began flinging the sand at him with his long feelers.  It rose in a cloud and fell on the back of the ant and pulled at him as it swept down.  He could feel the mighty cleavers of the lion striking near his hind legs and pulling the sand from under them.  He must go down in a moment and he knew what that meant.  He had heard the old men of the tribe tell often — how they hold one helpless and slash him into a dozen pieces.  He was letting go, in despair, when he felt a hand on his neck.  Looking up he saw one of his own people reaching over the rim, and in a jiffy they had shut their fangs together.  He moved little by little as the other tagged at him, and in a moment was out of the trap and could feel the honest earth under him.  When they had got home and told their adventure, some were for going to slay the beetle.

‘There is never a pit in the path o’ duty,’ said the wise old chief of the little black folks.  ‘See that you keep in the straight road.’

‘If our brother had not left the straight road,’ said one who stood near, ‘he that was in danger would have gone down into the pit.’

‘It matters much,’ he answered, ’whether it was kindness or curiosity that led him out of the road.  But he that follows a fool hath much need of wisdom, for if he save the fool do ye not see that he hath encouraged folly?’

Of course I had then no proper understanding of the chiefs counsel, nor do I pretend even to remember it from that first telling, but the tale was told frequently in the course of my long acquaintance with Uncle Eb.

The diary of my good old friend lies before me as I write, the leaves turned yellow and the entries dim.  I remember how stern he grew of an evening when he took out this sacred little record of our wanderings and began to write in it with his stub of a pencil.  He wrote slowly and read and reread each entry with great care as I held the torch for him.  ‘Be still, boy — be still,’ he would say when some pressing interrogatory passed my lips, and then he would bend to his work while the point of his pencil bored further into my patience.  Beginning here I shall quote a few entries from the diary as they cover, with sufficient detail, an uneventful period of our journey.

August 20 Killed a partridge today.  Biled it in the teapot for dinner.  Went good. 14 mild.

August 21 Seen a deer this morning.  Fred fit ag’in.  Come near spilin’ the wagon.  Hed to stop and fix the ex. 10 mild.

August 22 Clumb a tree this morning after wild grapes.  Come near falling.  Gin me a little crick in the back.  Willie hes got a stun bruze. 12 mild.

August 23 Went in swinmun.  Ketched a few fish before breakfus’.  Got provisions an’ two case knives an’ one fork, also one tin pie-plate.  Used same to fry fish for dinner. 14 mild.

August 24 Got some spirits for Willie to rub on my back.  Boots wearing out.  Terrible hot.  Lay in the shade in the heat of the day.  Gypsies come an’ camped by us tonight. 10 mild.