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Gov. Bob. Taylor's Tales.

"THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW," "THE PARADISE OF FOOLS", "VISIONS AND DREAMS."

ILLUSTRATED.

Published by

DeLONG RICE & COMPANY. Nashville, Tenn.

Copyrighted, 1896.

All rights reserved by DeLong Rice & Co.

UNIVERSITY PRESS CO., NASHVILLE, TENN.

PREFACE.

This volume presents the first publication of the famous lectures of Governor Robert L. Taylor. His great popularity as an orator

and entertainer, and his wide reputation as a humorist, have caused repeated inquiries from all sections of the country for his lectures in book form; and this has given rise to an earlier publication than was expected.

The lectures are given without the slightest abridgment, just as delivered from the platform throughout the country. The consecutive chain of each is left undisturbed; and the idea of paragraphing, and giving headlines to the various subjects treated, was conceived merely for the convenience of the reader.

In the dialect of his characters, the melody of his songs, and the originality of his quaint, but beautiful conceptions, Governor Tay-

lor's lectures are temples of thought, lighted with windows of fun.

DeLong Rice.

Temples of Thought, Lighted with Windows

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Of Fun.

CONTENTS.

"THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW." 9

Cherish the Little Ones 19

Fat Men and Bald-Headed Men 22

The Poet Laureate of Music 23

The Convict and His Fiddle 25

A Vision of The Old Field School 27

The Quilting and the Old Virginia Reel 36

The Candy Pulling 44

The Banquet 48

There is Music All Around Us 53

The Two Columns. 61

There is a Melody for Every Ear 63

Music is the Wine of the Soul 66

The Old Time Singing School 72

The Grand Opera 78

Music 80

"THE PARADISE OF FOOLS." 83

The Paradise of Childhood 90

The Paradise of the Barefooted Boy 98

The Paradise of Youth 104

The Paradise of Home 112

Bachelor and Widower 117

Phantoms 119

The False Ideal 121

The Circus in the Mountains 123

The Phantom of Fortune 128

Clocks 130

The Panic 133

Bunk City 135

Your Uncle 137

Fools 140

Blotted Pictures 143 "VISIONS AND DREAMS." 147

The Happy Long Ago 151

Dreams of the Years to Come 160

From the Cave-man to the Kiss-o-phone 169

Dreams 175

Visions of Departed Glory 178

Nature's Musicians 181

Preacher's Paradise 185

Brother Estep and the Trumpet 189

"Wamper-jaw" at the Jollification 190

The Tintinnabulation of the Dinner Bells 193

Phantoms of the Wine Cup 196

The Missing Link 197

Nightmare 198

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Infidelity 200

The Dream of God 201

"THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW."

I heard a great master play on the wondrous violin; his bow quivered like the wing of a bird; in every quiver there was a melody, and every melody breathed a thought in language sweeter than was ever uttered by human tongue. I was conjured, I was mesmerized by his music. I thought I fell asleep under its power, and was rapt into the realm of visions and dreams. The enchanted violin broke

out in tumult, and through the rifted shadows in my dream I thought I saw old ocean lashed to fury. The wing of the storm-god brooded above it, dark and lowering with night and tempest and war. I heard the shriek of the angry hurricane, the loud rattling musketry of rain, and hail, and the louder and deadlier crash and roar of the red artillery on high. Its rumbling batteries, unlimbered on the vapory heights and manned by the fiery gunners of the storm, boomed their volleying thunders to the terrible rythm of the strife below. And in every stroke of the bow fierce lightnings leaped down from their dark pavilions of cloud, and, like armed angels of light, flashed their trenchant blades among the phantom squadrons marshalling for battle on the field of the deep. I heard the bugle blast and battle cry of the charging winds, wild and exultant, and then I saw the billowy monsters rise, like an army of Titans, to scale and carry the hostile heights of heaven. Assailing again and again, as often hurled back headlong into the ocean's abyss, they rolled, and surged, and writhed, and raged, till the affrighted earth trembled at the uproar of the warring elements. I saw the awful majesty and might of Jehovah flying on the wings of the tempest, planting his footsteps on the trackless deep, veiled in darkness and in clouds. There was a shifting of the bow; the storm died away in the distance, and the morning broke in floods of glory. Then the violin revived and poured out its sweetest soul. In its music I heard the rustle of a thousand joyous wings, and a burst of song from

