_Dec. 31st_—This was the last day of the yeare & whatever hapened is now all over. It is awful cold & still outside & once in a while I heare frost cracking in the woods. The yeare is now coming to its end in a few minits. It is prety late for me to be around but I am waiting for the old clock to strike 12. Maybe next yeare at this time I will be asleep. It is awful lonesom heare tonite & I wish I had my folks around or if them 2 litle boys was only heare or sombody. Maybe tomorro sombody will com. I notis by the looking glass that the old man’s hed is prety white. He has ben frosted som. He now goes into his blankett for the yeare ends as he rites. V TIPTON POSEY’S STORE The unpretentious building stood just back from the road, near the end of “Bundy’s Bridge.” It was a lonely looking structure, for there were no near neighbors. Its sustenance was drawn from a thinly populated region, but its location made it easy of access from many miles around. The winding thoroughfare that led over the decrepit bridge was an ancient Indian trail that, like the other cherished possessions of the red man, had been merged into the economies of his white brothers. The plashing waters of the river lulled the ear with gentle tumult. They sighed softly under the old bridge, rippled against the decayed abutments with a dirge-like rhythm, and spread out in little swirls and scrolls over the tapering sand bar below. During the hot summer forenoons barefooted boys in fragmentary costume appeared on the structure from unknown sources. They rested long cane fish poles along the side rails, and watched for the corks to bob that floated on the lazy current. They soon disrobed and remained naked the rest of the day, making frequent trips into the river, where they wallowed along the muddy margin and splashed in the shallow water. The agile sun burned bodies, and the shouts of the noisy happy crew, gave a touch of vibrant life and human interest to the melancholy old bridge. When night came the scant raiment was gathered up and the slender strings of small bull-heads and sun-fish—a meager spoil if judged from a material standpoint—were carried proudly away on the dusty road. Emperors—and particularly one of them—might well envy their innocence and happiness as they faded away into the twilight. Lofty elms, big sycamores and bass-woods, interlaced with wild grape vines, shaded the approach to the bridge, and fringed the gently sloping banks of the river.