“Gee up,” the old man reached for his whip and was soon upon the sandy _terra firma_ of the other side, submissively awaiting his grandson’s pleasure. “Here, sir, here!” The puzzled Dixie had his nose pressed down to an equivocal impression where the sand of the road had spread itself through the weedy border. “Now foller, old boy; foller I say!” [Illustration: “The puzzled Dixie had his nose pressed down to an equivocal impression where the sand of the road had spread itself through the weedy border”] The gesture of the grimy little hand was imperative, and Dixie sniffed among the dried weeds; then, closely nosing the ground, circled among the cart wheels but, baffled, squatted whimpering upon his haunches. “You-all trackin’ a rabbit, Grover Cleveland?” The old man facetiously scrutinized both dog and boy. In the North Carolina mountains there were in the time of my story and still are many namesakes of the great democrat, but our little hero was recognized far and wide as the child of the party. A sturdy, clear-eyed, true-hearted little mountaineer, the party was proud of him and no one ever gave him anything less than his full Christian name. He was an orphan and grandmotherless; he and his grandfather lived alone, with no woman to keep them comfortable. These facts alone would have secured for him abundant sympathy from a simple-hearted, kindly people; but, in addition to these titles to favour, his grandfather was respected as an upright man and one of the oldest and richest residents of the county, owning many acres of land—not of richest quality to be sure—but as good as any for enumeration. So for miles around the child was welcomed into every mountain cabin, and no home so poor that he was permitted to leave it without some token of its owner’s kindly interest, a pair of home-spun, home-knit stockings or mittens or a needed patch upon jacket or trousers. He was a very small boy to be out in the woods alone with his dog; for, though the sunny slopes were warm, deciduous foliage lay rustling or sodden upon the ground and snow whitened the shaded clefts and hollows of the higher peaks. His old soft hat covered only the back of his head and in front of it a fringe of blond hair bristled aggressively above blue eyes that scintillated with excitement. He wore clumsy copper-toed shoes and warm stockings wrinkled about his ankles, the dangling ends of the parti-coloured strings that gartered them showing below the short patched trousers.