which I had come, and taking the
child by the hand, he walked on ahead to show me the way. In a little
while we came to the brow of a hill, and here I bade the old man and
his charge good-bye, and the two stood watching me as I drove away.
Presently a cloud of dust rose between us, and I saw them no more, but
I brought away a very pretty picture in my mind--Mingo with his hat
raised in farewell, the sunshine falling gently upon his grey hairs,
and the little girl clinging to his hand and daintily throwing kisses
after me.

AT TEAGUE POTEET'S.

A SKETCH OF THE HOG MOUNTAIN RANGE

EMMIGRATION is a much more serious matter than revolution. Virtually,
it is obliteration. Thus, Gerard Petit, landing upon the coast of South
Carolina in the days of French confusion--a period covering too many
dates for a romancer to be at all choice in the matter--gave his wife
and children over to the oblivion of a fatal fever. Turning his face
westward, he pushed his way to the mountains. He had begun his journey
fired with the despair of an exile, and he ended it with something of
the energy and enterprise of a pioneer. In the foot-hills of the
mountains he came to the small stream of English colonists that was
then trickling slowly southward through the wonderful valleys that
stretch from Pennsylvania to Georgia, between the foot-hills of the
Blue Ridge and the great Cumberland Range. Here, perhaps for the first
time, the _je, vous, nous_ of France met in conflict the "ah yi," the
"we uns" and the "you uns" of the English-Pennsylvania-Georgians. The
conflict was brief. There was but one Gerard Petit, and, although he
might multiply the _je, vous, nous_ by the thousands and hundreds of
thousands, as he undoubtedly did, yet, in the very nature of things,
the perpetual volley of "you uns" and "we uns" must carry the day. They
belonged to the time, and the climate suited them. By degrees they
fitted themselves to Gerard Petit; they carried him from the mountains
of South Carolina to the mountains of North Georgia, and there they
helped him to build a mill and found a family. But their hospitality
did not end there. With the new mill and the new family, they gave him
a new name. Gerard Petit, presumably with his hand upon his heart, as
became his race, made one last low bow to genealogy. In his place stood
Jerd Poteet, "you uns" to the left of him, "we uns" to the right of
him. He made such protest as he might. He brought his patriotis