“‘Well,’ he went on, ‘I guesst it must ’a’ ben pretty dim, fer last week ye forgot to take ’em out an’ added that nice mule to the flock. I like that beast mighty well, but I objects to his puttin’ his head in the chancery winder durin’ the most solemn part of our service, like he done the other day.’
“‘Hen I pictured that ole mule attendin’ the ’Piscopaleen preachin’ I wanted to laugh all over, but I didn’t dast fer it ’ud ’a’ give him an openin’. I jest turned an’ looked at the preacher ez stern ez I could.
“‘Perhaps,’ I sais, ‘these new-fandangled, ceetyfied goin’s on o’ yourn amused him.’
“He didn’t smile then—not a bit of it. He was riled—bad riled, an’ pinted his finger at me an’ cried, ‘See here, you old hardshell.’ That was the wery name he called me. ‘See here,’ he sais. ‘Since I’ve ben a missionary in this community I’ve tried to conduct meself in a proper an’ humble sperrit, but ef I hev to carry my missionary efforts on among the mules, I’ll do it with a gun.’
“‘Hen I heard that I stood right up an’ glared at him. I didn’t mind his shootin’. It wasn’t that what stirred me up. It wasn’t that what made me shake me stick in the air like I was scotchin’ a chestnut tree. No, sirs.
“‘Mission’ry!’ I sais. ‘Then all we is heathen,’ I sais. ‘Parson, folks hev ben singin’ sams in this walley fer a hundred an’ fifty year. The folks in this walley hes ben contributin’ to the support o’ mission’ries in furrin lan’s fer the last cent’ry. There are more camp-meetin’s, an’ bush-meetin’s, an’ protracted meetin’s, an’ revivals an’ love-feasts in this walley in a year than they are years in your life. Yit you calls yourself a mission’ry. You complains about my cattle disturbin’ your meetin’s. Ef they enjoy listenin’ to your mission’ry efforts in behalf o’ we heathen, I don’t think I otter stop it. You might do ’em some good.’
“With that I turned an’ walked down the road. I never looked ’round tell I come to the edge o’ the peach orchard. Then I peeked back over me shoulder. There was the preacher, still standin’ be the apple tree lookin’ after me. He was smilin’. Mighty souls! Smilin’! I could ’a’ choked him.”
An oak tree, upturned, its roots stretched forth appealingly in the air, its branches washing helplessly to and fro in the stream, a broken scow lying high upon the beach, bottom up, a great crevasse in the side of the canal through which could be seen an imprisoned and deserted canal-boat, told of the spring flood. The Juniata had fallen again to its natural courses, but it was still turbulent and the current was running strongly. It was fast growing dark. Heavy clouds were rolling along the mountains from the west whence sounded the low grumbling of the coming storm.
Eben Huckin, standing by his boat, looked anxiously up the river, and then across to where the village had been lost in the fast gathering blackness. By a hard pull to the opposite bank and a run up half a mile of level road he might make the shelter of the mill before the clouds broke. But this meant tremendous exertion and Eben, with the rust of sixty years in his joints, preferred a drenching. So he tucked his basket in the locker in the stern and fixed his oars as deliberately as though the sun were smiling overhead. Then he began to push out into the stream.