The old man stopped, and I saw him brush away a tear. He had said something as great as Shakespeare, and I, myself, had to take a turn around the room to stop before the picture of a little curly-head over the mantel, and listen again for the prattle of a laughter which began one spring with a bird’s note and ended with the first snow in a new-made grave. When I came back, the old man was laughing. Tears—smiles—twins that dwell in the secret chambers of the heart, and they join hands so quickly at times! “Bimeby,” he went on, “I look up de road, an’ heah cum ole Kunnel Ketchum, er-splittin’ de dust ob de golden road, an’ a-moppin’ his ole bald head wid a red bandanna handkerchief, an er-lookin’ es pi’us in death as he was sancterfied in life. Now, boss, you kno’ de Kunnel was one ob dese here prayin’ lawyers—dat you kin always safely brand as De Debbil’s Own—an’ he died jes’ ’fo’ I did, an’ he wus awful smart an’ awful slick, an’ whilst I didn’t hab much idee he knowed enny mo’ ’bout de road to heab’n dan I did, I was bankin’ on his ’bility to find it out fust. “‘Hello, Wash,’ sezee, ‘which way you gwine?’ “Sez I: ‘Kunnel, I’m cogertatin’ on which ob dese heah roads leads to heab’n.’ “‘Oh,’ sez he, ‘I kin show you which road ter take. I dun bin up dar an’ file my brief wid Jedge Peter at de gate, but dar wus some leetle irregularerties in de pleadings, an’ I’ve come back to answer his demur.’ “Den he laugh, an’ say: ‘Wash, de ole feller don’t kno’ a little bit o’ law, an’ hit’s de easiest thing in de wurl’ to wuck him ef you’ll only do es I say. Now, when I went up an’ presented him my church papers, an’ tole ’im who I wus, deac’n an’ all dat, he ’lowed he nurver had larned to read English an’ he throwed my papers over a bluff, whar I seed some smoke risin’ an’ swellin’ sorter like de smoke ob a passin’ freight engine, an’ den he look at me an’ ax if I wus ridin’ or walkin’? Sez I, “Sir, I am walkin.” “Dat settles it,” sez he, “nobody erfoot will urver git in dis gait, and es fur dat artomobeel crowd,” sez he, “dey go on to hell widout stoppin’, fur dey carry de scent of hell erlong wid ’em, ennyhow. No, sah, Kunnel,” sez he, “you gotter ride a hoss to git into heah. We need ’em to pull de cherriots in heaben”—an’ de Kunnel look wise an’ stroke his chin-whiskers. “‘Now, Wash,’ he went on, soft-like, ‘I’ve got a plan my color’d frien’ dat ull fix ole Peter an’ let us bofe in. I kno’ de road—I’ve bin dar befo’, so you be de hoss an’ I’ll be de rider, an’ Peter will throw open de gate, an’ let us bofe in. Dey’s nuffin’ lak a leetle brains, Wash—a leetle brains in dis wurl’ an’ de nex’.’