arkansas governors and united states senators by john l. ferguson state historian arkansas history commission little rock 1970 introductory this list of arkansas governors and united states senators, with brief biographies of each person who has served in these offices, is intended to benefit students and others who have expressed interest in a published summary of such information. we have omitted the dozens of "acting governors," including some who served for substantial periods of time, as well as senators who held office only briefly. copies of this publication are free, and the material is not copyrighted or restricted. governors of the territory of arkansas on march 2, 1819, arkansas was legally separated from missouri and became the territory of arkansas. the act became effective on july 4 following. during the territorial period the governors were appointed by the president of the united states, with the approval of the united states senate, for terms of three years. 1. james miller, 1819-1824 lawyer, soldier. born in new hampshire, 1776. educated at amherst academy and williams college, massachusetts. admitted to bar, 1803. married martha ferguson, 1801; two children. married ruth flint, 1806; five children. commissioned major of infantry in regular army, 1808. lieutenant colonel, 1810; colonel, 1812; brigadier general, 1814. hero of battle of lundy's lane, canada, 1814. received congressional gold medal for gallantry, 1814. resigned from army, 1819. governor of arkansas, 1819-1824. united states collector of customs, salem, massachusetts, 1824-1849. died 1851. 2. george izard, 1825-1828 soldier. born in england, 1776. attended military schools in england, germany, and france. commissioned lieutenant in artillerists and engineers, united states army, 1794. captain, 1799. resigned from army, 1803. married elizabeth carter shippen, 1803; three children. accepted new commission as colonel of artillery, 1812. brigadier general, 1813; major general, 1814. honorably discharged, 1815. governor of arkansas from 1825 until his death in 1828. 3. john pope, 1829-1835 lawyer. born in virginia, 1770. married ann henry christian, c.1795. married elizabeth johnson, 1810; two children. married frances watkins walton, 1820. state senator, kentucky, 1798-1799, 1825-1829. member, kentucky house of representatives, 1802, 1806-1807, 1823-1825. united states senator from kentucky, 1807-1813. professor of law, transylvania university, 1813-1816. secretary of state of kentucky, 1816-1819. governor of arkansas, 1829-1835. congressman from kentucky, 1837-1843. died 1845. 4. william s. fulton, 1835-1836 lawyer. born in maryland, 1795. graduated from baltimore college, 1813. moved to tennessee after serving in war of 1812. admitted to bar, 1817. military secretary to general andrew jackson in florida campaign of 1818. moved to alabama, 1820. married matilda nowland, 1823; four children. elected judge of county court, florence, alabama, 1822. secretary of territory of arkansas, 1829-1835. last governor of territory of arkansas, 1835-1836. united states senator from arkansas, 1836-1844. died 1844. governors of the state of arkansas arkansas was admitted to the union as the twenty-fifth state on june 15, 1836. from 1836 until 1874, governors were elected for four-year terms. during the remainder of our history the term of office has been two years. 1. james s. conway, 1836-1840 planter, surveyor, democrat. born in tennessee, 1798. came to arkansas from missouri, 1820. married mary jane bradley, 1826; six children. first surveyor-general of arkansas territory. inaugurated as first governor of the state of arkansas, september 13, 1836. in 1840 retired to "walnut hill," his plantation in lafayette county. died 1855. 2. archibald yell, 1840-1844 lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, 1797 or 1799. served in war of 1812, and in seminole war of 1818. married mary scott, 1821; two children. married ann jordan moore, 1827; four children. married maria ficklin, 1836. member, tennessee house of representatives, 1827. came to arkansas 1831. receiver at federal land office in little rock, 1831-1832. moved to fayetteville, 1834. territorial judge, 1835-1836. congressman, 1836-1839, 1845-1847. governor, 1840-1844. left congress in 1846 to become colonel of first arkansas volunteer cavalry, mexican war. killed at battle of buena vista, mexico, 1847. 3. thomas s. drew, 1844-1849 planter, peddler, lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, 1802. came to arkansas 1818. clerk of clark county, 1823-1825. moved to what is now randolph county, 1826. married cinderella bettis, 1826, five children. judge of lawrence county, 1832-1833. delegate to arkansas constitutional convention, 1836. governor, 1844-1849. resigned as governor, 1849, and returned to pocahontas. moved to hood county, texas, after death of his wife in 1872. died in texas, 1879. 4. john s. roane, 1849-1852 planter, lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, 1817. attended cumberland college, princeton, kentucky. came to arkansas 1837, settled at pine bluff. moved to van buren 1842. speaker, arkansas house of representatives, 1844-1845. served in mexican war. returned to pine bluff, 1848. governor, 1849-1852. married mary k. smith, 1855; five children. brigadier general, confederate army. died 1867. 5. elias n. conway, 1852-1860 surveyor, public official, democrat. born in tennessee, 1812; younger brother of governor james s. conway. came to arkansas from missouri 1833. territorial auditor, 1835-1836. state auditor, 1836-1849. governor, 1852-1860. never married. died 1892. 6. henry m. rector, 1860-1862 planter, lawyer, independent democrat. born in kentucky, 1816. came to arkansas from missouri, 1835; settled in hot springs. married ernestine flora linde, 1860; one child. appointed federal marshal, 1842. state senator, 1848-1852. moved to little rock, 1854. member, house of representatives, 1854-1855. associate justice, supreme court, 1859-1860. governor, 1860-1862. delegate, constitutional convention of 1874. died 1899. 7. harris flanagin, 1862-1865 lawyer, confederate. born in new jersey, 1817. moved to clark county, arkansas, from illinois, 1837. married martha e. nash, 1851; five children. member, house of representatives, 1842-1843. delegate, secession convention, 1861. colonel, confederate army. governor, 1862-1865. delegate, constitutional convention of 1874. died 1874. 