g, and put 'im in de coffin; but I didn' nail
de top on strong, 'cause I knowed ole missis wan' see 'im; an' I got
a' ambulance, an' set out for home dat night. We reached dyar de nex'
evenin', arfter travellin' all dat night an' all nex' day."

FOOTNOTE:

[46] By permission of author, and publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons,
N. Y.

MARY NOAILLES MURFREE.

"CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK."

MISS MURFREE was born at "Grantlands," near Murfreesboro, Tennessee,
the family home inherited from her great-grandfather, Colonel Hardy
Murfree, for whom the town was named. Her youth was spent here and in
Nashville, the summers being passed in the Tennessee Mountains:
shortly after the Civil War, her father removed to St. Louis, and it
was there that she began to write.

Her stories are laid mainly in the mountains of Tennessee and describe
vividly and truly the people, life, and exquisite scenery of that
region.

WORKS.

In the Tennessee Mountains, [short stories].
Down the Ravine.
In the Clouds.
Despot of Broomsedge Cove.
Phantoms of the Foot-Bridge.
Where the Battle Was Fought.
Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains.
Story of Keedon Bluffs.
In the "Stranger People's" Country.

THE "HARNT" THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE.

(_From In the Tennessee Mountains._[47])

[Illustration: ~A Summer and Winter View of the University of
Tennessee, Knoxville, Tenn.~]

June had crossed the borders of Tennessee. Even on the summit of
Chilhowee Mountain the apples in Peter Giles' orchard were beginning
to redden, and his Indian corn, planted on so steep a declivity that
the stalks seemed to have much ado to keep their footing, was crested
with tassels and plumed with silk. Among the dense forests, seen by no
man's eye, the elder was flying its creamy banners in honor of June's
coming, and, heard by no man's ear, the pink and white bells of the
azalea rang out melodies of welcome. . . . . . . .

Then the two men tilted their chairs against the little porch in front
of Peter Giles' log cabin, and puffed their pipes in silence. The
panorama spread out before them showed misty and dreamy among the
delicate spiral wreaths of smoke. But was that gossamer-like illusion,
lying upon the far horizon, the magic of nicotian, or the vague
presence of distant heights? As ridge after ridge came down from the
sky in ever-graduating shades of intenser blue, Peter Giles might have
told you that this parallel sy