a thousand joyous throats. Mockingbirds and linnets thrilled the glad air with warblings; gold finches, thrushes and bobolinks trilled their happiest tunes; and the oriole sang a lullaby to her hanging cradle that rocked in the wind. I heard the twitter of skimming swallows and the scattered covey's piping call; I heard the robin's gay whistle, the croaking of crows, the scolding of blue-jays, and the melancholy cooing of a dove. The swaying treetops seemed vocal with bird-song while he played, and the labyrinths of leafy shade echoed back the chorus. Then the violin sounded the hunter's horn, and the deep-mouthed pack of fox hounds opened loud and wild, far in the ringing woods, and it was like the music of a hundred chiming bells. There was a tremor of the bow, and I heard a flute play, and a harp, and a golden-mouthed cornet; I heard the mirthful babble of happy voices, and peals of laughter ringing in the swelling tide of pleasure. Then I saw a vision of snowy arms, voluptuous forms, and light fantastic slippered feet, all whirling and floating in the mazes of the misty dance. The flying fingers now tripped upon the trembling strings like fairy-feet dancing on

the nodding violets, and the music glided into a still sweeter strain. The violin told a story of human life. Two lovers strayed beneath the elms and oaks, and down by the river side, where daffodils and pansies bend and smile to rippling waves, and there, under the bloom of incense-breathing bowers, under the soothing sound of humming bees and splashing waters, there, the old, old story, so old and yet so new, conceived in heaven, first told in Eden and then handed down through all the ages, was told over and over again. Ah, those downward drooping eyes, that mantling blush, that trembling hand in meek submission pressed, that heaving breast, that fluttering heart, that whispered "yes," wherein a heaven lies--how well they told of victory won and paradise regained! And then

he swung her in a grapevine swing. Young man, if you want to win her, wander with her amid the elms and oaks, and swing her in a

grapevine swing.

"Swinging in the grapevine swing,

Laughing where the wild birds sing;

I dream and sigh for the days gone by,

Swinging in the grapevine swing."

"SWINGING IN THE GRAPEVINE SWING."

But swiftly the tides of music run, and swiftly speed the hours;

Life's pleasures end when scarce begun, e'en as the summer flowers.

The violin laughed like a child and my dream changed again. I saw a cottage amid the elms and oaks and a little curly-head toddled

at the door; I saw a happy husband and father return from his labors in the evening and kiss his happy wife and frolic with his baby. The purple glow now faded from the Western skies; the flowers closed their petals in the dewy slumbers of the night; every wing was folded in the bower; every voice was hushed; the full-orbed moon poured silver from the East, and God's eternal jewels flashed on the brow of night. The scene changed again while the great master played, and at midnight's holy hour, in the light of a lamp dimly burning, clad in his long, white mother-hubbard, I saw the disconsolate victim of love's young dream nervously walking the floor, in his bosom an aching heart, in his arms the squalling baby. On the drowsy air, like the sad wails of a lost spirit, fell his woeful voice singing:

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(Listen to MIDI version of the above)

Sheet Music: Page 1.

It was a battle with king colic. But this ancient invader of the empire of babyhood had sounded a precipitate retreat; the curly head had fallen over on the paternal shoulder; the tear-stained little face was almost calm in repose, when down went a naked heel square on an inverted tack. Over went the work table; down came the work basket, scissors and all; up went the heel with the tack sticking in it, and the hero of the daffodils and pansies, with a yell like the Indian war-whoop, and with his mother-hubbard now floating at half mast, hopped in agony to a lounge in the rear.

A BATTLE WITH KING COLIC.

There was "weeping and gnashing of teeth;" there were hoarse mutterings; there was an angry shake of the screaming baby, which

he had awakened again. Then I heard an explosion of wrath from the warm blankets of the conjugal couch, eloquent with the music of "how dare you shake my little baby that way!!!! I'll tell pa tomorrow!" which instantly brought the trained husband into line again, singing:

"La-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, dancing the baby ever so high,

With my la-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, mamma will come to you bye and bye."

The paregoric period of life is full of spoons and midnight squalls, but what is home without a baby?

The bow now brooded like a gentle spirit over the violin, and the music eddied into a mournful tone; another year intervened; a little coffin sat by an empty cradle; the prints of baby fingers were on the window panes; the toys were scattered on the floor; the lullaby was hushed; the sobs and cries, the mirth and mischief, and the tireless little feet were no longer in the way to vex and worry. Sunny curls drooped above eyelids that were closed forever; two little cheeks were bloodless and cold, and two little dimpled hands were folded upon a motionless breast. The vibrant instrument sighed and wept; it rang the church bell's knell; and the second story of life, which is the sequel to the first, was told.

