It was the day of our first move and everyone was busy getting their belongings together.  My few homemade play things were fondly stored in a badly worn black satchel.  The main articles of household furnishings were already gone in wagons. 
Just the odds and ends were left to be loaded in the sled.

            The chickens were cooped and placed in the sled along with the rain barrel and garden tools.  My sister’s cats were securely fastened in a box and loaded in a place where they would not be bounced around.  Now we were almost ready to start on our homeward journey.

            Old Grey was eating his last blades of fodder when he was geared with the old blind bridle and other gears that he was to wear in drawing the sled.  This old horse was given his name because of his grey suede like coat.  Old Grey was very impulsive and had to wear the old blind bridle to keep his view straight ahead, because he had a terrible hate for all hogs in general.

            The sled was soon moving along and my sister and I following closely behind with my father driving.  I did not take a backward look at the little log house where I was born.  Traveling went good for the first two or three miles.  I began to tire and get thirsty.  I did not dare to complain.  We rounded a curve and to my delight I could see Rose Hill.  I knew, we would soon be to Rose spring and that meant cool refreshing water.  We hurried along and there it was.  A gourd was hanging on a tree limb and we each had a drink and then another.  Old Grey got his thirst quenched, too.

            Soon we were on our way again and the going seemed good and we were approaching the Crib Gap.  We knew Old Grey was up to some kind of mischief when we saw him perk up his ears and let out a snort.  Very soon a fat hog came running across the road and away went Old Grey pawing and snorting.  The poor hog let out a few plaintiff squeals and made for the woods and Old Grey followed in close pursuit.  The sled began to fly into pieces and the contents were well scattered.  The rain barrel started back in the direction we had come.  The coop of chickens and the box of cats were dumped in the woods.  On rushed the squealing hog with Old Grey putting a shorter distance between them.  The horses harness got caught on some tree limbs and this stopped the race.  The chickens were still cackling with fright and poor cats were yowling.

            After all the pieces of the sled were gathered up and put together, we placed the coop of chickens and the box of cats back on the sled and rolled the barrel back up the hill and found a place on the sled for it.  Then, Old Grey was hitched to the sled.  We were on our way again, but luck was with us.  We soon reached our destination.  All the animals were comfortably situated and the family was all together again and ready to settle down to real living again, but in a larger log house.

        A revival meeting had just come to an end at the Primitive Baptist Church and a baptizing was soon to be.  I had heard of revival or protracted meetings, but I had heard little about baptizing.  I asked no questions.  I learned the place had been selected, a deep hole of water in my grandfather’s creek.  I did not talk about this event, because I did not know what to say, since I had never been to a baptismal service.

         I got there early enough to find me a suitable place to stand near the water.  Curiosity was getting the better of me.  Finally, the congregation joined in singing         Shall We Gather At the River.  Then, the preacher, a tall, lank and lean man read from the Bible.  This part did not seem too strange.  The preacher took off his coat, got a walking stick and waded into the water.  This frightened me and I moved back from the bank, but still stood where I could see the proceedings.  Then, the boy and girl started into the water.  This was what I wanted to see.

        About the time the preacher had his hand up ready to recite the baptismal ceremony, I learned that there was another curious person there.  A chubby, gawky boy, Crawford by name, decided to see all that was happening.  Like Zacchaeus of old, he climbed up into a tree and perched upon a limb much too weak to hold his weight.  The preacher did not get his first person baptized until there was terrible splash.  Crawford’s perch had broken and he found a wet seat right in the creek.  He became very red in the face and let out one little hysterical laugh and jumped up with water streaming from the seat of his pants.  Crawford did not wait to see the preacher take his walking stick and wade from the creek.  He had seen enough so he took off running with the water swishing in his shoes and still streaming from the seat of his pants.  He did not return for the finish of the service.

        From that day to this, I have never forgotten the baptizing in grandfather’s creek.

     What value can be set on truth?  It is of immeasurable worth to all of the world.  The person who posses this priceless gift is easily discovered, because of his bright cheerful countenance.