8. isaac murphy, 1864-1868 teacher, lawyer, unionist democrat. born in pennsylvania, 1799. settled in tennessee, 1830; came to arkansas 1834. married angelina a. lockhart, 1830; eight children. member, house of representatives, washington county, 1848-1849. went to california 1849, returned 1853. moved to huntsville, madison county, 1854. state senator, 1856-1857. delegate, secession convention of 1861; only member who refused to vote for secession of arkansas from the union. served with union army, 1861-1863. organized unionist state government in little rock, 1864; served as governor until displaced by radical republicans, 1868. died in huntsville, 1882. 9. powell clayton, 1868-1871 civil engineer, soldier, republican. born in pennsylvania, 1833. educated in the common schools, the partridge military academy in bristol, pennsylvania, and in an engineering school at wilmington, delaware. moved to kansas, 1855; became city engineer of leavenworth, kansas, 1859. brigadier general, union army; came to arkansas with army during civil war. at close of war, settled on a cotton plantation near pine bluff. married adeline mcgraw, 1865; five children. governor, 1868-1871; resigned in 1871 to become united states senator for term ending 1877. moved from little rock to eureka springs, 1882. united states ambassador to mexico, 1897-1905. lived in washington, d.c. from 1912 until his death in 1915. note: the unexpired portion of powell clayton's term as governor, 1871-1873, was completed by ozra a. hadley, president of the state senate. 10. elisha baxter, 1873-1874 lawyer, republican. born in north carolina, 1827. married harriet patton, 1849; six children. came to arkansas 1852, settled in batesville. member, house of representatives, 1854-1855, 1858-1859. prosecuting attorney, 1861-1862. raised and commanded fourth arkansas mounted infantry regiment (union) during civil war. elected to state supreme court, 1864, and then to united states senate, but not allowed to take his seat. circuit judge, 1868-1873. governor, 1873-1874; his term of office was cut short by the brooks-baxter war and the adoption of a new state constitution. died 1899. 11. augustus h. garland, 1874-1877 lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, 1832. his parents came to what is now miller county, arkansas, 1833; later the family located in washington, hempstead county. educated in a private school at washington; at st. mary's college, lebanon, kentucky; and at st. joseph's college, bardstown, kentucky, where he graduated 1849. married virginia saunders, 1853; eight children. moved to little rock, 1856. delegate, secession convention, 1861. delegate to provisional congress of confederate states, 1861; confederate congressman, 1861-1864; confederate states senator, 1864-1865. governor, 1874-1877. united states senator, 1877-1885. attorney general of the united states under president grover cleveland, 1885-1889; first arkansan to hold a cabinet post. died 1899. 12. william r. miller, 1877-1881 lawyer, democrat. born at batesville, arkansas, 1823. clerk of independence county, 1848-1854. married susan elizabeth bevens, 1849; seven children. state auditor, 1854-1855, 1857-1860, 1861-1864, 1866-1868, 1874-1877, 1887. accountant of real estate bank of arkansas, 1855-1856. governor, 1877-1881; first native arkansan to hold office. died 1887. 13. thomas j. churchill, 1881-1883 planter, soldier, lawyer, democrat. born in kentucky, 1824. educated at st. mary's college and transylvania university. served in mexican war. moved to arkansas 1848, acquired a plantation near little rock. married anne maria sevier, 1849; six children. postmaster at little rock, 1857-1861. major general, confederate army; commanded at the battle of arkansas post, 1863. state treasurer, 1874-1881. governor, 1881-1883. died 1905. 14. james h. berry, 1883-1885 lawyer, democrat. born in alabama, 1841. when he was seven, his father moved to carrollton, carroll county, arkansas. attended berryville academy. served in confederate army; lost a leg at battle of corinth. married elizabeth quaile, 1865; six children. moved to bentonville, 1869. served in house of representatives from carroll county, 1866-1867; from washington and benton counties, 1873-1874. speaker of the house, 1874. circuit judge, 1878-1882. governor, 1883-1885. united states senator, 1885-1907. died 1913. 15. simon p. hughes, 1885-1889 lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, 1830. moved to pulaski county, arkansas, with his parents, 1844. educated in tennessee, 1846-1849. returned to arkansas 1849 and became a farmer. sheriff, monroe county, 1854-1856. began practice of law at clarendon, 1857. married ann e. blakemore, 1857; nine children. lieutenant colonel, confederate army. member, house of representatives from monroe county, 1866-1867. delegate, constitutional convention of 1874. attorney general, 1874-1877. governor, 1885-1889. associate justice, supreme court, 1889-1904. died 1906. 16. james p. eagle, 1889-1893 planter, minister, democrat. born in tennessee, 1837. came with parents to pulaski county, arkansas, 1839. moved to what is now lonoke county, 1857. lieutenant colonel, confederate army. ordained to baptist ministry, 1869. member, house of representatives, 1873-1874, 1877; speaker of the house, 1885. delegate, constitutional convention of 1874. married mary kavanaugh oldham, 1882. governor, 1889-1893. president, arkansas baptist state convention, 1880-1904. president, southern baptist convention, 1902-1904. died 1904. 17. william m. fishback, 1893-1895 lawyer, democrat. born in virginia, 1831. graduated from university of virginia; studied law in richmond. came to arkansas from illinois 1858; settled at fort smith. delegate, secession convention, 1861. went to missouri 1862 and took oath of allegiance to union. elected to united states senate from arkansas 1864, but not allowed to take his seat. married adelaide miller, 1867; six children. delegate, constitutional convention of 1874. member, house of representatives, sebastian county, 1877, 1879. governor, 1893-1895. died 1903. 18. james p. clarke, 1895-1897 lawyer, democrat. born in mississippi, 1854. graduated from law school, university of virginia. came to arkansas 1879; opened law office in helena. married sallie moore wooten, 1883; three children. member, house of representatives, phillips county, 1887. state senator, 1889, 1891. attorney general, 1893-1895. governor, 1895-1897. united states senator, 1903-1916. died 1916. 19. dan w. jones, 1897-1901 lawyer, democrat. born in texas, 1839. moved with parents to washington, arkansas, 1840. colonel, confederate army. married margaret p. hadley, 1864; seven children. prosecuting attorney, 1874-1876. attorney general, 1885-1889. member, house of representatives, pulaski county, 1891, 1915. governor, 1897-1901. died 1918. 