One time the old Judge was acting as chairman of a committee of three lawyers who sat to examine a gangling young man from the country who sought a license to practice at the local bar. The candidate had started out to be a blacksmith, but he had decided that wearing a frock coat and making speeches to juries would be easier than bending mule shoes and shrinking wagon tires. Judge Bishop opened the inquiry. “Henry, my son,” he began in his usual benignant fashion, “I suppose you have done a course of reading with a view to acquiring the rudiments of this calling of ours and thereby fitting yourself for your new career?” “Well, Jedge, I done some readin’ but not so very much,” confessed Henry. “I aims to do the most of my readin’ after I opens an office.” “Well, let’s see just what reading you have done,” pursued Judge Bishop. “I assume naturally that you have read Blackstone?” “Black which, Jedge?” “Blackstone, author of great textbooks on the practice and principle of the law.” The candidate shook his head. “I ain’t never heared of him,” he confessed. “Well, how about Coke?” “I don’t know ez I ever heared tell of him, neither.” “Well, surely then you have studied the Constitution of the United States of America and the Constitution and the Bill of Rights of the State of Kentucky?” “To tell you the truth, Jedge, I ain’t got round to them yit,” admitted the aspiring blacksmith. “Henry,” pressed Judge Bishop, “suppose you tell us just what books—what authorities—you have studied since you became seized with the desire to be a member of our bar?” Henry pondered a moment. Then his face brightened. “I tell you, Jedge,” he said, “I read one big book called ‘Revised Statutes of the State of Kintucky’ mighty nigh through, an’ I kin remember part of what it says.” “My son,” stated Judge Bishop, “the trouble with you is that the next Legislature is liable to meet and repeal every damn thing you know.” § 59 A Lover of Statistics There was a seance on—a regular seance, with a trance medium and a black cheesecloth cabinet and a mysterious table rapper and a ghostly guitar picker and everything orthodox, like that. The medium was a stout lady whose controls took those liberties with the English language which seemingly is permitted in a realm where there is neither space nor time—nor grammar. The audience was of fairish size. Amid the throng sat a half-grown youth from about five miles out on R. F. D. No. 3. He was attending his first spiritualistic seance. As manifestation succeeded manifestation, his eyes popped and his ears twitched. Presently the medium’s husband, who acted, so to speak, as ringmaster, desired to know whether there was yet another present desirous of having speech with some dear departed one. If so, Madame would undertake to establish liaison. This was the cue for the yokel. He mustered courage to stutter an embarrassed plea. He wished to hear from the shade of his late father.