     There is such value place upon truth that we never think how much it is worth to us.  We always seek those who are truthful for advice to guide our footsteps.  Those that sneer at truth wish to seek it when they want to know the real meaning of all things.  There is nothing so charming and heart beautiful as a truthful character.  The man whom everybody believes and can trust, maybe in the eyes of some, very much out of date, a sort of fossilized impersonation of virtue; but he is to be admired by all, and is of incomparable value to himself.  Having this pearl of greatest price, he is apt to be in possession of all others; and, possessed of the joy of clean lips and a pure conscience, he is the only true, brave, fearless, and the only man in the world who cannot be injured.  He maybe too poor to have many friends, he maybe despised for this impolite honesty, he may be outcast and persecuted, but his head is above the lighting of human wrath, and his heart is beyond the truth of human fear.  His life and character are unobscured by clouds, and his power and influence are insufferable to opposition and reproach.  He is of unspeakable worth to the world, although he cannot be loved and honored by all men, yet there are some who wholly or partially love his integrity, vindicate his honor, and transmit his worth to and admiring posterity.

     As to the ethical value of truth there are none so base as to have a doubt, whatever the practice of life.  Truth is like the sun, whose rays shoot in straight lines in every direction; and though there be spots on the sun, there are none upon the perfect and luminous orb of truth.  Milton has said, “Truth is as impossible to be soiled by and outward touch as the Sunbeam.”  As beauty needs no paint, so truth needs no color; and different colored rays to make a perfect light.  Yet, apart from the prism or rainbow, Perfect light is always the same.  Truth unrefracted or viewed through the glass of perfect knowledge is the sonnet of every beholder.  The lover of truth never colors it to suit himself.  It may not be possible for all men to see truth alike, but the fault is not in the truth, but in the men.

     What is truth and what is the value of truth?  It is the fairest gem that the world’s riches can produce.  There is such a value place upon it that the king’s costliest crown will be counted dross and refuse.  Truth is the brightest prize to which men or gods can aspire.  The heavens may depart and the earth’s fountains may burst, truth, the sum of existence, will weather the worst, eternal, unchanged, evermore.

                                    By: Lula Gregory Flynn

The smell of wood smoke filled the air.  It seemed to have some peculiar drawing power, which caused my curiosity to be aroused.  I gave in the urges to find where it was coming from.  Finally, I spotted the place and on arriving at this spot, I saw a strange sight.

A poor old mule with his ears laid close to his head was going around in circles.  I stood as if I had been frozen in my tracks, watching the poor creature as he trudged around a peculiar contraption.  On further inspection, I found this contraption to consist of two large iron cylinders.  This thing was resting on some heavy timbers, which served as legs.  A large pole was fixed across the top with one end extended nearly to the ground.  To this pole called the sweep pole a smaller pole call the lead pole was nailed almost mid-way to this larger one.  The mule was hitched to the lead pole by a rope fastened to the mule’s harness.

A man was sitting at one side feeding these cylinders stalks of cane, three and four at a time.  A small stream of dirty looking juice poured from a small tin spout into a barrel place near this contraption.  Mashed stalks from which the juice has been pressed fell from the other side of the cylinders called pummies.  These were thrown on the ground on which the mule was walking.

My eyes began to rove and finally came to rest upon another unusual thing, a frame of bricks with a rusty little chimney.  A big black pan with many partitions was the only cover to this structure.  It was from this flu that the smoke I has smelled came.  I went closer and some of the dirty juice I had seen pouring from the spout has been carried and poured in the pan.  As the different cooking processes took place, they were ushered through a little side opening into another compartment.  On and on it went until the last section bust into golden bubbles and when poured from the stirring ladle, they spun what looked like threads of gold.  A very tasty smell filled the air and I wondered where they would go from there.

A short pipe, I learned, would be the means of escape.  The men begin to prepare to that effort.  A large can was placed under this pipe and the golden stuff begins to come from the pipe.  Just then, I had a thought, Molasses, good smelling molasses, good tasting molasses.  I rushed to the house informing my family I had found it, found a molasses still.  I was quickly corrected and informed that it was a molasses mill, instead.

                              By:  Lula Gregory Flynn