“Them revenue men an’ marshals an’ sich rakin’s an’ scrapin’s uv the yearth has might nigh ruint Montvale. A passel uv ’em comes here t’other day—jist week afore last—an’ axes me ’bout Sam Ben Jeckley’s ’stillery, whar it wuz. Sam Ben is Bill Ed’s brother. An’ I up an’ tells ’em I don’t know nothin’ about it—hain’t never seed it, nur smelt it, nur tasted it, nur been about it, nur had nothin’ to do with it, in no shape, size, form, nur fashion. “They said they knowed it ’uz around hyer somewhar. An’ sir, they rummaged over this lan’ an’ country a-s’archin’ fur that ’stillery—hit uz the mill the hands worked at. Atter cavortin’ aroun’ two ur three days, like a lot o’ male-cows a-tarrin’ up a paster, they afinally finds the mill—’stillery, as they called it—about two miles frum hyer. “An’ they taken axes an’ smashed the whole thing tell they wuz nuther ha’r nur hide uv it left. An’ they spilt out three tanks o’ sour-mash byer, an’ we hain’t had none fur the table sence. It beats all uv yer sasafac tea, yer spicewood tea, an’ yer Californy byer. “They poured out five barl’s uv the best whisky—’cordin’ to what’s said uv it—that ever went to town on ’lection day. They say jist one drink ’ould run a man wil’ enough fur the ’sylum, an’ one drap ’ould make a rabbit pick a qua’rl with a bull-dog, ef he had to spit in his face to do it. “It’s all sech ez that has ruint the country—stark-nater’ly wiped business out’n Montvale. The dirty, low-flunged, lazy good-fur-nothin’ imps uv the devil, prowlin’ aroun’, ’stroyin’ what other people’s sweat has earnt! “But still they wuzn’t satisfied! Then they went up above the mill—’stillery, as they called it—, an’ drawed the’r Winchesters an’ Smith & Westerns, an’ farred bullets all through the ruff, an’ poked the door ez full o’ holes ez a sifter. They jest blowed the whole thing bodyaciously all to flugens an’ flinderations, with the’r guns an’ pistols. “An’ that’s how the mill come to be shot down,” she added, as her parting guest once more lifted the gate aside. “Good day, Madam,” he said, as he lifted it back. “Wush ye well,” she answered. “Ef ye’re ever hyer agin, come to see us—I _reckin_ we kin stand ye, an’ Bill Ed won’t know nothin’ about it tell he’s up an’ out. He may be gone by that time any way, fur he’s speenied to Feder’l Court up at Louisville purty soon, fur a witness ’gin the government, to swar Sam Ben an’ tother ’shiners out’n trouble.” “Yes,” said the traveler to himself, “when I put up again at ‘the finest hotel,’ Bill Ed will be gone—to Federal Court, or some lower or higher tribunal.” [Illustration] INDEFINITELY POSTPONED. By Eva Williams Malone. [During the period immediately following the Civil War, many former slaves, after living in matrimonial harmony for years, were “married over again.” The writer recalls several such instances on her father’s plantation in Tennessee.]