“Gran’daddy! gran’daddy! here’s the Valley of the Mississippi cut plumb in half and your part’s here and”—he wriggled to the floor and grabbed his gran’daddy by the shoulder—“where’s my half gone to, gran’daddy?” Without waiting for an answer the child went back to the bed and made a more thorough examination. “Gran’daddy! gran’daddy! don’t you reckon ’twas a mighty low-down somebody to do that trick?” “I ’low ’twas, Grover Cleveland—that is, if he knowed what he was doin’, ’twas.” The boy’s eyes grew bigger and bigger. “Maybe you been a-performin’ in your sleep again, Grover Cleveland.” “No I ain’t gran’daddy, no I ain’t,” the blue eyes were very earnest. “I done been in bed close up to you all night.” “Maybe you have, Grover Cleveland, but ’pears like you overslept yourself a spell this morning. There’s the pone and some bacon keeping warm for you by the fire.” Puzzled that his grandfather didn’t take a more active interest in the calamity that had befallen him, the boy ran half-dressed to the door. “Gran’daddy! gran’daddy! what you got Bonaparte and Butterfly geared up to the cart for?” “I been down to Junaluska. And now you eat your breakfast quick, and we’ll go hunt up your half of the Valley of the Mississippi; and you put on them blue-top boots Grover Cleveland; them old shoes lets the water in.” “Why them boots is done gone!” he shook his grandfather as if to wake him up, “don’t you ’member—oh-ee-ee,” he went diving under the bed and, coming up again with the blue-tops hugged close to his breast and another pair in his hand, stood before his grandfather dumb as to the vocal organs but his eyes questioning wildly. “Them red-tops is for Jakey.” “You aim to carry them boots up to him, gran’daddy?” “No, gran’son, I aim to bring Jakey down to the boots.” In the Ledbetter home that afternoon Carolina dropped the broom as two little boys came frolicking about her, and capturing the larger one, she squeezed him rapturously! “If you ever get out of this house at night again, Grover Cleveland,” she said, “you’ll be smarter than I am; that’s what.” IV OLD-TIME RELIGION Autumn in the Southern Appalachians. The little boy sat on the prize pumpkin that his grandfather had put in front of the house to challenge the comment of passers-by. He was chewing sorghum-cane and singing in snatches: “Give me that old-time aligion, Give me that old-time aligion, It is good enough for me. It was good for Paul and Silas, It is good enough for me——” His Aunt Carolina stood on the porch spinning stocking yarn, while near her sat his grandfather, cobbling shoes as diligently and contentedly as if born and bred to that lowly occupation instead of being a forehanded farmer holding county and township offices.