Then I caught glimpses of a half-veiled paradise and a sweet breath from its flowers; I saw the hazy stretches of its landscapes, beautiful and gorgeous as Mahomet's vision of heaven; I heard the faint swells of its distant music and saw the flash of white wings that never weary, wafting to the bosom of God an infant spirit; a string snapped; the music ended; my vision vanished.

The old Master is dead, but his music will live forever.

CHERISH THE LITTLE ONES.

Do you sometimes forget and wound the hearts of your children with frowns and the dagger of cruel words, and sometimes with

a blow? Do you sometimes, in your own peevishness, and your own meanness, wish yourself away from their fretful cries and noisy sports? Then think that tomorrow may ripen the wicked wish; tomorrow death may lay his hand upon a little fluttering heart and it will be stilled forever. 'Tis then you will miss the sunbeam and the sweet little flower that reflected heaven on the soul. Then cherish the little ones! Be tender with the babes! Make your homes beautiful! All that remains to us of paradise lost, clings about the home. Its purity, its innocence, its virtue, are there, untainted by sin, unclouded by guile. There woman shines, scarcely dimmed by the fall, reflecting the loveliness of Eden's first wife and mother; the grace, the beauty, the sweetness of the wifely relation, the tenderness of maternal affection, the graciousness of manner which once charmed angel guests, still glorify the home.

If you would make your homes happy, you must make the children happy. Get down on the floor with your prattling boys and girls and play horse with them; take them on your back and gallop them to town; don't kick up and buck, but be a good and gentle old steed, and join in a hearty horse laugh in their merriment. Take the baby on your knee and gallop him to town; let him practice gym-nastics on top of your head and take your scalp; let him puncture a hole in your ear with his little teeth, and bite off the end of the paternal nose. Make your homes beautiful with your duty and your love, make them bright with your mirth and your music.

Victor Hugo said of Napoleon the Great: "The frontiers of kingdoms oscillated on the map. The sound of a super-human sword being drawn from its scabbard could be heard; and he was seen, opening in the thunder his two wings, the Grand Army and the

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Old Guard; he was the archangel of war." And when I read it I thought of the death and terror that followed wherever the shadow of the open wings fell. I thought of the blood that flowed, and the tears that were shed wherever the sword gleamed in his hand. I thought of the human skulls that paved Napoleon's way to St. Helena's barren rock, and I said, 'I would rather dwell in a log cabin, in the beautiful land of the mountains where I was born and reared, and sit at its humble hearthstone at night, and in the firelight,

play the humble rural tunes on the fiddle to my happy children, and bask in the smiles of my sweet wife, than to be the 'archangel of war,' with my hands stained with human blood, or to make the 'frontiers of kingdoms oscillate on the map of the world, and then, away from home and kindred and country, die at last in exile and in solitude.'

FAT MEN AND BALD-HEADED MEN.

It ought to be the universal law that none but fat men and bald-headed men should be the heads of families, because they are always good natured, contented and easily managed. There is more music in a fat man's laugh than there is in a thousand orchestras or brass bands. Fat sides and bald heads are the symbols of music, innocence, and meek submission. O! ladies listen to the words of wisdom! Cultivate the society of fat men and bald-headed men, for "of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." And the fat women, God bless

their old sober sides--they are "things of beauty, and a joy forever."

THE VIOLIN, THE POET LAUREATE OF MUSIC.

How sweet are the lips of morning that kiss the waking world! How sweet is the bosom of night that pillows the world to rest. But sweeter than the lips of morning, and sweeter than the bosom of night, is the voice of music that wakes a world of joys and soothes a world of sorrows. It is like some unseen ethereal ocean whose silver surf forever breaks in song; forever breaks on valley, hill, and craig, in ten thousand symphonies. There is a melody in every sunbeam, a sunbeam in every melody; there is a flower in every song,

a love song in every flower; there is a sonnet in every gurgling fountain, a hymn in every brimming river, an anthem in every rolling billow. Music and light are twin angels of God, the first-born of heaven, and mortal ear and mortal eye have caught only the echo and the shadow of their celestial glories.

