Talk about woman’s rights! Let the men get theirs first—the right to call certain hours of their time their own, without bowing, nodding, shaking hands, joking, laughing, lying and talking weather to every loafing acquaintance whom idleness sends along. Oh, Horace of my school days! Oh, great master of satire, how I wish I had remembered what you said to the loafing bore who ran upon you when you sat sweetly dreaming out your work in the garden of Maecenas! How I would feed that sarcasm to this old loafer! I glanced at this fellow as he sat down. He was gray and grizzled. He wore an old suit of jeans dyed with copperas. On his head was an old wool hat of many, many years ago. Such clothes! I knew none such had been in Tennessee “since the war.” “He came,” I mentally said, “either from Sleepy Hollow or—” “Hello-o!” said the old chap, provokingly taking the word out of my mouth. I feigned sleep. “I heard you say,” he went on, “that you would like to know the history of the man who sleeps in that grave yonder.” “Yes,” I growled, “but I was only romancing. You see, I love to get off here, away from everybody—especially weather wizards and people that know it all” (and I looked sternly at him) “and think about life and the fool things we are and do.” “I can tell you that man’s history,” he said, without noticing my remarks, “and he knew more about the horses of Tennessee than any man living to-day. He raised Stump-the-Dealer and—” I sat upright. “Just reach around under that rock there in the shade, Colonel,” I said; “yes, that’s it—Lincoln County, made in 1877—help yourself. Don’t mind the rock candy, the dried bit of lemon and orange peel and the roasted slice of East Tennessee peach in the bottom. It is all right in spite of the flavor. You see,” I continued, “lying in the early spring on this clammy rock, right over a muddy, half-frozen river, is liable to give one a cold. I don’t touch it often myself—just keep it for my friends and—” The crow laughed out loud and winked both eyes alternately. “Never mind,” said the old fellow, drinking it all at a mouthful, to my astonishment and consternation, and tossing the bottle over the bluff, “that’s good. Count me as one of your friends hereafter, won’t you? You see, I haven’t had a drink for sixty years. Been out of the state. Shut up in a dungeon, as it were; been—” “Oh, you are one of those Tennesseans that migrated to Texas,” I said, laughing. “But go on with your history of the man.” The old fellow did not laugh. He grimly stroked his long, grizzled beard, and said: “I used to live here—right here in this county. That was sixty years ago. I was a horseman—I knew a good one when I saw him. By the way, I owned the best horse that ever stood on iron. I owned old Stump-the-Dealer.” “What?” I cried excitedly; “you owned old Stump? Heaven be praised! I’ve been looking for you for years. Tell me all about him!”