I lifted the wood latch on the gate and went up the white-pebbled path. Flower-bordered it was, with brilliant scarlet sage, purple bachelor buttons, golden glow. There was pretty-by-night, too, though their snow-white blossoms were closed tight in the bud for it was not yet sundown; only in the twilight and by night did the buds bloom out. “That’s why they wear the name Pretty-by-Night,” mountain folk will tell you. There were clusters of varicolored seven sisters lifting up their bright petals. Moss, some call it in the mountains. There were bright cockscomb and in a swamp corner of the foreyard a great bunch of cat-o’-nine tails straight as corn stalks.
Tall, erect stood the Good Shepherd of the Hills, fully six feet three in his boots, his white patriarchal beard pillowed on his breast. The blue-veined hands rested upon the back of his chair as he gazed at me from friendly eyes. Aunt Sallie, a slight bird-like little creature, reached scarcely to his shoulder. Her black sateen dress with fitted basque and full skirt was set off with a white apron edged with crocheted lace. The small knot of silver hair atop her head was held in place with an old-fashioned tucking comb. About her stooped shoulders was a knitted cape of black yarn.
“Take a chair,” invited Uncle Dyke when I reached the porch, waving me to a low stool. “Miss Sallie al’lus favors the rocker yonder on account the high back eases her shoulders. She’s not quite as peert as she was back in 1867.”
“It took a bit of strength to tame Dyke and I had it to do.” She addressed me rather than her husband. “He was give up to be the wildest young man in the country when he came back from the Home War.”
The Civil War having been ended for some two years and the young private of the Logan Wildcats having been tamed, he became converted to religion. Thereupon he began to preach the Gospel.
But never in all the years of his ministry from 1867 to 1938, when failing health took him from the pulpit, did Uncle Dyke Garrett receive a penny for preaching. He never had a salary. William Dyke Garrett got his living from the rugged little hillside farm that he tended with his own hands.
“Before I was converted to religion,” he said, straightening in his chair, “I played the fiddle and many a time went to square dances. But once I got the Spirit in here,”—placing a wrinkled hand upon his breast—“I gave up frolic tunes and played only religious music. There are other ways for folks to get together and enjoy themselves without dancing. Now there’s the Big Meeting! Every year on the first Sunday of September folks come from far and near here to Big Creek and bring their basket dinner.”
“Dyke started it many a year ago,” Aunt Sallie interposed with prideful glance at her mate.
Again he took up the story. “After we’ve spread our basket dinner out on the grass all under the trees we have hymn-singing and—”
“Dyke reads from the Scripture and preaches a spell.” Aunt Sallie meant that nothing should be left out. Nor did the old man chide her.