ner in which he pronounced and emphasized, in this connection, the word satisfactory.

According to Uncle Billy's own statement, another circumstance once happened in Columbia which not only gave him a chance to exhibit his skill in the use of the pen, but fully illustrated the power which his splendid penmanship exercised upon the minds of others. He had gone down with his wagon and was to haul a load of goods back, for some up-country merchant, and he was always careful in telling it to add that he had his "every day clothes on." This little particular was mentioned in order that his hearers might understand why it was that he had not been taken for some extraordinary personage at first sight. After loading his wagon at the depot, the agent made out a receipt for him to sign and said: "Mr. Jones, can you sign your name to this receipt?" Mr. Jones said he replied, "I'll-try-sir," "and," he continued, "I took his pen and walking up to the desk wrote off 'William Jones."" Then turning around he walked out, leaving the astonished agent to his own reflections. But he did not reflect long; for Mr. Jones asserted that pretty soon after reaching the outside of the platform the agent came up to him, and slapping him on the shoulder, whispered in his ear, "Mr. Jones, can your services be procured at any price?"

In relating the circumstance to his friends, the old man would pronounce the words, I'll try sir, very precisely and slowly, in a half patronizing, half

contemptuous tone, while his countenance gave forth sundry expressions which it is impossible to commit to paper. As he told how he wrote his name he would grasp an imaginary pen and move his hand gracefully through the air, as if to show how easy and natural was the operation, while he partially closed his right eye and turned his head disdainfully to the left, as if to give some little expression to the utter contempt he felt for the man who would dare to doubt his ability to write his

name.

He frequently told of another trial to which his scholarship had been subjected, and from which, of course, he emerged victorious. The date of the event was always a period before the recollection of those present. At that unknown period there was a company of surveyors over in Georgia in the employ of the Government. Around their camp fire one night they were discussing the merits of various mathematical problems and one of them proposed the following:

How much land must be enclosed by a rail fence that will enclose one acre to every rail used in its construction, the rails to be ten feet long, the panels ten rails high, and with a crook that gives two and a half yards in a straight line to every panel.

The chief surveyor said that the problem could be solved but it was not practical. (What say the young mathematicians of Spartanburg?) But there was a man in South Carolina by the name of

William Jones who could solve it, if any man could.

In the course of time one of the surveyors met our hero and related to him the circumstance, whereupon Mr. Jones said he "immediately worked it out and wrote the rule for him."

These and other stories of similar purport he repeated as long as he lived; and it is but justice to his memory to say that whatever doubts may have existed in his mind in early life as to the correctness of the essential particulars, he had none whatever in his latter days. He had told them until he fully believed them to be true.

He taught but little in the latter part of his life, for the reason that his services were not in demand. His moral character was unexceptionable. He often said that he held himself "second to no man in his intentions to do right." He died four or five years ago, and

"The very spot

Where many a time he triumphed is forgot." The Teachers' Convention of Spartanburg County several years ago inquired for a type of an old time school teacher. In answer to that inquiry the writer presents William Jones, S. M., and asks the privilege of respect fully dedicating these scattering and imperfect Reminiscences of him to that intelligent body.

SPARTANBURG ON SALESDAY, 1879.

A Day On The Streets.

I am approaching the shady side of life, and have lived in this and an adjoining county ever since I first saw the light, and yet have never but once been at any county town on salesday. It is owing to this fact, I suppose, that the scenes of that day were impressed so indelibly on my memory.

It was late when I arrived, and Spartanburg was full of men and horses and vehicles, that, from an early hour in the morning, had been pouring into the town from every point of the compass. I said to a friend, "There must be a great deal of property to be sold to-day, judging from the crowd present. "That is no indication of it," he replied. "I think very little, if any, property is to be sold to-day.”

A few minutes later, I said to a merchant, "I suppose you reap a rich harvest on salesday." "Not at all," replied he; "we usually sell less on salesday than on any other day." These two replies set me to revolving the question:

What Do The People Come For?

This question is much more easily asked than answered; for out of the hundreds that throng the streets, probably no two can be selected that have been actuated by exactly the same motives. But standing on the sidewalk, I looked out upon the

moving mass, and imagined that I could trace the dividing lines distinctly enough to enable me to go into a sort of general classification of men and motives.

The first class that deserved notice, deserved also sympathy; for it was a class of unfortunates-a class composed of men who came from the extremes of life and had nothing in common except pecuniary troubles. They were few in number, counting perhaps not more than a half dozen, and their badges of distinction were to be found in their anxious faces and excited manners. They were there on business-yes, business to the death, if such an expression be allowed. Owing to reckless management, negligence, laziness, fast living, mistaken calculations, and a hundred things falsely called misfortunes, their property had been grasped in the clutches of the law, and the sheriff's hammer was about to sound the knell of departed hopes. But all sheriffs are not Javerts, and all creditors are not unjust stewards; and the poet Byron has said, "When things are at their worst, they sometimes mend."

I think our friends wearing the aforementioned badges of distinction realized all the consolation of these truths; for no property of consequence was sold, and I saw several of them in the evening who had laid aside their badges, and who were chatting gayly with their friends, and looking as happy as