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MONG the tributaries of the Beautiful River which

flow down through the Buckeye State, there is one celebrated for its picturesqueness. It is known by the Indian name of Muskingum. And a jolly, twinkling, little river it is on a summer's day, winking at all the old, red-jowled farmers, winking very slyly with one eye at their red-cheeked maidens, and with the other at the broad-shouldered, gawky hobbledehoys; winking at the sleepy villages, and the many fields of dark-green maize; winking at the great white-armed sycamores and the willows, whose leaves dance all day in a silly flutter of delight at such flattery; winking at the bright May-weed, and the spring beauties, and yellow dandelions along the grassy bank; winking at the huge eyes of the coal-mines, which

glower blackly down upon the little river as it goes dancing, bobbing, blinking, skipping, and winking along.

On the bank of this river there abode a community which was renowned for its patriotism. In the first place, the name of their county was Washington. In the second place, the half-moon level, formed by one of those beautifully superfluous sinuosities which the Muskingum loves, was called by them Federal Bottom. Lastly, the little creek which empties into the river at the lower extremity of this half-moon bottom received the patriotic christening of Congress Run. Thus impregnably intrenched in a loyal nomenclature, they abode long years in profound and tranquil security before they were overtaken by dis

aster.

On the opposite side of the river-range known as Tick Hill.

river is the precipitous This name is explained

by local etymologists from the fact that, so great is the sterility of the hill, the early settlers were compelled to buy and sell exclusively on tick. On its summit there stood a tree, famous far and near as the Crooked Tree, which was so very crooked that no farmer who looked at it could ever strike a straight furrow afterward.

Just a mile from the river, up the dismal hollow of Congress Run, many years ago,-so long ago, indeed, that the memory of man ran not to the contrary,-a queer old codger cleared away a little space among the lordly sugartrees, and built a log-cabin beside the creek. He was known for many a mile around as Daddy Childs, and his clearing, which never grew any wider, was called Childs' Place. Strange and wonderful were the stories told to children and superstitious persons about Daddy Childs. Among other things, it was said that his wife, when she made his clothes, spread the cloth upon the floor, laid him down on it, and cut them out by the shape of his body.

In consequence of this, his trousers were so very loose and bagging that you could have introduced into the seat of them a bushel of beans.

His feet were very red, long, and flat, and he never wore shoes in any season. Neither did he wear a coat, and always had his waistcoat and shirt opened on his breast, where the hair on a triangular space grew so abundant that when he came into a neighbor's house in a snowstorm his breast would be as white as his silvered beard. He was a stout, little man, with very red hands and face, albeit the latter was almost hidden by his snow-white hair, which contrasted strongly with his brown and shaggy breast. He always had his yellow woolen shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, displaying forearms as hairy-black as a bear's, though he never did any labor. His black hat was rolled up with great precision on two sides, and he always laid it off the last garment before he got into bed, taking it with both hands, and carefully placing it bottom side up; and when he got out of bed in the morning, he put it on first, with both hands, and invariably with the same end forward.

He was always walking about with a white hickory staff, and often went to tattle with the neighbors; but nobody could tell what in the world Daddy Childs did for a living. Most people considered him a losel, worthless fellow. His cabin stood in the center of his unfenced clearing, without a bush or a stalk of maize about it, and thus it seemed to have stood forever.

But the thing about which observing farmers puzzled and cudgeled their brains most was to "contrive" how the stumps were all extracted so quickly and so completely. They could not have rotted away so soon. More than one simple soul believed there had been some witchcraft about that stump-pulling. There it was, that smooth,

stumpless, grassy plat; the path down to the spring; the cabin in the midst, with its puncheon door, and the latchstring hanging out; the knees and the weights on the roof; and the enormous stone chimney outside. Not a shadow or vestige of anything else; no evidences of housekeeping, not even a long-handled gourd swinging against the logs.

When did Daddy Childs come there? Nobody knew. He had always been there.

Some of the most inquisitive spirits of the neighborhood visited the house several times, but they never could find Daddy Childs doing anything. His wife was always sitting glum in the chimney corner, rocking in her chair

Gathering her brows like gathering storm."

Strange and terrible stories were related of the house, and certain timorous souls would never, on any account, pass it after nightfall. One narrated to gaping auditors how he had seen a head of flame thrust out of the chimney in the evening, with drops of fiery blood dripping from its severed neck. Others had, at the dead hour of midnight, seen Daddy Childs driving a yoke of fiery-eyed oxen over the hill, drawing a bob-sled, on which his wife was riding. But nobody could find out anything positively evil concerning him, so he was permitted to remain, -a mystery to some, a terror to others. Some questioned, "What good does such a man in the world?" We shall

see.

One day, in the hay-making month of July, Daddy Childs suddenly seized his hickory staff, and started down the woody hollow of Congress Run. He walked very briskly, with his head stretched forward and his white hair streaming long down his shoulders, while with his staff he kept time with his left foot. He trudged through

the majestic groves of sugar-trees, and passed the pellucid pools of the creek, where the great-bellied cows stood deep in the water, cooling their udders and sleepily ruminating; nor did he glance aside even when little Bunny whipped up a lofty tree, and squatted on a limb fifty feet overhead, cocking his brush gayly up over his back, peering down at him with one eye, and saying, "Squk, wuk, wuk!" None of these things did he regard, but walked right on.

At last he approached the little creek-meadow, in which the hearty old bachelor, Halford Pinbury, was raking hay into windrows on the hillside. Now, Halford Pinbury, bachelor though he was, was renowned for the mince-pies, the rich old cheese, mustard cider, and hickory-nuts kept in his house; and seeing Daddy Childs climb over the fence, he was reminded of his mustard cider, went and lifted a wisp of hay off the oaken firkin, and took a judicious swig. Then he squatted down, struck the tail of his rake into a summer-crack, wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his arm, winked wickedly with his right eye, and laughed to himself. He watched Daddy Childs, as he shuffled along, breaking the stubble down with his naked feet. The old man did not approach him, but passed along at the foot of the hill, and when he was opposite, he waved his white staff above his head, and cried out, without stopping,

"Beware of Jim Crow and his rebel rout!"

Upon this, Halford Pinbury rose up, standing six feet high, winked mischievously with his right eye again, and laughed. Then he leaned on his rake with his left arm, and called after him,

"Hillo! Say, now! It's in the old Come up. 'Tisn't going to rain to-day.

of the moon. Come up and