20. jeff davis, 1901-1907 lawyer, democrat. born in what is now little river county, arkansas, 1862. educated in common schools; preparatory department, arkansas industrial university; law school, vanderbilt university. received law degree, cumberland university. married ina mckenzie, 1882; twelve children. married leila carter, 1911. practiced law at russellville, arkansas. prosecuting attorney, 1890-1894. attorney general, 1899-1901. governor, 1901-1907; first governor to be elected to more than two terms. united states senator, 1907-1913. died 1913. 21. john s. little, 1907-1909 lawyer, democrat. born at jenny lind, sebastian county, arkansas, 1851. attended cane hill college, cane hill, arkansas. married elizabeth j. irwin, 1877; five children. prosecuting attorney, 1877-1884. member, house of representatives, sebastian county, 1885. circuit judge, 1886-1887. congressman, 1894-1907. governor, 1907-1909. soon after his inauguration, he suffered a nervous collapse and was unable to perform his duties for the remainder of his term. died 1916. 22. george w. donaghey, 1909-1913 building contractor, banker, democrat. born in louisiana, 1856. came to union county, arkansas with his parents when a child. worked as a farmer and cowboy in texas. moved to conway, 1874; became a carpenter and contractor. attended arkansas industrial university (now the university of arkansas). married louvinia wallace, 1883. governor, 1909-1913. philanthropist, business and civic leader for many years. died 1937. 23. joseph t. robinson, 1913 lawyer, democrat. born near lonoke, arkansas, 1872. educated in the common schools; arkansas industrial university; and the law department of the university of virginia. admitted to bar 1895; commenced practice in lonoke. married ewilda gertrude miller, 1896. member, house of representatives, lonoke county, 1895. congressman, 1903-1913. governor, 1913; resigned to become united states senator, 1913-1937. democratic leader in senate, 1923-1937. democratic nominee for vice-president of the united states, 1928. died 1937. 24. george w. hays, 1913-1917 lawyer, democrat. born near camden, arkansas, 1863. graduated from washington and lee university. married ida virginia yarborough, 1895; two children. county judge, ouachita county, 1901-1905. circuit judge, 1906-1913. governor, 1913-1917. died 1927. 25. charles h. brough, 1917-1921 educator, democrat. born in mississippi, 1876. b.a., mississippi college, 1893; ph.d., johns hopkins university, 1898; ll.b., university of mississippi, 1902. married anne wade roark, 1908. professor of economics and sociology, university of arkansas, 1904-1916. governor 1917-1921. chautauqua lecturer. president, central baptist college, conway, 1928-1929. died 1935. 26. thomas c. mcrae, 1921-1925 lawyer, banker, democrat. born at mount holly, union county, arkansas, 1851. graduated from soule business college, new orleans, 1869; ll.b., washington and lee university, 1872. married amelia ann white, 1874; nine children. member, house of representatives, nevada county, 1877. congressman, 1885-1903. delegate, constitutional convention of 1917-1918. governor, 1921-1925. died 1929. 27. tom j. terral, 1925-1927 lawyer, democrat. born in louisiana, 1882. attended university of kentucky; ll.b., university of arkansas, 1910. married eula terrell, 1914. secretary, arkansas senate, 1913, 1915. secretary of state, 1917-1921. governor, 1925-1927. died 1946. 28. john e. martineau, 1927-1928 lawyer, democrat. born in missouri, 1873. a.b., arkansas industrial university, 1896; graduated, university law school, 1899. married mrs. anne holcomb mitchell, 1909. married mrs. mabel erwin thomas, 1919. member, house of representatives, pulaski county, 1903, 1905. chancellor, 1907-1927. governor, 1927-1928; resigned to become united states district judge, 1928-1937. died 1937. 29. harvey parnell, 1928-1933 planter, businessman, democrat. born in dorsey (now cleveland) county, arkansas, 1880. married mabel winston, 1902; two children. member, house of representatives, chicot county, 1919, 1921. state senator, 1923, 1925. lieutenant governor, 1927-1928. succeeded to governorship when john e. martineau resigned, 1928; elected to full terms 1928, 1930. died 1936. 30. j.m. futrell, 1933-1937 lawyer, democrat. born in greene county, arkansas, 1870. attended arkansas industrial university. married tera a. smith, 1893; six children. member, house of representatives, greene county, 1897, 1901, 1903. circuit clerk, greene county, 1907-1911. state senator, 1913, 1915. acting governor, march-july 1913. circuit judge, 1921. chancellor, 1923-1932. governor, 1933-1937. died 1955. 31. carl e. bailey, 1937-1941 lawyer, democrat. born in missouri, 1894. attended business college in chillicothe, missouri. married margaret bristol, 1915; six children. married marjorie compton, 1943. prosecuting attorney, 1931-1935. attorney general, 1935-1937. governor, 1937-1941. died 1948. 32. homer m. adkins, 1941-1945 pharmacist, businessman, democrat. born near jacksonville, arkansas, 1890. attended draughon's business college of pharmacy. captain, united states army, first world war. married estelle smith, 1921. sheriff, pulaski county, 1923-1927. united states collector of internal revenue for arkansas, 1933-1940. governor, 1941-1945. administrator, employment security division, 1949-1952. died 1964. 33. ben t. laney, 1945-1949 businessman, democrat. born in ouachita county, near smackover, arkansas, 1896. served in united states navy, first world war. a.b., state normal school (now state college), conway, 1924. graduate study, university of utah. married lucille kirtley, 1926; three children. mayor of camden, 1935-1939. governor, 1945-1949. 34. sid mcmath, 1949-1953 lawyer, democrat. born near magnolia, arkansas, 1912. ll.b., university of arkansas, 1936. married elaine braughton, 1937; one child. married anne phillips, 1945; two children. lieutenant colonel, united states marine corps, second world war. prosecuting attorney, 1947-1949. governor, 1949-1953. 35. francis cherry, 1953-1955 lawyer, democrat. born in fort worth, texas, 1908. graduated oklahoma a.& m. college, 1930. ll.b., university of arkansas, 1936. married margaret frierson; three children. lieutenant (j.g.), united states navy, second world war. chancellor, 1943-1944, 1949-1952. governor, 1953-1955. member, united states subversive activities control board, 1955-1963; chairman, 1963-1965. died 1965. 36. orval e. faubus, 1955-1967 newspaperman, democrat. born near combs, arkansas, 1910. attended madison county schools. married alta haskins, 1931; one son. major, united states army, second world war. circuit clerk, madison county, 1939-1942. administrative assistant to governor sid mcmath, highway commissioner, highway director, 1949-1953. postmaster, huntsville, 1953-1954. governor, 1955-1967. 