It was Hebron's busy day--or busy half-day, of all the week. Not until I hove in sight of the little settlement and saw a row of horses hitched to the pole near the store, and at least eight or ten persons in plain view, did I realize the truth. In nearly all rural communities, all farm work is knocked off at noon Saturday. Then dissipation follows in going to the store. There is nothing else to do, unless one sneaks off to the barn and goes to sleep on the hay, or slips down to the river and goes seining. But seining was unlawful, and this was the wrong time of year, anyway. It was early in the afternoon--not past two o'clock--and only the advance guard had arrived. But the sight made me glad. I wanted to mix, move and talk with the yeomanry that day. So I sauntered up the road toward the store, paying no heed to the open-doored smithy as I strolled by. Buck was one who could not let up this day, for more than one horse's hoof had grown sore going barefoot a portion of that week, waiting for this afternoon. Though I did not turn my head, I knew there were a number of horses standing under the shed in front of the shop. I had barely passed it when I heard a harsh, prolonged-- "_Who-oa!_ Durn ye! Can't ye stan' still a _minute_?" This was accompanied by the sound of scuffling within. I turned to see a couple of urchins make their escape through the broad doorway, and I could discern fright on their faces as their bare feet patted the hot yellow dust of the road. They were headed toward the creek over which hung the home-made bridge, and they did not stop nor lessen their speed until they splashed into the shallow water. It was not sham terror, either, for now they stood holding each other by the arms, and gazing back at the shop. I wheeled in my tracks, and walked under the shed. I did not enter the smithy because there was no need. It was light as day in there, and I would have been in the way then. I saw three people and a mule, evidently young, and evidently fractious. It was a fine yearling; fat, sleek, shapely. Buck Steele, with a small, elongated iron shoe in his left hand, stood in a semi-profile position, facing the man who had brought the animal in. A negro boy lolled by the forge, his hand on the handle of the bellows. "Whut's th' matter 'ith th' fool critter?" Buck was saying, as I halted under the shed. He had not seen my approach. "Fus' time, yo' know," returned the man, in a wheedling kind of voice, thrusting his thumb under his bedticking suspender, and chasing it over his shoulder with that member. "Yo' 'll hev to be kind o' durn keerful, Buck"--he shifted his hold from the rope of the halter to the halter itself--"'cus he didn't miss yo' an inch las' time." The mule was scared. It trembled at every move Buck made, and its eyes were distended and rolling. "Nothin' 's ever passed out o' this here shop bar'-footed that a man wants shoes on!" maintained the smith. "If yo' want this animile shod, I'll shoe 'im!"