Reding Springs negroes had cause to fear Arabella. The troubles that she predicted came true. She had foretold the storm that swept the harbor away in 1882; the earthquake that shook the tents in 1886, and the bolt of lightning that set fire to the church in 1898. She had seen these in visions and told of them as she shouted up and down the aisles of the camp grounds. The people had learned from experience that the predictions of Arabella came to pass; she had won the respect of the leaders, who looked upon her arrival as an omen for good or bad. She had never attended a meeting except to deliver herself of an abiding prophecy. Therefore, if Arabella appeared on the scene everybody gave way to her and listened with abated breath for her prediction, which she gave when the meeting was at its best, when excitement ran highest. Before the big negress could perform effectively, the preaching and singing had to be of such a character that the hearers cried and wrung their hands. Then, with the aisles and halls filled with shouting men and women and crying children, Arabella sallied forth from her seat, humming softly, walling her eyes and warming up as she went. It was a hot day in 19-- that I went with a party of young people to the Reding Springs camp meeting. We were invited by some of the older darkies of Providence. It was said that Arabella was about due, as she had not been out in several years, and, hence, a good time to go. We arrived early Sunday morning, looked over the grounds and watched the crowds gather from the surrounding country. I enjoyed the preliminaries. I had never seen so many and such a variety of vehicles. The majority of the darkies came in wagons, sitting flat on the bottom, using wheat or oat straw as a cushion, while others rode in antiquated carriages, buggies and two-wheeled carts, some of which were drawn by oxen. The outskirts of the grounds were covered with canvas tents, where those from a distance lived. Nothing out of the ordinary happened until ten o’clock, when I saw several old men and women, those high in the councils of the church, looking and pointing down the road toward Twelve-Mile creek. Going near, so that I could hear, I learned that an old sister had spied a covered wagon, and, as I approached, she was saying: “Dat sho’ is Arabella Simpkins, and her top wagin, fur I knows dat ole yaller mule.” “Sister Blue,” said Parson Honeycutt, “I’m ’clined to b’lieve dat you is kerrect in yo’ diagnosis uv de case, fur dat looks mighty lak Miss Simpkins on de front seat.” “I’s sho’ uv it now,” added Sister Blue, “fur dat’s Cæsar, her ole man, drivin’; I knows his derby hat. Yes, sir, an’ dere somefin’ on Arry’s mind. We sho’ is gwine to hear somefin’ drap to-day.” And so it proved. Arabella was on the way. She and Cæsar came driving a sorrel mule, whose mane and tail needed trimming.