37. winthrop rockefeller, 1967financier, farmer, republican. born in new york, 1912. attended yale university. lieutenant colonel, united states army, second world war. married barbara sears, 1948; one son. married jeannette edris, 1956. moved to arkansas, 1953. chairman, arkansas industrial development commission, 1955-1964. first republican elected governor since 1872. united states senators from arkansas each state is entitled to two united states senators. until 1913, senators were elected by state legislatures; since that time, by popular vote. our first senators, chosen in 1836, were ambrose h. sevier and william s. fulton. in the following pages, biographies of sevier and his successors are given first. 1. ambrose h. sevier 1836-1848 lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, 1801. came to arkansas from missouri, 1821. clerk, territorial house of representatives, 1821. member, territorial house of representatives, pulaski county, 1823, 1825; speaker, 1827. territorial delegate to congress, 1828-1836. united states senator, 1836-1848. united states minister to mexico, march-june 1848. died 1848. 2. solon borland, 1848-1853 physician, democrat. born in virginia, 1808. attended schools in north carolina; studied medicine; located in little rock, arkansas. major, first arkansas volunteer cavalry, mexican war. united states senator, 1848-1853. united states minister to central american republics, 1853-1854. brigadier general, confederate army. died 1864. 3. robert w. johnson, 1853-1861 lawyer, democrat. born in kentucky, 1814. moved with his father to arkansas, 1821. graduated from st. joseph's college, bardstown, kentucky, 1833, and from yale law school, 1835. practiced law in little rock, arkansas, 1835-1847. prosecuting attorney, 1840-1845. congressman, 1847-1853. united states senator, 1853-1861. delegate to provisional confederate congress, 1861-1862. confederate states senator, 1862-1865. practiced law in washington, d.c. after the war. died 1879. 4. charles b. mitchel, 1861 physician, democrat. born in tennessee, 1815. graduated from university of nashville, tennessee, 1833, and from jefferson medical college, philadelphia, pennsylvania, 1836. moved to washington, arkansas, where he practiced medicine for twenty-five years. member, house of representatives, hempstead county, 1848-1849. receiver of public moneys, 1853-1856. united states senator, 1861. confederate states senator, 1862-1864. died 1864. note: arkansas was not represented in the united states senate from its secession in 1861 until the state was readmitted to the union in 1868. 5. benjamin f. rice, 1868-1873 lawyer, republican. born in new york, 1828. member, kentucky house of representatives, 1855-1856. moved to minnesota, 1860. captain, union army. settled in little rock, arkansas, 1864. active in organizing republican party in arkansas. united states senator, 1868-1873. moved to colorado 1875, and to washington, d.c. 1882. died 1905. 6. stephen w. dorsey, 1873-1879 businessman, republican. born in vermont, 1842. moved to ohio and settled in oberlin. served in union army. after civil war, returned to ohio; became president of sandusky tool company. elected president, arkansas railway company. moved to arkansas, settled in helena. united states senator, 1873-1879. after his service in senate, devoted himself to cattle raising and mining in new mexico and colorado. resided in colfax county, new mexico; denver, colorado; and los angeles, california. died 1916. 7. james d. walker, 1879-1885 lawyer, democrat. born in kentucky, 1830. attended private schools in kentucky, and ozark institute and arkansas college, fayetteville, arkansas. moved to arkansas 1847. admitted to bar 1850; practiced law in fayetteville. colonel, confederate army; captured at oak hills, missouri in 1861 and spent two years in military prison. resumed practice of law in fayetteville, 1865. united states senator, 1879-1885. died 1906. 8. james k. jones, 1885-1903 lawyer, democrat. born in mississippi, 1839. moved with his parents to dallas county, arkansas, 1848. served in confederate army. admitted to bar 1874 and commenced practice in washington, arkansas. state senator, 1873-1877; president of senate, 1877. congressman, 1881-1885. united states senator, 1885-1903. chairman, democratic national committee, 1896, 1900. died 1908. 9. james p. clarke, 1903-1916 (see "governors of the state of arkansas," number 18). 10. william f. kirby, 1916-1921 lawyer, democrat. born in what is now miller county, arkansas, 1867. studied law at cumberland university, lebanon, tennessee; graduated 1885. admitted to bar 1885, commenced practice in texarkana, arkansas. member, house of representatives, miller county, 1893, 1897. state senator 1899, 1901. author of "kirby's digest of the statutes of arkansas," 1904. moved to little rock, 1907. attorney general, 1907-1909. associate justice, supreme court, 1910-1916, 1927-1934. united states senator, 1916-1921. died 1934. 11. thaddeus h. caraway, 1921-1931 lawyer, democrat. born in missouri, 1871. moved with his parents to clay county, arkansas, 1883. graduated in 1896 from dickson (tennessee) college. admitted to bar 1900, commenced practice in osceola, arkansas. moved to lake city, craighead county, 1900, and to jonesboro, 1901. prosecuting attorney, 1908-1912. congressman, 1913-1921. united states senator, 1921-1931. died 1931. 12. hattie w. caraway, 1931-1945 democrat, wife of senator thaddeus h. caraway. born in tennessee, 1878. graduated from dickson (tennessee) normal college, 1896. married and thereafter located in jonesboro, arkansas. appointed united states senator to succeed her husband 1931; elected 1932 and 1938; served 1931-1945. member, united states employees' compensation commission, 1945-1946. member, united states employees' compensation appeals board, 1946-1950. died 1950. 13. james william fulbright, 1945lawyer, democrat. born in missouri, 1905. moved with his parents to fayetteville, arkansas 1906. was graduated from university of arkansas, 1925; as a rhodes scholar from oxford university, england, 1928; and from law department of george washington university, washington, d.c., 1934. admitted to district of columbia bar, 1934. attorney, united states department of justice, antitrust division, 1934-1935. instructor in law, george washington university, 1935; lecturer in law, university of arkansas, 1936-1939. president of the university of arkansas, 1939-1941. congressman, 1943-1945. united states senator since 1945. 1. william s. fulton, 1836-1844 (see "governors of the territory of arkansas," number 4). 2. chester ashley, 1844-1848 lawyer, democrat. born in massachusetts, 1790. moved with his parents to hudson, new york, during infancy. was graduated from williams college, williamstown, massachusetts, and the litchfield (connecticut) law school. admitted to bar 1817 and commenced practice of law in hudson, new york. moved to edwardsville, illinois, 1818; to st. louis, missouri, 1819; and to little rock, arkansas, 1820. united states senator 1844-1848. died 1848. 