ment stood in every countenance; their congratulations on my
returning in safety were repeated with an unaffected degree of pleasure,
and we passed the evening as we are doing now, every person present
paying the highest compliments to my COURAGE and VERACITY.

THE FIDDLING PARSON

ADAPTED FROM THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DAVY CROCKETT

Little Rock lay on my way to Texas, and as I left it several companions
accompanied me a short distance from the village. We were talking
briskly together as we drew near the Washita River, and imagined
ourselves the only travelers in that vicinity. In a lull in the
conversation we were somewhat startled by the sound of music, evidently
not far away. We checked our horses and listened, while the music
continued.

"What can all that mean?" asked I.

"Blast my old shoes if I know," said one of the party.

We listened again and heard _Hail Columbia! Happy Land!_ played in
first-rate style.

"That's fine," said I.

"Fine as silk, Colonel, and a leetle finer," said another; "but hark!
the tune is changed."

We listened again, and the musician struck up in a brisk and lively
manner, _Over the Water to Charlie_.

"That's mighty mysterious," said one of my friends.

"Can't cipher it out nohow," said another.

"A notch beyant my measure," said a third.

"Then let's see what it is," said I, and off we dashed at a rapid gait.

As we approached the river, we saw to the right of the road a new
clearing on a hill, from which several men were running down toward the
river like wild Indians. There appeared no time to be lost, so we all
cut ahead for the crossing. All this time the music kept growing
stronger and stronger, every note distinctly saying, _Over the Water to
Charlie._

When we reached the crossing, we were astonished to see a man seated in
a sulky in the middle of the river and playing for his life on a fiddle.
The horse was up to his middle in water, and it seemed as if the flimsy
vehicle was ready to be swept away by the current. Still the fiddler
fiddled on composedly as if his life had been insured. We thought he was
mad, and shouted to him. He heard us and stopped the music.

"You have missed the crossing," shouted one of the men.

"I know I have," replied the fiddler.

"If you go ten feet farther you will be drowned."

"I know I shall."

"Turn back," cried the man.

"I can't," said the fiddler.

"Then how the deuce will you get out?"

"I'm sure I don't k