The violin is the poet laureate of music; violin of the virtuoso and master, fiddle of the untutored in the ideal art. It is the aristocrat of the palace and the hall; it is the democrat of the unpretentious home and humble cabin. As violin, it weaves its garlands of roses and camelias; as fiddle it scatters its modest violets. It is admired by the cultured for its magnificent powers and wonderful creations; it is loved by the millions for its simple melodies.

THE CONVICT AND HIS FIDDLE.

One bright morning, just before Christmas day, an official stood in the Executive chamber in my presence as Governor of Tennessee, and said: "Governor, I have been implored by a poor miserable wretch in the penitentiary to bring you this rude fiddle. It was made by his own hands with a penknife during the hours allotted to him for rest. It is absolutely valueless, it is true, but it is his peti-tion to you for mercy. He begged me to say that he has neither attorneys nor influential friends to plead for him; that he is poor, and all he asks is, that when the Governor shall sit at his own happy fireside on Christmas eve, with his own happy children around him, he will play one tune on this rough fiddle and think of a cabin far away in the mountains whose hearthstone is cold and desolate and surrounded by a family of poor little wretched, ragged children, crying for bread and waiting and listening for the footsteps of their father."

Who would not have been touched by such an appeal? The record was examined; Christmas eve came; the Governor sat that night at his own happy fireside, surrounded by his own happy children; and he played one tune to them on that rough fiddle. The hearthstone of the cabin in the mountains was bright and warm; a pardoned prisoner sat with his baby on his knee, surrounded by his rejoicing children, and in the presence of his happy wife, and although there was naught but poverty around him, his heart sang:

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"Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;" and then he reached up and snatched his fiddle down from the wall, and played

"Jordan is a hard road to travel."

A VISION OF THE OLD FIELD SCHOOL.

Did you never hear a fiddler fiddle? I have. I heard a fiddler fiddle, and the hey-dey-diddle of his frolicking fiddle called back the hap-py days of my boyhood. The old field schoolhouse with its batten doors creaking on wooden hinges, its windows innocent of glass, and its great, yawning fireplace, cracking and roaring and flaming like the infernal regions, rose from the dust of memory and stood once more among the trees. The limpid spring bubbled and laughed at the foot of the hill. Flocks of nimble, noisy boys turned somersaults and skinned the cat and ran and jumped half hammon on the old play ground. The grim old teacher stood in the door; he had no brazen-mouthed bell to ring then as we have now, but he shouted at the top of his voice: "Come to books!!!" And they came. Not to come meant "war and rumors of war." The backless benches, high above the floor, groaned under the weight of irrepress-

ible young America; the multitude of mischievous, shining faces, the bare legs and feet, swinging to and fro, and the mingled hum of happy voices, spelling aloud life's first lessons, prophesied the future glory of the State. The curriculum of the old field school was the same everywhere--one Webster's blue backed, elementary spelling book, one thumb-paper, one stone-bruise, one sore toe, and Peter Parley's Travels.

The grim old teacher, enthroned on his split bottomed chair, looked terrible as an army with banners; and he presided with a dignity and solemnity which would have excited the envy of the United States Supreme Court: I saw the school commissioners visit him, and heard them question him as to his system of teaching. They asked him whether, in geography, he taught that the world was round, or that the world was flat. With great dignity he replied: "That depends upon whar I'm teachin'. If my patrons desire me to teach the round system, I teach it; if they desire me to teach the flat system, I teach that."

At the old field school I saw the freshman class, barefooted and with pantaloons rolled up to the knees, stand in line under the ever uplifted rod, and I heard them sing the never-to-be-forgotten b-a ba's. They sang them in the olden times, and this is the way they sang: "b-a ba, b-e be, b-i bi-ba be bi, b-o bo, b-u bu-ba be bi bo bu."

I saw a sophomore dance a jig to the music of a dogwood sprout for throwing paper wads. I saw a junior compelled to stand on the dunce block, on one foot--(a la gander) for winking at his sweetheart in time of books, for failing to know his lessons, and for "various and sundry other high crimes and misdemeanors."

