Ezekiel’s Fall from Grace 
In Which a Bear Spoiled the Revivalist’s 
Carefully Laid Plans 
By WILLIAM PERRY BROWN 
S EVERAL nights before we arrived at Greasy 
Creek Gap, the Widow Hopper and her 
three children had begun to attend a pro¬ 
tracted meeting which was going on at Macedony 
Meeting House, three miles below on Crooked 
Run. Day and night the seances went on, so 
that the widow’s cabin on Greasy Creek was, 
most of the time, bereft and void of human oc¬ 
cupancy, until toward midnight, when the 
wornout lungs and enthusiasm of the meeting s 
attendants compelled them to seek their scat¬ 
tered homes for a few hours’ rest before be¬ 
ginning again. When we finally reached this 
out-of-the-way corner of God s wilderness, the 
meeting had ceased, and a more violent if less 
laudable agitation had usurped public attention, 
at least at Greasy Creek Gap. The lingering 
throes of a most unique and ludicrous bear 
hunt were still filling the widow s soul with 
mixed emotion when she surveyed bruin’s hide 
stretched on the walls of her corncrib on the 
one hand, and on the other contemplated her 
oldest son Zeke’s present state of “backsliding” 
with his prior fervor and exaltation when at the 
very threshold of “pulling through,” from sin 
to righteousness, by way of the mourner s 
bench. 
Other material things also detracted from the 
widow’s peace of mind. One was the shattered 
remains of her “sorghum barrel,” the wrecked 
summit of the old “stick and stone chimbley, 
and the memory of a good deal of smashed 
crockery and table ware, all of which were the 
direct results of the aforesaid bear hunt. 
The population of the Gap consists ordinarily 
of Mrs. Hopper herself and three children, 
Ezekiel, or Zeke; Samanthy, and James Henry, 
or Jim-Hen, as the youngest was called, for 
short. Occasionally Nehemiah Hopper, or 
“Henry,” as he was dubbed after the usual 
nick-name habit prevalent among the mountain 
folks— a nephew of the widow—would turn up 
with a yoke of steers to help Zeke and 
Samanthy out with their limited corn and sor¬ 
ghum crop. 
Neighbors are few and far between, and most 
of the time Greasy Creek Gap, so far as the 
outside world goes, lies wedged in utter soli¬ 
tude between woods and mountains. 
On the night of the bear hunt the meeting 
had so warmed up that the hour was very late 
when it finally “broke.” Zeke, aged fourteen, 
had been for several hours wallowing in the 
straw at the mourner’s bench under deep and 
awful conviction. For some occult reason he 
had failed to “pull through.” Elder Yarky, the 
circuit-rider, accompanied the Hopper family up 
the Run, hoping, as he expressed it, to see 
Zeke through the woods before he left him 
for the night. The full moon shone brightly 
along the trail; the widow shouted, the preacher 
exhorted, Zeke continued his groanings, while 
Samanthy and Jim-Hen hung dubiously in the 
rear. 
When they approached the widow’s cabin at 
the Gap, Ezekiel suddenly jumped high in the 
air and shouted: 
“I’ve got it—glory! Glory halleluyer!” 
Then he fell to hugging every one within 
reach. Elder Yarky and tire widow broke into 
the praiseful hymn: 
“Inchin’ along, inchin’ along, 
Holdin’ to salvation. 
Grace is the meat w’at keeps me strong; 
Bless Gawd all creation.’’ 
So it went on and everything seemed lovely, 
until Mrs. Hopper paused for breath. Instead 
of resuming her singing, she listened a moment, 
then exclaimed sharply: 
“What’s that I hear? Lissen, Preacher, fer 
the land-sake!” 
Elder Yarky also paused. Sounds of bump¬ 
ing and thumping were issuing from the in¬ 
terior of the cabin, the door of which swung 
half open on wooden hinges. Yet Mrs. Hopper 
was almost sure she had pulled it shut and 
latched it with the ponderous wooden latch 
oefore she and her brood had departed for 
meeting that morning. Intermittent noises, not 
unlike half-smothered explosions, mingled with 
the heavy thuds and crashings. 
Ezekiel continued his joyous gyrations. The 
others also became aware that the poultry 
roosting in the trees were cackling wildly, and 
the dog was barking furiously from a safe dis¬ 
tance under the nearby corn crib. 
“Land o’ mercy, Preacher!” exclaimed the 
widow. “Thar go my dishes. Whatever hit 
is, it’s jest bodashusly tarin’ the house down. 
You Zekel! Stop that noise.” 
“I’m saved, mammy. Halleluyer!’ cried 
Zeke, still oblivious to all things but the 
ecstacy of his own feelings, and attempting to- 
hug his mother for the eighth or tenth time. 
But Mrs. Hopper, now more worried over 
the ruin being mysteriously wrought within 
than rejoiced at her son’s conversion, admin¬ 
istered a sounding slap which re-awakened 
Zeke to a normal perception of worldly things. 
“D'you reckon hit’s old Satan?” quavered the 
lad, dubiously. "Mebbe he’s mad cause Im 
saved.” 
“Shucks—no!” The widow seized a large 
battling stick from the wash-block.. Preacher, 
can't you reach inside and git holt of my old 
man’s Winchester? It’s in the rack jest over 
the door.” 
While Elder Yardy, more valiant in en¬ 
countering the great enemy of souls than in 
facing unknown terrors to the body, maneu¬ 
vered cautiously about the threshold of the 
cabin, a swaying barrel, apparently mounted on 
two short, hairy legs, burst through the door¬ 
way, tumbled down the steps and rolled into 
the yard—the said legs working like piston 
rods, as the self-imprisoned owner inside strove 
to regain its footing again. 
“Land o’ mercy!” screamed the widow, drop¬ 
ping the battling stick for an ax. “Hit’s a 
b’ar! He’s been in my soggrum barrel. Did 
you ever see sech imperdence!” 
“He’s the very one ’at’s been eatin’ our 
shotes up, mammy,” commented Zeke, more 
wary than ever, now that old Satan was meta¬ 
morphosed into a dangerous living reality. 
Both bear and deer were then rather bold 
and plentiful in that remote region, owing to a 
scarcity of mast and other wildwood foods. 
This particular one, while rummaging about the 
deserted clearing after a stray pig or fowl, had 
been attracted by the scent of Mrs. Hopper's 
sorghum barrel standing just inside the cabin 
door. She had only that day removed the 
cover, preparatory to cleaning it before filling 
it with new molasses. Bruin, eager for sweets, 
after pushing the door open somehow, had 
thrust himself too far inside the sugar-smeared 
receptacle. Llis huge shoulders becoming 
wedged within the swell of the cask, he had 
found that he was mysteriously imprisoned. 
The futility of his efforts to extricate him¬ 
self increased his fury as well as aroused his 
fears, hence the general wreckage that went on 
inside, until he blindly blundered out of the 
door again, tumbling down the steps into the 
very midst of the amazed group outside. Here 
he rolled about, kicking frantically, his partially- 
smothered growls and snortings sounding 
weird, hollow and doubly ferocious. 
“Do git the gun, Preacher,” urged the widow, 
striking at the bear’s hindlegs with the ax. 
“Watch out, you children!” 
There was need for this last caution, for 
bruin, surging about with increasing fear and 
