62 RARE OLD 051,311.52

Not as old as an old negro I once knew,” said the old chum, and the little maid snuggled closer. Be- cause,” she told herself, “something good is coming; I know it is.”

It was in Old Virginia,” said the fisherman. I was crossing James River one morning in November. It was raining, and I had been riding for hours. An old negro, a fisherman, perhaps, had built a fire along the river bank, and I left my horse with the ferryman while I dried myself out at the negro’s fire.

He was so old, and, withal, so chirp and cheery, that, contrasting his manner and his appearance, I was moved to ask his age.

How old are you, Uncle?’ said I.

Old? Who, me ‘f’ said he.

Yes, you; how old are you ?

Lord, boss,’ said he, don’t ax me. I dunno, sah. But when I was a young man dis here Jeems

River wuz jest a little branch.’ I was thinking

about that man when the wagon came down the hill. I saw him baptised; he was an old man then. The preacher led him out into the water. He went reluctantly, very, very reluctantly. Some they were Baptists mostly-thought it was because he was Methodist, and this was not strictly a Methodist mode of baptising. The parson, too, noticed that the old sinner pulled back, but it only made the good man more determined to drag him onward into the deeper current. But the farther they went the harder the old negro pulled, until finally the strain became