Jan. 5, Monday.—At Austin depot. Waited for train five hours to 8 p. m.
Jan. 6, Tuesday.—Arrived in San Antonio at 1 a. m. Departed for Flatonia at 8 a. m., arriving at noon. Looked up the folks. Preached at night for Pastor T. E. Hillson, whose second child was baptized, as the first had been by the same hand at the dedication in Luling, his alternate church.
Jan. 7, Wednesday.—Up at 4 and off to Luling, arriving by daylight. Off then, by livery rig, 45 miles to Riddleville.
Jan. 8, Thursday.—On to Helena, 15 miles. Ride out with freedman, 3 miles, to our Colony Church. Lecture at night for Pastor Thompson.
Jan. 9, Friday.—Half a day of writing. Visited at another freedman's home, taking supper. Preached at night.
Jan. 10, Saturday.—Brother Thompson, with another colored man and myself, start for Corpus, 80 miles, reaching Goliad, 35 miles, at night. We are entertained at Pastor T. Benson's.
Jan. 11, Sunday.—In the morning, Sunday-school, preaching and communion. At night, preaching. Conferring all day, at the intervals, with "parties," being called upon even after retiring at night.
Jan. 12, Monday.—Up and off before daylight, without breakfast. But Mrs. Benson has provided for us a grand lunch box that lasts us three for the two days through to Corpus. No place on the way, to put up; no chance to buy eatables. Our boss has planned to reach the half-way spot on the Popolota for camping. The day wears away, and it is 10 o'clock before we come to the halting-place. For the last three hours Brother Thompson had led the way lantern in hand, splashing through the mud and water. We turn under a live oak, take out and feed the jaded horses, and eat our snack, and commit ourselves to the Heavenly Father, and at 11 o'clock turn in for the night, Brother Thompson on the ground, under the hack, and Brother Eding and I in the hack, doubled like a couple of jackknives into our four feet square of space, being all of a color. By our side the ponies through the night crunch their corn; and, by turn, we jump up to drive off the cows from stealing their hay. But we sleep, and snore, and rest some.
Tuesday, Jan 13.—Up and off by daybreak. We camp for breakfast lunch. We camp for dinner lunch. As we consume the fragments, how we do bless Mrs. Benson. When, at her own table, we had praised her baking and cooking, she responded: "Oh, I learned that at Talladega College." Then I had to tell Dr. Strieby's story of the native preacher, who thanked him for the good wife who had been trained in one of the American Missionary Association schools, saying that he had gotten more than he had anticipated—a good cook and housekeeper. On, on we trudge through the heavy mud. Night has come, and we are yet seven miles from Corpus, and the cold, "wet norther" that has been drizzling upon us all day, as we had been fearing, has at last broken upon us. Again Brother Thompson is on the lead, with lantern in hand, through the slush, and he has walked more than half the way through the day. The black-waxy is heavy for the wheels, and slippery for the poor old freedman ponies that have no shoes. Pastor J. W. Strong, who for four years has manfully held this extreme southwestern outpost of Congregationalism, having learned of our approach from a dashing country rider, comes along in the dark, one mile out to meet us, in Oriental style. After our salaams, he gallops back to town to make the final arrangement for our entertainment. It is now 8.30 p. m., too late for the preaching; and, for once, the preacher is glad that the storm has kept the people away from the appointment. But the next night they make it up, and the preacher tries to make it up, too. When Mr. Thompson brought me down, six years ago, we came straight through by fording, belly-deep to the horses, across the reef, three miles long, that forms the nexus between the Nueces Bay and the Corpus Christi Bay. On either side was deep water or miring sand. Once, since that, he has had to tote his passengers out on his back. The reef has been washed out in spots. Lo! this time we go up around the head of the bay, ten miles farther. Brother Thompson claims that he can endure such jaunts without wear or much weariness, because he is so abstemious as not to drink tea or coffee nor to eat meat. And everybody knows him to be a true, pure and high-minded Christian minister who, though he has had but little schooling, has been so taught of God in the Word, that after these eleven years in the same parish, that at Helena, he is yet confided in there as an able pulpit teacher. In old times, his people were Presbyterians. Blood will tell; and doctrine, too.