This is a story book. The within parson, which I have set to poetry under the name and style of 'He Done His Level Best, ' was one among the whitest men I ever see, and it ain’t every man that knowed him that can find it in his heart to say he’s glad the poor cuss is busted and gone home to the States. He was here in an early day, and he was the handyest man about takin’ holt of anything that come along you most ever see, I judge. He was a cheerful, stirnn’ cretur, always doin’ somethin’, and no man can say he ever see him do anything by halvers. Preachin was his nateral gait, but he warn’t a man to lay back a twidle his thumbs because there didn’t happen to be nothin’ do in his own especial line—no, sir, he was a man who would meander forth and stir up something for his self. His last acts was to go his pile on 'Kings-and' (calkatin’ to fill, but which he didn’t fill), when there was a 'flush' out agin him, and naterally, you see, he went under. And so he was cleaned out as you may say, and he struck the home-trail, cheerful but flat broke.