“We don’t have Pres’terian preachin’ but once a month, because our preacher’s got three other charges besides Junaluska. He rides seventeen miles to git yer; but he ain’t Samson and he’s mighty nigh wore out ’fore he begins, and he has to gallop through the sarvice and ride off to after-dark preachin’ somewheres else.” “Jes’ the same way ’tis with our preacher”—the women were speaking now—“he shakes hands friendly like but I don’t guess, if all the folks in the diff’rent places where he preaches was stood up together, he’d know me and my children from the lot.” “Them was good old times”—the deacon’s wife took off her sunbonnet and straightened up its crown as she spoke—“when we had one meetin’-house and preachin’ every Sunday and Preacher Carr was right here on the ground ready for marryin’ or buryin’ or any sich like.” “And Mis’ Carr—she was a mother to all of us.” “_Our_ preacher’s got a right big family and they do say that he don’t make enough to keep ’em all comf’table; but I don’t know how ’tis. Our church agreed to give him thirty dollars this year and we done raised fo’teen of it cash down and we reckoned we’d about make up the balance of it in apples and potatoes; there was some corn give besides. To be sure there was no way for him to haul it home, for he don’t own a wagon; but seem like, if his other churches done as well by him as we do, he wouldn’t be so peaked looking. They say he ain’t nary top coat to wear, but we-all give him nine pair of mittens and five pair of wristers, and Callerstown give him seven pair of mittens and four comforters for his neck and some wristers besides, and it do seem like his other churches ought to give him a overcoat.” A few minutes of thoughtful silence ensued; then a philosopher spoke. “It’s a heap easier to ’stablish churches than ’tis to support ’em after they’re sot goin’.” With a deeply drawn breath Colonel Ledbetter stretched out his legs, set his soles upright before the fire, folded his arms and squared himself. He waited respectfully for the old bench to complete its squeaking preface, then, singling out one fork of a blazing log, addressed it earnestly. “Grover Cleveland, he don’t believe in beliefs and I’ve been a-studyin’ whether he ain’t right. I reason this a-way: