"'Up on the roof of his ranch,' goes on the Colonel, for he's so immersed in them mem'ries he don't hear Texas where he rings in his theeries, 'up on the roof my grandfather has a big bell, an' the rope is brought down an' fetched through a auger hole in the side of the house, so he can lay in bed if he feels like it, an' ring this yere tocsin of his while so minded.An' you can bet he shorely rings her! Many a time an' oft as a child about my mother's knees, the sound of that ringin' comes floatin' to us where my father has his house four miles further down the river.On sech o'casions I'd up an' ask:
"'" Whatever is this yere ringin'?"
"'"Hesh, my child!" my mother would say, smotherin' my mouth with her hand, her voice sinkin' to a whisper, for as the head of the House of Sterett, every one of the tribe is plumb scared of my grandfather an' mentions him with awe."Hesh, my child," says my mother like I relates, "that's your grandfather ringin' his bell.""'An' from calf-time to beef-time, from the first kyard out of the box down to the turn, no one ever knows why my grandfather does ring it, for he's too onbendin' to tell of his own accord, an' as Istates prior, no one on earth has got nerve an' force of character enough to ask him.
"'My own father, whose name is the same as mine, bein' Willyum Greene Sterett, is the oldest of my grandfather's chil'en.He's a stern, quiet gent, an' all us young-ones is wont to step high an'
softly whenever he's pesterin' 'round.He respects nobody except my grandfather, fears nothin' but gettin' out of licker.
"'Like my grandfather up at "The Hill," my father devotes all his talents to raisin' runnin' hosses, an' the old faun would have been a heap lonesome if thar's fewer than three hundred head a nickerin'
about the barns an' pastures.Shore! we has slaves too; we has niggers to a stand-still.
"'As I look r'arward to them days of my infancy, I brings to mind a staggerin' blow that neighborhood receives.A stern-wheeler sinks about two hundred yards off our landin' with one thousand bar'ls of whiskey on board.When the news of that whiskey comes flyin' inland, it ain't a case of individyooals nor neighborhoods, but whole counties comes stampedin' to the rescoo.It's no use; the boat bogs right down in the sand; in less than an hour her smoke stack is onder water.All we ever gets from the wrack is the bell, the same now adornin' a Presbyter'an church an' summonin' folks to them services.I tells you, gents, the thoughts of that Willow Run, an'
we not able to save so much as a quart of it, puts a crimp in that commoonity they ain't yet outlived.It 'most drives 'em crazy; they walks them banks for months a-wringin' their hands an' wishin' the impossible.'
"'Is any one drowned?' asks Faro Nell, who comes in, a moment before, an' as usual plants herse'f clost to Cherokee Hall.'Is thar any women or children aboard?'
"'Nell,' says the Colonel, 'I apol'gizes for my ignorance, but I'm bound to confess I don't know.Thar's no one knows.The awful fact of them one thousand bar'ls of Willow Run perishin' before our very eyes, swallows up all else, an' minor details gets lost in the shuffle an' stays lost for all time.It's a turrible jolt to the general sensibilities, an' any gent who'll go back thar yet an' look hard in the faces of them people, can see traces of that c'lamity.
"'As a child,' resoomes the Colonel, 'I'm romantic a whole lot.I'm carried away by music.My fav'rite airs is "Smith's March," an'
"Cease Awhile Clarion; Clarion Wild an' Shrill." I either wants something with a sob in it 'like "Cease Awhile," or I desires War with all her horrors, same as a gent gets dished up to him in "Smith's March.""'Also, I reads Scott's "Ivanhoe," ain longs to be a croosader, an'
slay Paynims.I used to lie on the bank by the old Ohio, an' shet my eyes ag'in the brightness of the sky, an' figger on them setbacks we'd mete out to a Payaim if only we might tree one once in old Kaintucky.Which that Saracen would have shorely become the basis of some ceremonies!
"'Most like I was about thirteen years old when the Confederacy declar's herse'f a nation, elects Jeff Davis President, an' fronts up for trouble.For myse'f I concedes now, though I sort o' smothers my feelin's on that p'int at the time, seein' we-all could look right over into the state of Ohio, said state bein' heatedly inimical to rebellion an' pawin' for trouble an' rappin' its horns ag'in the trees at the mere idee; for myse'f, I say, I now concedes that I was heart an' soul with the South in them onhappy ruptures.Ibreathed an' lived with but one ambition, which is to tear this devoted country in two in the middle an' leave the fragments that a-way, in opposite fields.My father, stern, ca'm, c'llected, don't share the voylence of my sentiments.He took the middle ag'in the ends for his.The attitoode of our state is that of nootrality, an'
my father declar'd for nootrality likewise.My grandfather is dead at the time, so his examples lost to us; but my father, sort o'
projectin' 'round for p'sition, decides it would be onfair in him to throw the weight of his valor to either side, so he stands a pat hand on that embroglio, declines kyards, an' as I states is nootral.
Which I know he's nootral by one thing:
