FOLKS FROM DIXIE
was small and mean in appearance. The weather boarding was broken, and in some places entirely fallen away, showing the great unhewn logs beneath; while off the boards that remained the whitewash had peeled in scrofulous spots.
The minister's guide went up to the closed door, and rapped loudly with a heavy stick.
"G' 'way f'om dah, an' quit you' foolin'," came in a large voice from within.
The guide grinned, and rapped again. There was a sound of shuffling feet and the pushing back of a chair, and then the same voice saying: "I bet I 'll mek you git away f'om dat do'."
"Dat 's A'nt Ca'line," the guide said, and laughed.
The door was flung back as quickly as its worn hinges and sagging bottom would allow, and a large body surmounted by a face like a big round full moon presented itself in the opening. A broomstick showed itself aggressively in one fat shiny hand.
"It 's you, Tom Scott, is it—you trif'nin'—" and then, catching sight of the stranger, her whole manner changed, and she dropped the broomstick with an embarrassed "'Scuse me, suh."
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