As I sat and gazed from the dark room through a large old window, which was
swung open on heavy hinges to allow the sap-scented breeze to drift in and
fan the fire of lingering winter, out into an old garden with
brick-outlined walks and climbing bare rose vines upon which was beginning
to be poured the silver enchantment of a young moon, Uncle Cradd, in his
deep old voice, which was like the notes given out by an ancient violin,
began to read a chapter from his old Book which began with the exhortation,
"Let brotherly love continue," and laid down a course of moral conduct that
seemed so impossible that I sat spellbound to the last words, "Grace be
with you all. Ahmen."

Then I knelt beside father, with old Rufus close behind our chairs, and was
for the first time in my life lifted on the wings of prayer and carried off
up somewhere I hadn't been before. As Uncle Cradd's sonorous words of love
and rejoicing over our return rolled forth in the twilight, I crouched
against father's shoulder, and I think the spirit of my Grandmother
Craddock, whom I had heard indulging in a Methodist form of vocal rejoicing
which is called a shout, was about to manifest itself through me when I was
brought to earth and to my feet by a long, protracted, and alarmed appeal
sent forth in the voice of the Golden Bird.

"Keep us and protect us through the night with Your grace. Ahmen! Why
didn't you put those chickens out of the way of skunks and weasels, Rufus,
you old scoundrel," rolled out Uncle Cradd's deep voice, dropping with
great harmony from the sublime to the domestic.

Then, with Rufus at my heels, I literally flew through the back door of the
house towards the sound of distress that had come from that direction. In
front of a rambling old barn, which was silvered by the crescent that hung