A twist of the fiddler's bow brought a yell from the fiddle, and in my dream, I saw the school come pouring out into the open air. Then followed the games of "prisoner's base," "town-ball," "Antney-over;" "bull-pen" and "knucks," the hand to hand engagements with yellow jackets, the Bunker Hill and Brandywine battles with bumblebees, the charges on flocks of geese, the storming of apple orchards and hornet's nests, and victories over hostile "setting" hens. Then I witnessed the old field school "Exhibition"--the wonderful "exhibition"--they call it Commencement now. Did you never witness an old field school "exhibition," far out in the country, and listen to its music? If you have not your life is a failure--you are a broken string in the harp of the universe. The old field school "exhibition" was the parade ground of the advance guard of civilization; it was the climax of great events in the olden times; and

vast assemblies were swayed by the eloquence of the budding sockless statesmen. It was at the old field school "exhibition" that the goddess of liberty always received a broken nose, and the poetic muse a black eye; it was at the old field school "exhibition" that Greece and Rome rose and fell, in seas of gore, about every fifteen minutes in the day, and,

The American eagle, with unwearied flight,

Soared upward and upward, till he soared out of sight.

It was at the old field school "exhibition" that the fiddle and the bow immortalized themselves. When the frowning old teacher advanced on the stage and nodded for silence, instantly there was silence in the vast assembly; and when the corps of country fiddlers, "one of which I was often whom," seated on the stage, hoisted the black flag, and rushed into the dreadful charge on "Old Dan Tucker," or "Arkansas Traveller," the spectacle was sublime. Their heads swung time; their bodies rocked time; their feet patted time; the muscles of their faces twitched time; their eyes winked time; their teeth ground time. The whizzing bows and screaming fiddles electrified the audience who cheered at every brilliant turn in the charge of the fiddlers. The good women laughed for joy; the men winked at each other and popped their fists; it was like the charge of the Old Guard at Waterloo, or a battle with a den of snakes. Upon the completion of the grand overture of the fiddlers the brilliant programme of the "exhibition," which usually lasted all day, opened with "Mary had a little lamb;" and it gathered fury until it reached Patrick Henry's "Give me liberty or give me death!!!" The programme was interspersed with compositions by the girls, from the simple subject of "flowers," including "blessings brighten as

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they take their flight," up to "every cloud has a silver lining;" and it was interlarded with frequent tunes by the fiddlers from early morn till close of day.

MUSIC OF THE OLD FIELD SCHOOL EXHIBITION.

Did you never hear the juvenile orator of the old field school speak? He was not dressed like a United States Senator; but he was dressed with a view to disrobing for bed, and completing his morning toilet instantly; both of which he performed during the acts of ascending and descending the stairs. His uniform was very simple. It consisted of one pair of breeches rolled up to the knees, with one patch on the "western hemisphere," one little shirt with one button at the top, one "gallus," and one invalid straw hat. His straw hat stood guard over his place on the bench, while he was delivering his great speech at the "exhibition." With great dignity and eclat, the old teacher advanced on the stage and introduced him to the expectant audience, and he came forward like a cyclone.

THE OLD FIELD SCHOOL ORATOR.

"The boy stood on the burnin' deck whence all but him had fled----The flames that lit the battle's wreck shown 'round him o'er the dead, yet beautiful and bright he stood----the boy stood on the burnin' deck----and he wuz the bravest boy that ever wuz. His fa-ther told him to keep a-stan'in' there till he told him to git off 'n there, and the boy he jist kep' a stan'in' there----and fast the flames rolled on----The old man went down stairs in the ship to see about sump'n, an' he got killed down there, an' the boy he didn't

know it, an' he jist kept a stan'in' there----an' fast the flames rolled on. He cried aloud: "say father, say, if yit my task is done," but his father wuz dead an' couldn't hear 'im, an' the boy he jist kep' a stan'in' there----an' fast the flames rolled on.----They caught like flag banners in the sky, an' at last the ol' biler busted, an' the boy he went up!!!!!!!!"

At the close of this great speech the fiddle fainted as dead as a herring.

THE QUILTING AND THE OLD VIRGINIA REEL.

The old fiddler took a fresh chew of long, green tobacco, and rosined his bow. He glided off into "Hop light ladies, your cake's all dough," and then I heard the watch dog's honest bark. I heard the guinea's merry "pot-rack." I heard a cock crow. I heard the din of happy voices in the "big house" and the sizz and songs of boiling kettles in the kitchen. It was an old time quilting--the May-day of the glorious ginger cake and cider era of the American Republic; and the needle was mightier than the sword. The pen of Jefferson announced to the world, the birth of the child of the ages; the sword of Washington defended it in its cradle, but it would have perished there had it not been for the brave women of that day who plied the needle and made the quilts that warmed it, and who nursed it and rocked it through the perils of its infancy, into the strength of a giant. The quilt was attached to a quadrangular frame suspended from the ceiling; and the good women sat around it and quilted the livelong day, and were courted by the swains between stitches. At sunset the quilt was always finished; a cat was thrown into the center of it, and the happy maiden nearest to whom the escaping "kitty-puss" passed was sure to be the first to marry.

