Deacon Grizzle was by no means slow in perceiving these manifestations of the Elder’s mortified feelings, and did not fail to join him on his way home from meeting, for the express purpose of annoying him further by commendations of the performances. All he could get in reply was a further exclamation of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!” In fact, the Elder’s obstinacy was incurable; he was seized during the following week with a strange deafness in one of his ears, and as it happened very strangely too, to be that ear which was turned towards the singing seats when he sat in his pew, he declared it would be impossible to hear sufficiently well on that side of his head, to accompany the singers: as to altering his position, it was not to be thought of: he had occupied the same spot for forty years, and could no more be expected to change his seat than to change his creed. The consequence was, that on the day we began singing, the Elder left off. From that time forth, he never heard the subject of church psalmody alluded to, without a chop-fallen look, a rueful shake of the head, a sad lamentation over the decline of sound christian doctrine, and a peevish and indignant exclamation of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!” X. WHERE JOE MERIWEATHER WENT TO. “I do believe that’s Bill Meriweather,” said the old lady hostess of the sign of “The Buck” tavern, as attracted by the noise of a horse’s hoofs, she raised her eyes from her occupation of stringing dried slips of pumpkin, and descried, this side of the first bend in the road, a traveller riding a jaded horse towards the mansion. “I do believe that’s Bill Meriweather. It’s about time for him to be round agin a buyin’ shoats. But whar’s Joe? Phillisy Ann,” continued Mrs. Harris, raising her voice, “catch a couple of young chickens, and get supper ready soon as ye can, you dratted lazy wench you, for here comes Bill Meriweather. But whar’s Joe? How do you do, Mr. Meriweather,” concluded the old lady, as the stranger arrived in front of the porch. “Lively,” replied that individual as he proceeded to dismount and tie his horse. “How do you come on yourself, old ’omen.” “Pretty well, Bill; how’s craps down in your parts?” “Bad, uncommon bad,” replied Bill, “there’s a new varmint come around in our country, that’s got a mortal likin’ fur the tobacker crap. They looks a good deal like a fox, but are as big as a three year old nigger, and kin climb a tree like a squearl, and they steals a dozen or so ‘hands’ every night, and next mornin’ if you notice, you’ll see all the tops of the pine-oaks around the plantation kivered with them a dryin’, and the infernal chawtobacks—that’s what we call ’em—a settin’ up in a crotch, a chawin’ what is _cured_, and squirtin’ ambeer all over the country. Got any on ’em up here yet?”