For a whole half-year David toiled upon the farm of the Quaker, never once during that time visiting his home.  At the end of the term he received his pay for those long months of labor, in a little piece of rumpled paper, upon which his father had probably made his mark.  It was Saturday evening.  The next morning he borrowed a horse of his employer and set out for a visit home.  He was kindly welcomed.  His father knew nothing of the agreement which his son had made with Mr. Kennedy.  As the family were talking together around the cabin fire, David drew the note from his pocket and presented it to his father.  The old man seemed much troubled.  He supposed Mr. Kennedy had sent it for collection.  As usual, he began to make excuses.  He said that he was very sorry that he could not pay it, that he had met with many misfortunes, that he had no money, and that he did not know what to do.

David then told his father that he did not hand him the bill for collection, but that it was a present from him—­that he had paid it in full.  It is easy for old and broken-down men to weep.  John Crockett seemed much affected by this generosity of his son, and David says “he shed a heap of tears.”  He, however, avowed his inability to pay anything whatever, upon the note.

David had now worked a year without getting any money for himself.  His clothes were worn out, and altogether he was in a very dilapidated condition.  He went back to the Quaker’s, and again engaged in his service, desiring to earn some money to purchase clothes.  Two months thus passed away.  Every ardent, impetuous boy must have a love adventure.  David had his.  A very pretty young Quakeress, of about David’s age, came from North Carolina to visit Mr. Kennedy, who was her uncle.  David fell desperately in love with her.  We cannot better describe this adventure than in the unpolished diction of this illiterate boy.  If one would understand this extraordinary character, it is necessary thus to catch such glimpses as we can of his inner life.  Let this necessity atone for the unpleasant rudeness of speech.  Be it remembered that this reminiscence was written after David Crockett was a member of Congress.

“I soon found myself head over heels in love with this girl.  I thought that if all the hills about there were pure chink, and all belonged to me, I would give them if I could just talk to her as I wanted to.  But I was afraid to begin; for when I would think of saying anything to her, my heart would begin to flutter like a duck in a puddle.  And if I tried to outdo it and speak, it would get right smack up in my throat, and choke me like a cold potato.  It bore on my mind in this way, till at last I concluded I must die if I didn’t broach the subject.  So I determined to begin and hang on a-trying to speak, till my heart would get out of my throat one way or t’other.

“And so one day at it I went, and after several trials I could say a little.  I told her how I loved her; that she was the darling object of my soul and body, and I must have her, or else I should pine down to nothing, and just die away with consumption.