3. william k. sebastian, 1848-1861 lawyer, planter, democrat. born in tennessee, 1812. was graduated from columbia college, tennessee, about 1834. commenced practice of law in helena, arkansas, 1835. prosecuting attorney, 1835-1837. circuit judge, 1840-1842. associate justice, supreme court, 1843-1845. member and president of state senate, 1846-1847. united states senator, 1848-1861. expelled from senate, 1861; returned to helena and practiced law; took no part in confederate war effort. moved to memphis, 1864. died 1865. in 1877, the united states senate revoked his expulsion and paid the full amount of his compensation to his children. note: arkansas was not represented in the united states senate from its secession in 1861 until the state was readmitted to the union in 1868. 4. alexander mcdonald, 1868-1871 businessman, banker, republican. born in pennsylvania, 1832. attended dickinson seminary, williamsport, pennsylvania; and lewisburg university, lewisburg, pennsylvania. moved to kansas, 1857. served in union army. came to arkansas 1863, settled in little rock. united states senator, 1868-1871. engaged in development of railroads. moved to new york city, 1900. died 1903. 5. powell clayton, 1871-1877 (see "governors of the state of arkansas," number 9) 6. augustus h. garland, 1877-1885 (see "governors of the state of arkansas," number 11) 7. james h. berry, 1885-1907 (see "governors of the state of arkansas," number 14) 8. joseph t. robinson, 1913-1937 (see "governors of the state of arkansas," number 23) 9. john e. miller, 1937-1941 lawyer, banker, democrat. born in missouri, 1888. attended southeast missouri state teachers college, cape girardeau; and valparaiso (indiana) university. graduated from law department, university of kentucky, 1912. admitted to bar 1912, commenced practice in searcy, arkansas. delegate, constitutional convention of 1917-1918. prosecuting attorney, 1921-1923. congressman, 1931-1937. united states senator from 1937 until he resigned in 1941 to become united states district judge for the western district of arkansas. 11. lloyd spencer, 1941-1943 banker, democrat. born in missouri, 1893. moved to okolona, arkansas, 1902. attended henderson college, arkadelphia. served in united states navy, first world war, 1918. moved to hope, arkansas, 1921. appointed to united states senate 1941; term expired 1943. served in united states navy, second world war, 1943. 12. john l. mcclellan, 1943lawyer, democrat. born in sheridan, arkansas, 1896. attended public schools. admitted to bar 1913, commenced practice in sheridan. first lieutenant, united states army, first world war, 1917-1919. moved to malvern, arkansas, 1919. prosecuting attorney, 1927-1930. congressman, 1935-1939. resumed practice of law in camden, arkansas. united states senator since 1943. file was produced from images generously made available by the bibliothèque nationale de france (bnf/gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr and by first-hand history at http://www.1st-hand-history.org) * * * * * smithsonian institution--bureau of ethnology. illustrated catalogue of a portion of the collections made by the bureau of ethnology during the field season of 1881. william h. holmes. * * * * * contents. page. introductory 433 collections from jackson county, north carolina 434 from the cherokee indians 434 articles of stone 434 articles of clay 434 vegetal substances 435 animal substances 437 collections from cocke county, tennessee 438 from the fields at newport 438 articles of stone 438 from a mound on pigeon river 440 articles of clay 440 collections from sevier county, tennessee 442 the mcmahan mound 442 articles of stone 442 articles of clay 443 objects of metal 446 objects of shell 446 animal substances 453 from the fields of sevierville 453 articles of stone 453 articles of clay 456 collections from roane county, tennessee 457 mound at taylor's bend 457 articles of stone 457 articles of clay 457 objects of shell 458 from field at taylor's bend 458 articles of stone 458 vicinity of kingston 460 mound at niles' ferry 461 mounds near paint rock ferry 461 fragments of pottery 461 objects of shell 462 collections from jefferson county 463 mound on fain's island 463 articles of clay 463 from the fields of fain's island 465 articles of stone 465 objects of shell 466 animal substances 466 collections from mississippi county, arkansas 468 pemissicott mound 468 chickasawba mound 468 mounds in carson lake township 468 mounds at pecan point 469 articles of clay 469 field graves and fields in vicinity of pecan point 470 articles of stone 470 articles of clay 471 collections from arkansas county, arkansas 476 mounds at arkansas post 476 articles of clay 476 field graves about menard mounds 477 articles of stone 477 articles of clay 479 objects of metal 485 animal substances 485 collection from monroe county, arkansas 486 mound at lawrenceville 486 articles of clay 486 mounds at indian bay 487 articles of clay 488 collections from ohio 490 from mounds and fields 490 articles of stone 490 articles of clay 491 human remains 491 collections from oregon 492 articles of stone 492 collections from kentucky 493 collections from missouri 495 articles of clay 495 collections from other states 507 collections from peru 508 illustrations. fig. 116.--stone implement, tennessee 439 117.--sections of earthen vessels, tennessee 440 118.--earthen vessel, tennessee 444 119.--shell ornament, tennessee 447 120.--shell ornament, tennessee 447 121.--shell ornament, tennessee 448 122.--shell ornament, tennessee 448 123.--shell ornament, tennessee 449 124.--shell ornament, tennessee 449 125.--shell ornament, tennessee 450 126.--shell ornament, tennessee 450 127.--shell ornament, tennessee 451 128.--shell ornament, tennessee 452 129.--stone implement, tennessee 454 130.--stone implement, tennessee 454 131.--stone implement, tennessee 455 132.--stone implement, tennessee 455 133.--stone implement, tennessee 456 134.--stone implement, tennessee 459 135.--stone implement, tennessee 459 136.--shell bead, tennessee 462 137.--shell bead, tennessee 462 138.--shell bead, tennessee 462 139.--earthen vessel, tennessee 464 140.--shell ornament, tennessee 466 141.--shell ornament, tennessee 466 142.--stone implement, arkansas 470 143.--earthen vessel, arkansas 471 144.--earthen vessel, arkansas 472 145.--earthen vessel, arkansas 473 146.--earthen vessel, arkansas 473 147.--earthen vessel, arkansas 474 148.--earthen vessel, arkansas 474 149.--earthen vessel, arkansas 475 150.