“This baby’s name is Allan Buffle Berryn—Allen _Buffle_ Berryn!” and then rushed at full speed to leave the baby at home, while the boys clinked glasses melodiously. At the end of another fortnight there was a procession formed at Fat Pocket Gulch; two horses, one wearing a side-saddle, were brought to the door of Buffle’s old house, and Mrs. Berryn and her husband mounted them; they were soon joined by Buffle and Muggy. [Illustration: “THIS BABY’S NAME IS ALLAN BUFFLE BERRYN.” ] For months after there was mourning far and wide among owners of mules and horses, for each Gulchite had been out stealing, that he might ride with the escort which was to see the Berryns safely to the crossing. An advance-guard was sent ahead, and the party were about to start, when Buffle suddenly dismounted and entered his old cabin; when he reappeared, a cloud of smoke followed him. “Thar,” said he, a moment later, as flames were seen bursting through the roof, “no galoot uv a miner don’t live in that shanty after that. Git.” Away galloped the party, the baby in the arms of its father. The crossing was safely reached, and the stage had room for the whole party, and, after a hearty hand-shaking all around, the stage started. Sandytop threw one of his only two shoes after it for luck. As the stage was disappearing around a bend, a little way from the crossing, the back curtain was suddenly thrown up, a baby, backed by a white hat and yellow beard, was seen, and a familiar voice was heard to roar, “Allan _Buffle_ Berryn.” [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MATALETTE’S SECTION. “NICE place? I guess it is; ther hain’t no such farm in _this_ part of Illinoy, nor anywhere else that _I_ knows on. Two-story house, and painted instead of being white-washed; blinds on the winders; no thirty-dollar horses in the barn, an’ no old, unpainted wagons around; no deadened trees standin’ aroun’ in the corn-lot or the wheat-field—not a one. Good cribs to hold his corn, instead of leaving it on the stalk, or tuckin’ it away in holler sycamore logs, good pump to h’ist his drinkin’-water with, good help to keep up with the work—why, ther hain’t a man on Matalette’s whole place that don’t look smart enough to run a farm all alone by himself. And money—well, he don’t ask no credit of no man: he just hauls out his money and pays up, as if he enjoyed gettin’ rid of it. There’s nobody like him in these parts, you can just bet your life.” The speaker was a Southern Illinoisan of twenty-five years ago, and his only auditor was a brother farmer.