A country parson, while the multitude sat upon the grass, crude benches, buggy-cushions, or heaps of pine needles, opened the ceremonies with a long-winded prayer, composed of selections from all the prayers he knew by rote and ending with something resembling a benediction. Then a young lady was asked to recite a dramatic poem relating to the “Lost Cause,” and she did it with such telling effect that the gray heads of the old soldiers sank to their chests, and, in memory of camp-fire, battle-field, and comrades left in unmarked graves, the tears flowed down furrowed cheeks and strong forms were shaken by sobs. It was into this holy silence that the unmoved, preoccupied Wiggin rose to cast his burning brand. Through curtains of tears he laid his fuse to hidden magazines of powder. “I believe in getting right down to business,” he began, in a crisp, rasping voice that reached well to the outskirts of the crowd. “There's nothing today that is as important to you, fellow-citizens, as the correct use of the ballot. I am a candidate for your votes. I mean to represent you in the next legislature, and I don't intend to be foiled by the tricks, lies, and underhand work of a gang of stuck-up town men who laugh at your honest appearance and homely ways. God knows you are the salt of the earth, and when I hear men of that stamp making fun of you behind your backs it makes me mad. My father was a mountain farmer, and when men throw dirt on folks of your sort they throw it into the tenderest recesses of my being and it smarts like salt in a fresh cut.” There was applause from a group in the edge of the crowd led by long, tall Dan Willis, and it spread uncertainly to other parts of the gathering. “Hit 'em, blast 'em, hit 'em, Wiggin,” a man near Willis shouted; “hit 'em!”