Then followed the groaning supper table, surrounded by giggling girls, bashful young men and gossipy old matrons who monopo-lized the conversation. There was a warm and animated discussion among the old ladies as to what was the most delightful product of the garden. One old lady said, that so "fur" as she was "consarned," she preferred the "per-turnip"--another preferred the "per-

tater"--another the "cow-cumber," and still another voted "ingern" king. But suddenly a wise looking old dame raised her spectacles and settled the whole question by observing: "Ah, ladies, you may talk about yer per-turnips, and your pertaters, and your passnips and other gyardin sass, but the sweetest wedgetable that ever melted on these ol' gums o' mine is the 'possum."

At length the feast was ended, the old folks departed and the fun and frolic began in earnest at the quilting. Old uncle "Ephraham"

was an old darkey in the neighborhood, distinguished for calling the figures for all the dances, for miles and miles around. He was

a tall, raw-boned, angular old darkey with a very bald head, and a great deal of white in his eyes. He had thick, heavy lips and a very flat nose. I will tell you a little story of uncle "Ephraham." He lived alone in his cabin, as many of the old time darkeys lived, and his 'possum dog lived with him. One evening old uncle "Ephraham" came home from his labors and took his 'possum dog into

the woods and soon caught a fine, large, fat 'possum. He brought him home and dressed him; and then he slipped into his master's garden and stole some fine, large, fat sweet potatoes--("Master's nigger, Master's taters,") and he washed the potatoes and split them and piled them in the oven around the 'possum. He set the oven on the red hot coals and put the lid on, and covered it with red hot coals, and then sat down in the corner and nodded and breathed the sweet aroma of the baking 'possum, till it was done. Then he

set it out into the middle of the floor, and took the lid off, and sat down by the smoking 'possum and soliloquized: "Dat's de fines'

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job ob bakin' 'possum I evah has done in my life, but dat 'possum's too hot to eat yit. I believes I'll jis lay down heah by 'im an' take a nap while he's coolin', an' maybe I'll dream about eat'n 'im, an' den I'll git up an' eat 'im, an' I'll git de good uv dat 'possum boaf times dat-a-way." So he lay down on the floor, and in a moment he was sleeping as none but the old time darkey could sleep, as sweetly as a babe in its mother's arms. Old Cye was another old darkey in the neighborhood, prowling around. He poked his head

in at "Ephraham's" door ajar, and took in the whole situation at a glance. Cye merely remarked to himself: "I loves 'possum myself." And he slipped in on his tip-toes and picked up the 'possum and ate him from tip to tail, and piled the bones down by sleeping "Ephraham;" he ate the sweet potatoes and piled the hulls down by the bones; then he reached into the oven and got his hand full

of 'possum grease and rubbed it on "Ephraham's" lips and cheeks and chin, and then folded his tent and silently stole away. At length "Ephraham" awoke--"Sho' nuf, sho' nuf--jist as I expected; I dreampt about eat'n dat 'possum an' it wuz de sweetest dream I evah has had yit." He looked around, but empty was the oven--"'possum gone." "Sho'ly to de Lo'd," said "Ephraham," "I nuvvah eat dat 'possum while I wuz a dreamin' about eat'n 'im." He poked his tongue out--"Yes, dat's 'possum grease sho,--I s'pose I eat dat 'possum while I wuz a dreamin' about eat'n 'im, but ef I did eat 'im, he sets lighter on my constitution an' has less influence wid me dan any 'possum I evah has eat in my bo'n days."

Old uncle "Ephraham" was present at the country dance in all his glory. He was attired in his master's old claw-hammer coat, a very buff vest, a high standing collar the corners of which stood out six inches from his face, striped pantaloons that fitted as tightly as a kid glove, and he wore number fourteen shoes. He looked as though he were born to call the figures of the dance. The fiddler was a young man with long legs, a curving back, and a neck of the crane fashion, embellished with an Adam's apple which made him look as though he had made an unsuccessful effort to swallow his own head. But he was a very important personage at the dance. With great dignity he unwound his bandana handkerchief from his old fiddle and proceeded to tune for the fray.