--earthen vessel, arkansas 476 151.--stone implement, arkansas 477 152.--earthen vessel, arkansas 478 153.--earthen vessel, arkansas 479 154.--earthen vessel, arkansas 479 155.--earthen vessel, arkansas 480 156.--earthen vessel, arkansas 480 157.--earthen vessel, arkansas 481 158.--earthen vessel, arkansas 482 159.--earthen vessel, arkansas 482 160.--earthen vessel, arkansas 482 161.--earthen vessel, arkansas 482 162.--earthen vessel, arkansas 483 163.--earthen vessel, arkansas 483 164.--earthen vessel, arkansas 484 165.--earthen vessel, arkansas 484 163.--earthen vessel, arkansas 485 167.--earthen vessel, arkansas 486 168.--earthen vessel, arkansas 487 169.--earthen vessel, arkansas 488 170.--earthen vessel, arkansas 489 171.--earthen vessel, arkansas 489 172.--method of plaiting sandals 493 173.--method of plaiting mat 493 174.--earthen vessel, missouri 495 175.--earthen vessel, missouri 496 176.--earthen vessel, missouri 497 177.--earthen vessel, missouri 497 178.--earthen vessel, missouri 498 179.--earthen vessel, missouri 498 180.--earthen vessel, missouri 499 181.--earthen vessel, missouri 499 182.--earthen vessel, missouri 500 183.--earthen vessel, missouri 500 184.--earthen vessel, missouri 501 185.--earthen vessel, missouri 501 186.--earthen vessel, missouri 502 187.--earthen vessel, missouri 502 188.--earthen vessel, missouri 502 189.--earthen vessel, missouri 503 190.--earthen vessel, missouri 504 191.--earthen vessel, missouri 504 192.--earthen vessel, missouri 505 193.--earthen vessel, missouri 505 194.--earthen vessel, missouri 505 195.--earthen vessel, missouri 506 196.--earthen vessel, missouri 506 197.--earthen vessel, missouri 506 198.--wooden mask, peru 509 199.--stone net-sinker, peru 510 200.--copper fish-hooks, peru 510 * * * * * illustrated catalogue of a portion of the ethnologic and archæologic collections made by the bureau of ethnology during the year 1881. by william h. holmes. * * * * * collection made by edward palmer, in north carolina, tennessee, and arkansas. introductory. mr. palmer began his explorations early in july, 1881, and continued with marked success until the end of the year. he first paid a visit to the cherokee indians of north carolina, and collected a large number of articles manufactured or used by this people, besides a number of antiquities from the same region. from carolina he crossed into tennessee, and began work by opening a number of mounds in cocke county. in september he opened a very important mound, which i have named the mcmahan mound. it is located in the vicinity of sevierville, sevier county. afterwards mounds were opened on fain's island, at dandridge, and at kingston. in september he crossed into arkansas and made extensive explorations at osceola, pecan point, arkansas post, and indian bay. it has devolved upon the writer to examine and catalogue this fine collection. in preparing the catalogue the plan of arrangement already adopted by the bureau has been carried out; that is, a primary classification by locality and a secondary by material. the descriptions of specimens are taken from the card catalogue prepared by the writer on first opening the collection, and will be given in full, excepting in cases where detailed descriptions have been furnished in separate papers, either in this or the preceding annual report. cuts have been made of a number of the more interesting specimens. the localities are named in the order of their exploration. collections from jackson county, north carolina. obtained chiefly from the cherokee indians. articles of stone. 62953. a small disk of dark-gray slate, 1¼ inches in diameter and 1½ inches in thickness. the form is symmetrical and the surface well polished. the sides are convex, slightly so near the center and abruptly so near the circumference. the rim or peripheral surface is squared by grinding, the circular form being accurately preserved. this specimen was obtained from an aged cherokee, who stated that it had formerly been used by his people in playing some sort of game. it seems not improbable that this stone has been used for polishing pottery. 62952. a small subglobular pebble used as a polishing stone for pottery. 62954. a polishing stone similar to the above. this implement was seen in use by the collector. 62947. a hemispherical stone, probably used as a nut-cracker. 62944. a stone implement somewhat resembling a thick, round-pointed pick, 4½ inches in length and 1 inch in diameter. it is perforated exactly as an iron pick would be for the insertion of a handle. the perforation has been produced by boring from opposite sides; at the surface it is five-eighths of an inch in diameter, and midway about three-eighths. the material seems to be an indurated clay or soft slate. the collector suggests that this specimen was probably used for smoothing bow-strings or straightening arrow-shafts. 62949. eight arrow points of gray and blackish chalcedony. 62950. pipe of gray, indurated steatite, of modern cherokee manufacture. 62951. pipe of dark greenstone, highly polished. it is well modeled, but of a recent type. 62888. grooved ax of compact greenish sandstone; found near bakersville, n.c. articles of clay. obtained from the southern band of cherokees, jackson county, north carolina. the manufacture of pottery, once so universally practiced by the atlantic coast indians, is still kept up by this tribe, rather, however, for the purpose of trade than for use in their domestic arts. the vessels are, to a great extent, modeled after the ware of the whites, but the methods of manufacture seem to be almost wholly aboriginal. 63070. a handled mug or cup of brownish ware. the form is not aboriginal. it is composed of clay, tempered, apparently, with pulverized shell. the surface has a slight polish produced by a polishing implement. the height is 4½ inches and the width nearly the same. 63068. large flat-bottomed bowl, 6 inches in height, 11 inches in diameter at the top, and 8 at the base. although made without a wheel, this vessel is quite symmetrical. the thickness is from one-fourth to one-half of an inch. the material has been a dark clay paste with tempering of powdered mica. 63066. a three-legged pot, with spherical body, resembling very closely in appearance the common iron cooking pot of the whites. the rim is 6 inches in diameter, and 1 inch high. the body is 9 inches in diameter. two handles are attached to the upper part of the body. the form is symmetrical and the surface highly polished. the polishing stone has been used with so much skill that the effect of a glaze is well produced. the materials used were clay and pulverized mica. the color is dark brown. 