Colonel Ledbetter resumed his seat and his grandson came and leaned against him: “Looks like he’s plumb mad, gran’daddy.” “Yes he is, Grover Cleveland, he’s plumb mad and he’s been so ever since I’ve knowed him and that’s mighty nigh sixty years. He’s so rarin’ mad that when the Lord throws a good thing in his way he’s too mad to see it. Now like that ar wa’nut; any man that was a-lookin’ out for virtues instid of _de_fects would have discovered that ’twas a curly. But old man Sumter’s mad at every thing under the sun whether it’s human or beast or tree or stone; and he’s mad at ’em all the time and he’s so mad that he won’t take no notice to ’em. Jes’ like he wouldn’t take notice to me jes’ now, when I was goin’ to put more than a thousand dollars right into his hand; it would mighty nigh paid off that ar mortgage that he’s been skinnin’ himself to pay int’rest on these twenty years—for he jes’ keeps a-goin’ behind and a-goin’ behind for no airthly reason that I can see but jes’ ’cause he’s so mad all the time that he can’t study any of the arts of peace. Why his very crops fails because he hates ’em so. Grover Cleveland, don’t you never go to bein’ mad at every body all the time. Tain’t Christian, an’ more’n that it kind o’ spiles your aim so that you don’t bring down no game.” “Was he borned that-a-way, gran’daddy?” “I expect he was, Grover Cleveland, I expect he was.” “I’m mighty sorry for him”; the little fellow twisted his hands together and looked afar; “it’s powerful mizzable to be borned with ways that you can’t help.” The old man’s attention and sympathy were his in an instant. “Don’t you go to takin’ on about sleep walkin’, Grover Cleveland,” he said drawing his arm tightly about the child; “you’re bound to outgrow that before long.” “I paid him,” the old man went on addressing his daughter, “I paid him more for them trees than ary other somebody had offered him, jes’ because I was willin’ to help make up to him the loss of his barn that burnt down; but he didn’ thank me for it.” “What’s curly wa’nuts good for, gran’daddy?” “They’re good for veneerin’, Grover Cleveland. You see this is how ’tis: they don’t saw the logs through like they do down to Campbell’s saw-mill but they saw ’em, round and round, into sheets mighty nigh as thin as writin’-paper. There hadn’t ought to be any cuts or holes in the log, so that they can make big smooth sheets of it, and they’ll saw that log up till there ain’t a core left that’s as thick as my arm.” “What can they make out of timber as thin as writin’-paper, gran’daddy?” Then to the extent of his own imperfect knowledge of the veneering process, the old man explained it to the child.