At Mt.

Sterling a man in the audience made some objection.
"What is your name ?" said Billy Brown.
"My name, sir, is Trotter." "Well, come forward, and I will knock your _trotters_ out from under you." But Billy himself sometimes found his match.

At Ripley he had been preaching after his accustomed style, and riding away from the place of meeting--it was in the spring of the year when the mud was deep--he saw an old man painfully and with difficulty making his way through the mud.
Knowing that he was a preacher from his white cravat, his broad-brimmed hat and single-breasted coat, he said to him: "Well, old Daddy, how did you like the preaching ?" "Haven't heard any," stiffly replied the old gentleman.
But when the tumult and excitement of this conflict had passed away, and his converts were brought face to face with the grave duties of a religious life, and with the serious work of keeping the ordinances of the Lord's house, they did not know how; they had been born in a whirlwind and could only live in a tempest.

Notwithstanding, they loved the Lord's cause, and they trembled for themselves and their children, if they should not be found faithful.
If these churches are not able at the present time to exhibit a growth adequate to their opportunities, it must be remembered, on their behalf, that they have sent to the West an incredibly large number of disciples to serve as the nuclei for other churches throughout that mighty empire that within the past thirty years has grown up between the Missouri River and the Pacific Ocean.
The days I spent in these churches are the golden days of my life.

There has been no field in which my labor as an evangelist has yielded a richer harvest; none in which there have been bestowed on me more flattering or more kindly attentions.