Last nite I was over to old Miss Stallinses, talkin’ long with Mary and the gals, and in makin’ calculations about the weddin’ and hous-keepin’, and sich things, when all at once ther was a terrible shakin’ and rackin’ like the house was gwine to tumble down a top of us. The gals all squalled out as loud as they could holler, and cotched rite hold of me, and hugged close to me ’til they almost choked my breth out of me, and old Miss Stallins fainted away into a fit of the highstericks. The shakin’ didn’t last more’n a minit, but it had a monstrous curious feelin’ while it did last. When it was over the gals fell to rubin’ the old woman’s hands, and I poured a gourd of water in her face to bring her too. Bimeby she got better, but I do b’lieve the yeath-quake has shuck all her sense out of her, for she ses she knows the world is cumin’ to a eend now, shore enuff, and she ses me and Mary musent git married not ’til after next April. She ses she didn’t dream bout them two moons for nothin’, and that the yeath shakin’ so is a sure sign that sumthing’s gwine to happen. Mary was skeered monstrous too, but she soon got over it, and so did Miss Kesiah, and Miss Carline, but old Miss Stallins has been talkin’ bout nothin’ else but the world comin’ to a eend ever sense. She ses nobody ought to think bout anything else but gittin’ reddy to die, and that it’s wicked to think bout weddins and such like, now. I told her, what if the world was to come to a eend, ses I, if we was married her daughter wouldn’t be left a widder, and I never could die contented no way, without I was married fust. But it ain’t no use to argy with her, for she b’lieves in parson Miller now like a book, and won’t listen to no sort of reasonin’. She ses it was jest so when old Mr. Noah bilt the ark—no body didn’t b’lieve him till the water was up to ther chins, and then they couldn’t help themselves. So you see what a fix I’m in—after all my trouble, and jest when I thought I was gwine to be the happiest man in Georgia, a yeath-quake must come jest to upset my calculations. I haint no notion of puttin’ off the weddin’ so long, but I spose I might wait if I can’t do no better. I’m in hopes though, old Miss Stallins will git over her skeer, and come to her senses long afore April. I’ll be sure to let you know. No more from Your frend, ’til deth, Jos. Jones. LETTER VI. Pineville, February 2nd, 1843. Dear Sir,