The Washburn times. [volume] (Washburn, Wis.) 1896-1976, 1922-04-20

Goliath Of tire HIlIs.

Odle aWOke utClo k1ter QayDreak,
arose and dressed himself, and went
out by way of the door beside the
huge stone-and-clay chimney.
The mountain air was bracing. Dale
threw out his chest and started eager
ly for walk.
The road led past the cabin Of
Grandpap Moreland. When Dale was
directly In front of the log house, he
saw the aged mountaineer standing on
a rickety sawhorse beside the stone
step at the narrow porch; Grandpap
Moreland was helping a gray cat down
from the roof.
'"Mornin'! / was jest a-takin' that
thar cussared old pest down often the
roof. I've took him down every morn
in as regular as make fires, TO- three
year or more. Eff 1t wasn't bad luck
to kill a cat, / shoot him, mebbe."
After breakfasting with John More
land, Bill Dale borrowed fishing-tackle
from his host, and set out alone for
the little river.
There were many shoals and rapids,
and he went almost half a mile before
he found a place to his liking. It was
a beautiful spot. Above, the water
poured between two great boulders
with q gentle roar; below. 1t Swallowed
out over round stones. Overhead
lowered tall white sycamores.
Not until he had put q minnow on
the hook and cast It out did he see
that he was not alone at the pool. On
the other side, less than sixty feet
away, Babe Littleford sat on q stone
the size Of small barrel; she held
cane fshing-rod In her hands, and
her bare feet were In the water to her
ankles. She was looking squarely to-
ward Dale, and there was something
akin to reproachful anger in her long
brown eyes.
Good morningl" called Dale, lifting
his hat
There was no reply. There was not
even change Of countenance. Again
Dale called his friendly greeting, and
again there was no reply. It piqued
Dale.
A few yards down the stream the
white body Of a sycamore lay from
one bank to the other; 1t had been
blown there by a recent storm. Dale
wound his line, went down and crossed
by means Of the PROSTATE tree.
She didn't even look around when
he walked up to her and spoke again.
It struck him as being decidedly odd.
II say" he told her. you're as
chatty as a set Of stencils. You
mustn't talk 50 much, y'know."
Her eyes smiled at the river, but
Dale couldn't see her eyes.
'sDo you like violets. Miss Little
fOrd?" he asked next.
In the black, mica-starred soil at
his feet grew a carpet Of the finest
violets he had ever seen. Babe let the
tip Of her cane rod fall into the water
and looked around.
"It sounds funny to hear man talk
o. sech little things as vi'lets," she de-
clared. "M0st o. men don't think o.
nothin' but workin'. huntin', dghtin'
and eatin,. I'm q little mad at youi
"NAs AOAAO JS0SO AnJ 0AO SAAAh0
run might nigh the whole six mile
and fixed up dinner TO you, cause ]
understood you was a-comin' to our
house-and you went to them low
down Morelandsi"
Il beg pardon" he said contritely;
didn't know you were especially ex-
recting me. / had business" he added,
with John Moreland."
There came to his cars from some
where down tia river the chorus OF
q rakish old hill song, and the voice
was that Of the lanky moonshiner, By
Heck
'Oh, when die, don't-a bury mo deep.
Put no tombstone at my head and feet.
Put . bears jawbons In my right hand
On my way to the Promised La-a-and,
Obi On my way to the Promised
Landl''
A few minutes later there appeared
on the Moreland side Of the river the
singer Of the rakish old song; he had
minnow pail In one hand and white
hickory rod In the other.
"Hi. thar. Bill, old bcyl" he yelled.
.Hi. thar Babel Either OF ye'uns