Down the muddy
creek-bank rushed my victim, plunged through the tumbling waters
waist-deep, and, as soon as the opposite shore was reached, a
vociferous call was made for Tom, the negro foreman. Horror of horrors!
it was my father's voice. In an instant my candle was out, and I was
running.
I passed unconcernedly through the house and took a seat in the back
passage, and awaited events. It was not long before the sloppy noise of
shoes full of water, heard in walking, came through the yard, and into
the house. It was my dear old frightened father, all reeking from his
plunge into the creek. "Why, husband," asked mother, "how did you get
so wet?" He slung the damp from his hat as he cleared his throat, and
said: "I slipped off that cursed log, in crossing the creek."
Reflection had told him he had been foolishly frightened, and he was
ashamed to acknowledge it. My conscience smote me, but I laughed, and
trembled--for had he made discovery of the trick, it would have been my
time to suffer.
Memory brings back the features, the kind and gentle look of that dear
and indulgent parent, and the unbidden tear comes.
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