y ever called it anything but Kittle
Creek."

She stopped and peered over the side of the buggy. Her keen eyes had
detected a change in the road. There had been no rain for a week, but
the horse's hoofs and the wheels of our buggy had suddenly ceased to
raise any dust.

"Looks like there'd been a shower here lately," she remarked; "but I
don't see any sign o' rain except right here in the middle o' the
road."

"Perhaps this is the oiled road, Aunt Jane," said I.

"That's jest what it is!" exclaimed Aunt Jane delightedly. "Uncle
Billy Bascom was tellin' me about the new-fangled way they had of
layin' the dust, but it didn't seem to me like oil'd mix with dust any
more'n it will with water. That shows how little old folks knows.
Well, ain't this nice! Ridin' along in dry weather and never raisin' a
bit o' dust! Uncle Billy didn't approve o' the oiled roads. He says,
says he, 'Jane, it looks to me like them town folks won't never git
through circumventin' Providence.' Says he, 'They've got their gas and
their 'lectricity, so's it don't make a bit o' difference whether the
sun or the moon or the stars shines or not. And they've got their
'lectric fans, which makes 'em independent of the wind blowin', and
now they're fixin' the roads so's they won't have to pray for rain.'
Says he, 'It looks like they're tryin' to git rid of all sense o'
dependence on the Almighty; but as for me,' says he, 'I've got my pegs
sot, and I ain't goin' to have my brains all tore up follerin' after
new ways.'

"That's jest like Uncle Billy. But all the time I'm ridin' along this
road I'm feelin' thankful to Providence that he made the oil, and then
made people with enough sense to know that oil would settle dust.
There's no use stickin' to old ways unless they're better than the new
ways."

Just then there was a whir of wings from a fence corner, and a moment
later a liquid voice sounded over the clover field,

Bob White, is your wheat ripe?

Most birds have a song of but one season. The bluebird, for instance,
sings only of spring; but in the two simple notes of the partridge
there is the melody of falling water, a song of April's pale-green
fields, a song of summer's golden grain, and another of autumn's
scarlet leaf and frosty morning.

"That's a voice that won't be heard in the land much longer," remarked
Aunt Jane; "and when it does stop, it'll be like missin' a voice from
the church choir. The wild things are disap