63067. a strong, rudely made vessel shaped like a half cask. the walls are about one-half an inch in thickness. the surface is rough, the polishing stone having been very carelessly applied. 63068. a flat-bottomed bowl symmetrical in shape but rudely finished. vegetal substances. 63063. basket sieve said to be used to separate the finer from the coarser particles of pounded corn. the coarse meal thus obtained is boiled and allowed to ferment. this is used as food and is called _connawhana_. the sieve is made of split cane carefully smoothed; some of the strips are dyed red and others brown. a simple ornamental design is worked in these colors. the opening is square, with rounded corners, the sides measuring 14 inches. the depth is 5 inches. the bottom is flat and loosely woven. 63072. a bottle-shaped basket, with constricted neck and rectangular body, used by the cherokees for carrying fish. height, 11 inches; width of mouth, 4 inches; diameter of body, 6 inches. it is made of strips of white oak or hickory, one-fourth of an inch in thickness. 63073. basket made of strips of white oak intended for the storage of seeds and for other household uses. the rim is about 5 inches in diameter; the body is 8 inches in diameter, the base being rectangular and flat. 63074. basket, made of cane, used for storing seed. 63076. two baskets, made of cane, probably used for household purposes. they are neatly ornamented with simple designs, produced by the use of colored strips. the rims are oval in shape, and the bases rectangular. the larger will hold about half a bushel, the smaller about a gallon. 63077. small basket with a handle, made of splints of white oak. yellow strips of hickory bark are used to ornament the rim. other colors are obtained by using bark of different trees, maple, walnut, etc. 63078. small cup or dish carved from laurel or cucumber wood. it is very neatly made. the depth is about 1 inch; the width 5 inches. 63064. large spoon, carved from laurel or cucumber wood, used by the cherokees in handling the _connawhana_, or fermented meal. the carving is neatly done. the heart-shaped bowl is 6 inches in length, 4 in width, and about 2 in depth. the handle is 12 inches long, and is embellished at the end by a knob and ring. the knob is carved to represent a turtle's or snake's head. 63065. a smaller spoon similar in shape to the above. 63087. a large, five-pronged fork carved from the wood of the _magnolia glauca_ (?). it resembles the iron forks of the whites. 63088. a small, three-pronged fork of the same pattern and material as the above. 63080. a wooden comb made in imitation of the shell combs used by white ladies for supporting and ornamenting the back hair. the carving is said to have been done with a knife. considerable skill is shown in the ornamental design at the top. the wood is maple or beech. 63089. a walnut paddle or club, used to beat clothes in washing. 63059. bow of locust wood, 5 feet long, one-half an inch thick, and 1½ inches wide in the middle, tapering at the ends to 1 inch. the back of the bow is undressed, the bark simply having been removed. the string, which resembles ordinary twine, is said to be made of wild hemp. the arrows are 40 inches in length. the shafts are made of hickory wood and have conical points. stone and metal points are not used, as the country abounds in small game only, and heavy points are considered unnecessary. in trimming the arrow two feathers of the wild turkey are used; these are close clipped and fastened with sinew. 63057. blow-gun used by the cherokees to kill small game. this specimen is 7 feet in length, and is made of a large cane, probably the _arundinaria macrosperma_. these guns are made from 5 to 15 feet in length, the diameter in large specimens reaching 1½ inches. 63058. arrows used with the blow-gun. the shafts, which are made of hickory wood, are 2 feet in length and very slender. the shooting end has a conical point; the feather end is dressed with thistle-down, tied on in overlapping layers with thread or sinew. the tip of down completely fills the barrel of the gun; and the arrow, when inserted in the larger end and blown with a strong puff, has a remarkable carrying and penetrating power. 63085. thistle-heads, probably the _cnicus lanceolatus_, from which the down is obtained in preparing the arrows of the blow-gun. 63061. ball-sticks or racquets made of hickory wood. rods of this tough wood, about 7 feet long, are dressed to the proper shape, the ends having a semicircular section, the middle part being flat. each is bent and the ends united to form a handle, leaving a pear-shaped loop 6 inches in width by about 12 in length, which is filled with a network of leather or bark strings sufficiently close to hold the ball. 63061. ball, 1½ inches in diameter, covered with buckskin, used with the racquets in playing the celebrated ball game of the cherokee, choctaw, creek, and seminole indians. animal substances. 63071. shell, probably a _unio_, used by potters to scrape the surface of clay vessels; seen in use. 63081. comb made of horn. the teeth are 2 inches in length, and have been made with a saw. it is used in dressing the hair. 63085. charm made of feathers and snake rattles; worn on the head or on some part of the costume. 63082. awl of iron set in a handle of deer's horn. collections from cocke county, tennessee. from fields near newport. articles of stone. 62752. grooved ax, 8 inches in length, 3½ in width, and about 1 in thickness; one side is quite flat, the other convex. the material is a banded schistose slate. 62758. a fine specimen of grooved ax, 7 inches in length, 4 in width, and 1½ in thickness. the groove is wide and shallow, and is bordered by two narrow ridges, which are in sharp relief all the way around. the material appears to be a greenish-gray diorite. 62759. a grooved ax, 6 inches long, 3½ inches wide, and 1 inch thick. this specimen is similar to the preceding, the groove being deeper on the lateral edges of the implement, and the upper end less prominent. it is made of a fine-grained gray sandstone. 62753. fragment of a grooved ax, of gray slate. the groove is shallow and irregular. 62754. celt of compact gray sandstone, somewhat chipped at the ends. it is 6½ inches in length by 2½ in width and 1½ in thickness. one face is flat, the other convex. the sides are nearly parallel. a transverse section would be sub rectangular. 62755. fragment of celt, 3 inches in length by 2 in width and about 1½ in thickness. the material is a fine grained sandstone or a diorite. 62756. a long, slender celt, very carefully finished, 7 inches in length, 2 in width, and less than 1 in thickness. the material is a very compact gray slate. it has apparently been recently used as a scythe-stone by some harvester. 