ummer. Garden
patches, about through their summer yield, were a tangle of bubble-tinted
morning glories, the open woods misty with wild asters, bell flowers
trembling from the crevices of rocks; and along fence-row and watercourse
turkey-pea, brook sunflower, queen of the meadow, and joepye-weed made
gay the land.

Such farm work as remained was only garnering--fodder-pulling, pea-hay
and millet hay to gather; with a little sowing of wheat, rye, or turf
oats.

In late midsummer and early fall revivalists, preachers, and exhorters go
through the Cumberlands holding protracted meetings in the little
isolated churches. At this time of year the men as well as the women are
most at liberty. To a people who live scattered through a remote and
inaccessible region, who have few and scanty public gatherings and
diversions, this season of religious activity offers the one emotional
outlet which their conception of dignity permits them, and it is
proportionately precious in their eyes. In addition to the women and the
girls and boys, who usually make up the rank and file of religious
gatherings elsewhere, here at this favoured season old fellows, heads of
families and life-long pillars of the Church, give up their entire time
to the meetings. The family is put into the waggon with a basket of
dinner, and they make a day of it. Services hold as late as twelve and
one o'clock, and after them this contained, stoic folk will go home
through the woods, carrying pine torches, singing, shouting, laughing,
sobbing.

Hiram Bohannon came into the two Turkey Tracks this year and held
services at Brush Arbour church. He was very much in earnest, Brother
Bohannon, a practical man with a rough native eloquence that spoke loud
to his hearers.

Every afternoon the wild, sweet hymns rang out over the little cup-like
valley in which Brush Arbour church stood. The month was extremely warm,
and they used the outside brush arbour from which the schoolhouse-church
received its name.

Judith went day and night in a feverish attempt to get away from herself
and her sorrows. Even the fact that Elihu Drane was very much to the fore
in these gatherings could not deter her. Sitting in the open there, her
hands clasped upon her knee, her sombre eyes on the ground, or
interrogating the distance with an unseeing stare, she would let hymn and
sermon, prayer and the weeping and shouting which always close night
meeting, go past her ears well-nigh unheard.