Did you never hear a country fiddler tune his fiddle? He tuned, and he tuned, and he tuned. He tuned for fifteen minutes, and it was like a melodious frog pond during a shower of rain.

At length uncle "Ephraham" shouted: "Git yo' pardners for a cow-tillion."

The fiddler struck an attitude, and after countless yelps from his eager strings, he glided off into that sweet old Southern air of "Old Uncle Ned," as though he were mauling rails or feeding a threshing machine. Uncle "Ephraham" sang the chorus with the fiddle before he began to call the figures of the dance:

"Lay down de shovel an' de hoe--hoe--hoe, hang up de fiddle an' de bow,

For dar's no mo' work for poor ol' Ned--he's gone whar de good niggahs go."

Then, drawing himself up to his full height, he began! "Honah yo' pardnahs! swing dem co'nahs--swing yo' pardnahs! fust couple for'd an' back! half right an' leff fru! back agin! swing dem co'nahs--swing yo' pardnahs! nex' couple for'd an' back! half right and leff fru! back agin! swing dem co'nahs--swing yo' pardnahs! fust couple to de right--lady in de centah--han's all around--suhwing!!!--nex' couple suhwing!!! nex' couple suhwing!!! suhwing, suhwing, suhwing!!!!!!"

UNCLE "EPHRAHAM" CALLING THE FIGURES OF THE DANCE.

About this time an angry lad who had been jilted by his sweetheart, shied a fresh egg from without; it struck "Ephraham" square between the eyes and broke and landed on his upper lip. Uncle "Ephraham" yelled: "Stop de music--stop de dance--let de whole circumstances of dis occasion come to a stan' still till I finds out who it is a scram'lin eggs aroun' heah."

And then the dancing subsided for the candy-pulling.

THE CANDY PULLING

The sugar was boiling in the kettles, and while it boiled the boys and girls played "snap," and "eleven hand," and "thimble," and

"blindfold," and another old play which some of our older people will remember:

"Oh! Sister Phoebe, how merry were we, When we sat under the juniper tree-- The juniper tree-I-O."

And when the sugar had boiled down into candy they emptied it into greased saucers, or as the mountain folks called them, "greased

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sassers," and set it out to cool; and when it had cooled each boy and girl took a saucer; and they pulled the taffy out and patted it

and rolled it till it hung well together; and then they pulled it out a foot long; they pulled it out a yard long; and they doubled it back, and pulled it out; and when it began to look like gold the sweethearts paired off and consolidated their taffy and pulled against each other. They pulled it out and doubled it back, and looped it over, and pulled it out; and sometimes a peachblow cheek touched a bronzed one; and sometimes a sweet little voice spluttered out; "you Jack;" and there was a suspicious smack like a cow pulling her foot out of stiff mud. They pulled the candy and laughed and frolicked; the girls got taffy on their hair--the boys got taffy on their chins; the girls got taffy on their waists--the boys got taffy on their coat sleeves. They pulled it till it was as bright as a moonbeam, and then they platted it and coiled it into fantastic shapes and set it out in the crisp air to cool. Then the courting in earnest began. They did not court then as the young folks court now. The young man led his sweetheart back into a dark corner and sat down by her, and held her hand for an hour, and never said a word. But it resulted next year in more cabins on the hillsides and in the hollows; and in the years that followed the cabins were full of candy-haired children who grew up into a race of the best, the bravest, and the noblest people the sun in heaven ever shone upon.

In the bright, bright hereafter, when all the joys of all the ages are gathered up and condensed into globules of transcendent ecstacy, I doubt whether there will be anything half so sweet as were the candy-smeared, ruby lips of the country maidens to the jeans-jack- eted swains who tasted them at the candy-pulling in the happy long ago.

(Sung by Gov. Taylor to air of "Down on the Farm.")

In the happy long ago,

When I used to draw the bow,

At the old log cabin hearthstone all aglow,

Oh! the fiddle laughed and sung, And the puncheons fairly rung,

With the clatter of the shoe soles long ago. Oh! the merry swings and whirls

Of the happy boys and girls,

In the good old time cotillion long ago! Oh! they danced the highland fling,

And they cut the pigeon wing,

To the music of the fiddle and the bow. But the mischief and the mirth,

And the frolics 'round the hearth,

And the flitting of the shadows to and fro, Like a dream have passed away--

Now I'm growing old and gray,

And I'll soon hang up the fiddle and the bow. When a few more notes I've made,

When a few more tunes I've played,

I'll be sleeping where the snowy daises grow.

