When they reached their objective point, Parson Donnard sank down upon a ledge of rock that his son indicated to him, his knees against a bowlder lying hard by, that he might not slide down the steep incline upon the very roof of the forge. He noted how he seemed to face the great concave of the sky, how definite the western mountains stood against the starry expanse, and how distinct certain objects had become even in the pitchy blackness, now that his eyes were in some sort accustomed to it. “Thar’s the forge, right down yander under this laidge,” observed Jube, with that wild gayety in his tone which bewildered the old man, who deprecated it. “Ef ye war ter lean over, dad, an’ stretch out yer arm, yer hand would be plumb over the chimbly. Laws-a-massy”—Jube rocked himself in the joy of his reminiscence—“don’t I ’member how me an’ some o’ them t’other boys got up hyar one night, an’ drapped a leetle gunpowder down into the chimbly. An’ Clem say, ‘Lord A’mighty what’s that?’ An’ then I drapped a leetle mo’ yit, an’ Clem hollered, skeered, till suddint he smelt it, an’ out he kem with a bar o’ red-hot iron in his hand, a-dustin’ up the mounting. ’Twar a dark night, an’ he jes’ looked plumb like the devil hisself.” “Hesh, Jube, hesh! ye air talkin’ mighty loud.” The old man shrank from the sound of his voice. “An’ I seen him,” continued Jube, “an’ durned ef I warn’t so full o’ laff that I los’ my balance, an’ fell right down thar plumb onter the roof. Clem clomb up an’ got me, he did! But the t’others hed runned off through the woods.” “Jube, jes’ see ef ye can’t shet up fur awhile,” said the poor parson. “Waal,” remonstrated Jube, “I jes’ want ter tell ye how I kep’ Clem from bastin’ me ’count o’ that trick. Oh, ho! ’twar the funniest joke on Clem; liked ter never hearn the e-end o’ it, an’”— “I don’t want ter hear no joke,” said Parson Donnard sternly and ill at ease; perhaps he felt a personified joke himself, perched on the beetling ledges of the mountain in the middle of the night, in imminent danger of rheumatism, and in the society of his rollicking son. It would be a gay day for the flock of Brother Ezekiel Johns, in Piomingo Cove, if his enterprise and position should be discovered, and, failing, should become ridiculous. Draw as he might on his large resources of explanation, his license of metaphor and spiritual phrasing, he could not justify the facts with the frivolous Jube in company. “This air a solemn ’casion, an’ we hev kem out, it may be, ter meet the Enemy. ’Pears ter me ye air a mighty junketin’ an’ jiggetty sort o’ boy fur a pa’son’s son, gigglin’ an’ jokin’ all the time.” The parson spoke with acrimony; perhaps at that moment he himself would have administered with right good will “the bastin’” that Clem had spared.