Uncle Rube quarreled all the way going and coming. He sat on his high perch, and guided his horses carefully along, picking the best places in the road for “Miss Sally’s kerridge,” and talking at us. “It’s jes gwine to ruin Miss Sally’s kerridge takin’ it out on sech roads as dese hyer.... Nuf to ruin er ox-kyart, dese hyer roads is, much mo’ er fin’ kerridge.... Well, ’tain’ no use fur me ter say nothin’.... Jest well keep my mouf shut.... Monstratin’ don’ do er bit er good.... When dey git it in dar haids dey’s gwine, dey’s gwine, don’t kyeer what happens.... Ain’t gwine heah nothin’, dey ain’t, not ontwell dey gits Miss Sally’s kerridge broke up.... _I_ say folks orter go ter ride when de roads is good, and stay at home when de roads is bad.... An’ lemme take kyeer uv de kerridge.” With these intermittent mutterings and frank expressions of displeasure Uncle Rube entertained us until we got to the review stand. To crown his disgust we were late in starting back home, and at dark he was leaning forward from his lofty altitude, peering into the road ahead and seeking vainly “de bes’ place ter drive Miss Sally’s kerridge along.” He said “dar warn’t no bes’ place,” and was in despair of ever getting that valuable vehicle home in safety. At last the crash came! Down went one carriage wheel into a mud-hole! It stuck there, and we were rooted for the time being. However, I think Uncle Rube would have got us out but for some untimely assistance. Bob Lee, the youngest of the Lees, and Bob Mason (the son of the ex-United States Minister to France, whose home was near General Chambliss’s) came riding by. They stopped and shook hands with us through the carriage window, and asserted their gallant intention of getting us out of our mud-hole. They tried to lead the horses forward, to pull and push “the kerridge” out, but in vain. Then Bob, to Uncle Rube’s utter amazement and indignation, made him get down, while he, Bob, mounted the box. Uncle Rube stood on the roadside, the picture of chagrin and despair. “Dar ain’t no tellin’ what’s gwi’ happen now!” he exclaimed. “Mars Bob don’ know how ter manage dem horses no mo’n nothin’. Don’, Mars Bob! Mars Bob! don’ whoop ’em! Law-aw-dy!” Bob had gathered the lines in one hand and with the other was laying the whip on Rube’s pets. The horses, utterly unused to the whip, plunged like mad. There was an ominous sound!--our axle was broken, and we were helplessly stuck in the mud. “Dar now!” wailed Uncle Rube. “What I tole you? I said Miss Sally’s kerridge gwi’ git ruint! and now it’s done been did. It’s clean ruint, Miss Sally’s kerridge is. I tole Mars Bob dem horses don’t know nothin’ ’bout a whoop. Dey ain’t nuvver bin ’quainted wid er whoop. I bin er-sayin’ an’ er-sayin’ all erlong dat de kerridge gwi’ git broke, an’ it’s done been did. O Lawdy!”