“James Creelman, E-S-Q., Wal, dad burn _me._ Jim done wrote t’ that there house in Chicago more’n three weeks ago, ’bout a watch they’re a sellin’ fer fo’ dollars. Ba thundas! They’d sure answer _me_ quicker’n that, er they’d hear turkey. What! I done tole Jim it was only a blamed ol’ fo’ dollar house anyhow.” At this many nods and glances were exchanged by the group in silent admiration of the “gov’ment,” and one mountaineer, bold even to recklessness, remarked, “Jim must have a heap o’ money t’ be a buyin’ four dollar watches. Must er sold that gray mule o’ hisn; hit’d fetch ’bout that much, I reckon.” “Much you know ’bout it, Buck Boswell. Let me tell you, Jim he works, he does. He’s the workingest man in this here county, ba thundas! What! Jim he don’t sit ’round like you fellers down on th’ creek an’ wait fer pawpaws to git ripe, so he can git a square meal, ba thundas!” The bold mountaineer wilted. Uncle Ike proceeded with the business of his office. “Here’s Sallie Rhodes done writ her maw a card from th’ Corners. Sallie’s been a visitin’ her paw’s folks. Says she’ll be home on th’ hack next mail, an’ wants her maw t’ meet her here. You can take th’ hack next time, Zeke. An’ ba thundas! Here’s ’nother letter from that dummed Ollie Stewart. Sammy ain’t been over yet after th’ last one he wrote. Ba thundas! If it weren’t for them blamed gov’-ment inspectors, I’d sure put a spoke in his wheel. What! I’d everlastin’ly seva’ th’ connections between that gentleman an’ these here Ozarks. Dad burn me, if I wouldn’t. He’d better take one o’ them new fangled women in th’ city, where he’s gone to, an’ not come back here for one o’ our girls. I don’t believe Sammy’d care much, nohow, ba thundas! What!” The official tossed the letter into a pigeon hole beside its neglected mate, with a gesture that fully expressed the opinion of the entire community, regarding Mr. Stewart and his intentions toward Miss Lane. Sammy got the letters the next day, and read them over and over, as she rode slowly through the sweet smelling woods. The last one told her that Ollie was coming home on a visit. “Thursday, that’s the day after to-morrow,” she said aloud. Then she read the letter again. It was a very different letter from those Ollie had written when first he left the woods. Most of all it was different in that indefinable something by which a man reveals his place in life in the letters he writes, no less than in the words he speaks, or the clothing he wears. As Sammy rode slowly through the pinery and down the narrow Fall Creek valley, she was thinking of these things, thinking of these things seriously.