“I don’t care a dried apple for him nor Mr. Van Buren nother,” said Mr. Blake; “Mr. Van Buren is gittin’ too cussed smart, enny way—my opinion is, he’s a _measly hog_!” “Son! son!” exclaimed old Kit, deprecatingly, “don’t talk that way. Van Buren’s the _Union_ President, and old Hickory says he’ll do!” “I don’t care who says he’ll do—I’m gwine to vote for Harrison—see ef I don’t!” Uncle Kit was struck dumb, and after obtaining a list of the family with much difficulty, we rode away. “Squire,” said the old man, after a long silence, “that fellow’s talk goes to my heart. _A little more_, and _he’d a cussed old Hickory!_ and ef he _had_, I’d a tore his liver out!” Old Kit was highly excited—he continued: “To think that a boy I’ve raised in a manner, that I’ve told all about old Hickory, and the Union, and New Orleens, and the Horse-Shoe, should ’a turned round and come to be a _Nullifier_! Ain’t thar no way,” he asked, as if musing, “we could fix to git that poor fool boy straight agin?” We soon got into the thickest of the Union Creek settlement, and from house to house, through the Smiths, the Hearns, the Folsoms, the Narons, the Dabbses and the Rollinses, Uncle Kit carried us with a speed that was most gratifying. He joked the old women, kissed the girls and fondled the children; and where the slightest indisposition was manifested to give the desired information, he settled the difficulty at once, by the magic words, “Union—old Hickory.” “It’s a blessed thing, Squire,” he said, “to have a man’s friends all of the right sort. Here’s my people that I brought from Georgy—confound that boy Blake, I’ll give him a reg’lar talk next Sunday; and ef that don’t do I’ll make his wife quit him—all my people, as I was sayin’, love the Union and vote like one man! I tell you, it’s old Union Crick that keeps the Nullifiers down in Tallapoosy!” As old Kit was indulging in these pleasant reflections and remarks, we reached the ford of the creek, where we were to cross to get into the river settlement. “Right here,” said the old man, as we reached the middle of the stream, “was where Becky Kent ketched it; but she lives right up thar, a piece, and I’ll see ef I can’t devil her into tellin’ you ’bout it. She’s as old and as ugly—mighty nigh—as yer Aunt Hetty; but she has a mighty notion of courtin’, and ef you’ll sidle up to her, it’ll please her so well, her tongue will git to goin’, and she couldn’t hold that story back ef she wanted to.” A very few minutes brought us to the residence of Mr. James Kent, the brother of the spinster Becky. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately for our heart—the presiding goddess was not at home; and having made the proper entries on our books, from information furnished by Mr. Kent, we again mounted and pursued our way.