon his breast, his hazel whipstock lying at his feet, and a hard, stumpy hand spread out upon either knee to hold himself steady. Without any gee-hawing on his part his yoked steeds turned at the ford and staggered clumsily into the Junaluska. In midstream a shallow swirl of water came circling about his feet, but, though he may have pressed his hands harder upon his knees, the only perceptible preparation he made for a possible submerging was the shifting of his tobacco into the other cheek.
But from the footlog below, a call, piping but authoritative, challenged his attention.
“Hi, gran’daddy! he didn’t cross the log; you reckon he waded the branch? Dixie and me’s done lost the trail!”
“Gee up,” the old man reached for his whip and was soon upon the sandy terra firma of the other side, submissively awaiting his grandson’s pleasure.
“Here, sir, here!” The puzzled Dixie had his nose pressed down to an equivocal impression where the sand of the road had spread itself through the weedy border. “Now foller, old boy; foller I say!”
“The puzzled Dixie had his nose pressed down to an equivocal impression where the sand of the road had spread itself through the weedy border”
The gesture of the grimy little hand was imperative, and Dixie sniffed among the dried weeds; then, closely nosing the ground, circled among the cart wheels but, baffled, squatted whimpering upon his haunches.
“You-all trackin’ a rabbit, Grover Cleveland?” The old man facetiously scrutinized both dog and boy.
In the North Carolina mountains there were in the time of my story and still are many namesakes of the great democrat, but our little hero was recognized far and wide as the child of the party. A sturdy, clear-eyed, true-hearted little mountaineer, the party was proud of him and no one ever gave him anything less than his full Christian name.