.

Grandmother had very little learning. She could read and write of
course, and she made frequent pathetic attempts to open her Bible or
glance at a newspaper--all to little purpose, for her days were filled
from dawn to dark with household duties.

I know little of her family history. Beyond the fact that she was born
in Maryland and had been always on the border, I have little to record.
She was in truth overshadowed by the picturesque figure of her husband
who was of Scotch-Irish descent and a most singular and interesting
character.

He was a mystic as well as a minstrel. He was an "Adventist"--that is to
say a believer in the Second Coming of Christ, and a constant student of
the Bible, especially of those parts which predicted the heavens rolling
together as a scroll, and the destruction of the earth. Notwithstanding
his lack of education and his rude exterior, he was a man of marked
dignity and sobriety of manner. Indeed he was both grave and remote in
his intercourse with his neighbors.

He was like Ezekiel, a dreamer of dreams. He loved the Old Testament,
particularly those books which consisted of thunderous prophecies and
passionate lamentations. The poetry of _Isaiah_, The visions of _The
Apocalypse_, formed his emotional outlet, his escape into the world of
imaginative literature. The songs he loved best were those which
described chariots of flaming clouds, the sound of the resurrection
trump--or the fields of amaranth blooming "on the other side of Jordan."

As I close my eyes and peer back into my obscure childish world I can
see him sitting in his straight-backed cane-bottomed chair, drumming on
the rungs with his fingers, keeping time to some inaudible tune--or
chanting with faintly-moving lips the wondrous words of _John_ or
_Daniel_. He must have been at this time about seventy years of age, but
he seemed to me as old as a snow-covered mountain.

My belief is that Grandmother did not fully share her husband's faith in
The Second Coming but upon her fell the larger share of the burden of
entertainment when Grandad made "the travelling brother" welcome. His
was an open house to all who came along the road, and the fervid
chantings, the impassioned prayers of these meetings lent a singular air
of unreality to the business of cooking or plowing in the fields.

I think he loved his wife and children, and yet I never heard him speak
an affectionate word to them. He was kind, he was just, but he was