"So across the creek he went, took another drink, and laid down and fell asleep right by the kittle. Pretty soon he woke up the third time, and says he: 'Well, if here ain't that old kittle again! Howdy, Mr. Kittle! Can you tell me which way I'm goin', and whether it's mornin' or evenin'?'
"Well, the kittle didn't answer; and the old man set there and thought a while, and then he crossed the creek and took another drink and another nap, and crossed again, and there was the same old kittle, and he looked at it and give it a kick, and says he: 'I never saw as many blame kittles in all my life as I've seen to-day. I reckon this must be Kittle Creek.'"
Aunt Jane paused to join in my laughter.
"I always thought it was a shame to laugh at a poor drunkard," she resumed, "but old man Sam told the Kittle Creek story on himself. I don't reckon he thought he was changin' the name of Clear Fork Creek, but from that time on nobody ever called it anything but Kittle Creek."
She stopped and peered over the side of the buggy. Her keen eyes had detected a change in the road. There had been no rain for a week, but the horse's hoofs and the wheels of our buggy had suddenly ceased to raise any dust.
"Looks like there'd been a shower here lately," she remarked; "but I don't see any sign o' rain except right here in the middle o' the road."
"Perhaps this is the oiled road, Aunt Jane," said I.
"That's jest what it is!" exclaimed Aunt Jane delightedly. "Uncle Billy Bascom was tellin' me about the new-fangled way they had of layin' the dust, but it didn't seem to me like oil'd mix with dust any more'n it will with water. That shows how little old folks knows. Well, ain't this nice! Ridin' along in dry weather and never raisin' a bit o' dust! Uncle Billy didn't approve o' the oiled roads. He says, says he, 'Jane, it looks to me like them town folks won't never git through circumventin' Providence.' Says he, 'They've got their gas and their 'lectricity, so's it don't make a bit o' difference whether the sun or the moon or the stars shines or not. And they've got their 'lectric fans, which makes 'em independent of the wind blowin', and now they're fixin' the roads so's they won't have to pray for rain.' Says he, 'It looks like they're tryin' to git rid of all sense o' dependence on the Almighty; but as for me,' says he, 'I've got my pegs sot, and I ain't goin' to have my brains all tore up follerin' after new ways.'
"That's jest like Uncle Billy. But all the time I'm ridin' along this road I'm feelin' thankful to Providence that he made the oil, and then made people with enough sense to know that oil would settle dust. There's no use stickin' to old ways unless they're better than the new ways."
Just then there was a whir of wings from a fence corner, and a moment later a liquid voice sounded over the clover field,