But my griefs will all be o'er

When I reach the happy shore,

Where I'll greet the friends who loved me long ago.

Oh! how sweet, how precious to us all are the memories of the happy long ago!

THE OLD VIRGINIA REEL.

THE BANQUET.

Let us leave the "egg flip" of the country dance, and take a bowl of egg-nog at the banquet. It was a modern banquet for men only. Music flowed; wine sparkled; the night was far spent--it was in the wee sma' hours. The banquet was given by Col. Punk who was the promoter of a town boom, and who had persuaded the banqueters that "there were millions in it." He had purchased some old

sedge fields on the outskirts of creation, from an old squatter on the domain of Dixie, at three dollars an acre; and had stocked them at three hundred dollars an acre. The old squatter was a partner with the Colonel, and with his part of the boodle nicely done up in

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his wallet, was present with bouyant hopes and feelings high. Countless yarns were spun; numberless jokes passed 'round the table until, in the ecstacy of their joy, the banqueters rose from the table and clinked their glasses together, and sang to chorus:

"Landlord, fill the flowing bowl

Until it doth run over; Landlord fill the flowing bowl Until it doth run over;

For to-night we'll merry merry be, For to-night we'll merry merry be, For to-night we'll merry merry be; And tomorrow we'll get sober."

The whole banquet was drunk (as banquets usually are), and the principal stockholders finally succumbed to the music of "Old

Kentucky Bourbon," and sank to sleep under the table. The last toast on the programme was announced. It was a wonderful toast--

"Our mineral resources:" The old squatter rose in his glory, about three o'clock in the morning, to respond to this toast, and thus he responded:

"Mizzer Churman and Gent-tul-men of the Banquet: I have never made mineralogy a study, nor zoology, nor any other kind of 'ol-ogy,' but if there haint m-i-n-e-r-l in the deestrick which you gent-tul-men have jist purchased from me at sitch magnifercent figers, then the imagernation of man is a deception an' a snare. But gent-tul-men, you caint expect to find m-i-n-e-r-l without plenty uv diggin'. I have been diggin' thar for the past forty year fur it, an' haint never struck it yit, I hope you gen-tul-men will strike it some time endurin' the next forty year." Here, with winks and blinks and clinched teeth, the old Colonel pulled his coat tail; he was spoiling the town boom. But he would not down. He continued in the same eloquent strain: "Gent-tul-men, you caint expect to find m-i-n-e-

r-l without plenty uv diggin.' You caint expect to find nothin' in this world without plenty uv diggin'. There is no excellence without labor gent-tul-men. If old Vanderbilt hadn't a-been persevering in his pertickler kind uv dig-gin', whar would he be to-day? He wouldn't now be a rich man, a-ridin' the billers of old ocean in his magnifercent 'yatchet.' If I hadn't a-been perseverin', an' hadn't

a-kep on a-dig-gin' an' a-diggin, whar would I have been to-day? I mout have been seated like you gent-tul-men, at this stupendu-ous banquet, with my pockets full of watered stock, and some other old American citizen mout have been deliverin' this eulogy on our m-i-n-e-r-l resources. Gent-tul-men, my injunction to you is never to stop diggin'. And while you're a-diggin', cultivate a love for the beautiful, the true and the good. Speakin' of the beautiful, the true, and the good, gent-tul-men, let us not forgit woman at this magnifercent banquet--Oh! woman, woman, woman! when the mornin' stars sung together for joy--an' woman--God bless

'er----Great God, feller citerzens, caint you understand!!!!"

THE BANQUET.

At the close of this great speech the curtain fell to slow music, and there was a panic in land stocks.

THERE IS MUSIC ALL AROUND US.

There is music all around us, there is music everywhere. There is no music so sweet to the American ear as the music of politics. There is nothing that kindles the zeal of a modern patriot to a whiter heat than the prospect of an office; there is nothing that cools it off so quickly as the fading out of that prospect.

I stood on the stump in Tennessee as a candidate for Governor, and thus I cut my eagle loose: "Fellow Citizens, we live in the grandest country in the world. It stretches

From Maine's dark pines and crags of snow

To where magnolia breezes blow;

It stretches from the Atlantic Ocean on the east, to the Pacific Ocean on the west"--and an old fellow jumped up in my crowd and threw his hat in the air and shouted: "Let 'er stretch, durn 'er--hurrah for the Dimocrat Party."