Then the opportune moment arrived--the signal was given--and the packed audience was scared out of its wits on looking up to the ceiling and beholding a cat, with a clothesline around its middle, yowling and spitting, being lowered over the preacher's head. [Illustration] The preacher called to the sexton in the attic: "Whar's de dove?" And the sexton's voice came down through the opening so you could hear it a block: "Inside de cat!" But, say, I want to tell you about a genuine farmer that I struck down South. He lived from hand to mouth, was about as ugly a specimen as the sun ever shone upon, and yet would you believe it this fellow actually thought himself to be the Robby Burns of Alabama? One of his shadow hogs chanced to be wandering on the railway, and, as sometimes happens, was transformed into bacon ready for the pan. Naturally he started to collect damages, even while he smoked the remains, and here is the result: [Illustration] "My razorback strolled down your track A week ago to-day; Your 29 came down the line And snuffed his light away. "You can't blame me--the hog, you see, Slipped through a cattle gate; So kindly pen a check for ten, The debt to liquidate." However, the game didn't pan out as he expected, for there chanced to be a match for his genius in the office of the railroad, and shortly after Skeezer received the following poetic reply: [Illustration: "Here lies a foolish swine"] "Old 29 came down the line And killed your hog, we know; But razorbacks on railroad tracks Quite often meet with woe. "Therefore, my friend, we cannot send The check for which you pine, Just plant the dead; place o'er his head: 'Here lies a foolish swine.'" As I have said, old Skeezer was always so dilapidated, and his person so soiled, that he had become a by-word of reproach in the neighborhood. Even respectable darkies scorned to be seen in his society, and he found his only solace among his swine. Why, his boy, just turned six, barelegged and far from clean himself, had some knowledge of his pa's shortcomings. [Illustration] I proved this to my satisfaction. Having some business over at the farm, I went to the house and knocked. This little chap came to the door. "Is this where Skeezer, Nathan Skeezer, lives?" I asked. "It be," he replied. "Is he at home?" "Reckon he is, sah--you'll find him over yonder cleanin' out the pigpen." I thanked the youngster, and was moving away when he called out: "Say, mister, you'll know dad, 'cause he's got his hat on." While I'm at it, let me relate an experience I had with homely men, and I remember it the better because it cost me five dollars. I chanced to be on one of the Old Dominion steamers at the time, in company with Tom Plunger, whose game it was to play the races. Tom was a mighty good fellow, and his only fault lay in the fact that he stuttered dreadfully.