62757. fragment of a small, narrow celt, both ends of which are lost. material, gray diorite. 62760. heavy celt of gray diorite, 8 inches in length by 3 in width and 2½ in thickness. 62762. a pestle of gray diorite, with enlarged base and tapering top, 5½ inches in length and 3 inches in diameter at the base. 62751. a pestle of banded schistose slate, 15 inches in length, and 2½ inches in diameter in the middle, tapering symmetrically toward the ends, which terminate in rounded points. 62763. a ceremonial (?) stone resembling somewhat a small broad-bladed pick, the outline being nearly semicircular. it is pierced as a pick is pierced for the insertion of a handle. it is 2½ inches in length, 1½ in width, and three-fourths of an inch in thickness. the material is a soft greenish mottled serpentine, or serpentinoid limestone. fig. 116. [illustration: fig. 116.] 62761. a pierced tablet of gray slate, 4½ inches long, 1½ inches wide, and half an inch thick. the two perforations are 2½ inches apart; they have been bored from opposite sides, and show no evidence of use. nine notches have been cut in one end of the tablet. it has been much injured by recent use as a whetstone. 62764. cup stone of rough sandstone, having seventeen shallow cup-like depressions, from 1 to 2 inches in diameter. the stone is of irregular outline, about 10 inches in diameter and 4 in thickness. 62765. a large pipe of gray steatite; the bowl is square and about 3 inches in length, by 1 in diameter. the stem end is 4 inches in length and three-fourths of an inch in diameter. the bowl has a deep, conical excavation. the same is true of the stem-end also. mound at the junction of the pigeon and french broad rivers. articles of clay. 62870. the mound from which these fragments were obtained was located 3 miles from newport. it was 12 feet square and 6 feet high. the original height was probably much greater. the pottery was mixed with ashes and _débris_ of what appeared to be three fire-places. no human remains were found. the fragments are not numerous, nor do they indicate a great variety in form. there is, however, considerable variety in decoration. _material._--the clay is generally gray or dark-reddish gray in the mass, and is apparently quite siliceous or sandy, numerous grains of quartz being visible. there is generally a sprinkling of finely-powdered mica, but no shell matter can be detected. when much weathered the surface is quite gritty. _form._--the leading form is a round-bodied, pot-shaped vase. there is one small hemispherical bowl. the outlines have been quite symmetrical. the mouths of the pots are wide, and the necks deeply constricted. the lip or rim exhibits a number of novel features. that of the larger specimen, of which a considerable segment remains, is furnished on the upper edge with a deep channel, nearly one-half an inch wide, and more than one-fourth of an inch deep. first section, fig. 117. others have a peculiar thickening of the rim, a sort of collar being added to the outside. this is about 1 inch in width, and is thicker below, giving a triangular section. third section, fig. 117. [illustration: fig. 117.] the walls of the vessels are usually quite thin. the bottoms were probably round, or nearly so. no fragments, however, of the lower parts of the vessels were collected. there is but one example of handle, and this presents no unusual features. middle section, fig. 117. _ornamentation._--the ornamentation is in some respects novel. the double or channeled rim of the larger specimen, the mouth of which has been 13 or 14 inches in diameter, is embellished with a line of flutings, which seem to be the impressions of a hollow bone or reed. the whole exterior surface is embellished with a most elaborate ornamental design, which resembles the imprint of some woven fabric. if a woven fabric has not been used, a pliable stamp, producing the effect of a fabric, has been resorted to. the fact that the sharply concave portions of the neck are marked with as much regularity as the convex body of the vessel, precludes the idea of the use of a solid or non-elastic stamp. the pattern consists of groups of parallel indented lines, arranged at right angles with one another, the puzzling feature being that there is no evidence of the passing of the threads or fillets over or under each other, such as would be seen if a woven fabric had been used. the outer surface of the triangular collar peculiar to many of the pots has been decorated with a herring-bone pattern, made by impressing a sharp implement. the handle in one case is similarly ornamented. this handle has been added _after_ the figure previously described was impressed upon the neck of the vessel. one small fragment shows another style of indented or stamped pattern, which consists of series of straight and curved lines, such as are characteristic of many of the vessels obtained from the gulf states. a small fragment of coal-black ware is entirely smooth on the outside, and indicates an unusually well finished and symmetrical vessel. another shows the impression of basket-work, in which a wide fillet or splint has served as the warp and a small twisted cord as the woof. one interesting feature of this vessel is that from certain impressions on the raised ridges we discover that the vessel has been taken from the net mold while still in a plastic state. still another reddish porous fragment has a square rim, which is ornamented with a series of annular indentations. collections from sevier county, tennessee. the mcmahan mound. on the west fork of the little pigeon river, at sevierville, on a rich bottom, 125 yards from the river, is a celebrated mound, the owners of which have for years refused to have it opened. mr. palmer spent several days in trying to obtain permission to open it, and was about leaving in despair, when the owners finally yielded, not, however, without requiring a number of concessions on the part of the collector, which concessions were put in the form of a legal document. this mound is 16 feet high and 240 feet in circumference. three feet below the surface, a stratum of burnt clay, 15 feet wide by 30 long, was reached. this has probably formed part of the roof of a dwelling. beneath this was a bed of charcoal 4 inches thick. in this bed remnants of cedar posts from 2 to 4 inches thick and 1 to 2 feet in length were found. below this was a stratum of ashes, covering a limited area to the depth of 4 feet. surrounding this, the earth contained fragments of numerous articles used by the inhabitants, while beneath came 4½ feet of earth, in which numerous skeletons had been deposited. the bodies had been interred without order, and the bones were so intermingled, and so far decayed, that no complete skeletons could be collected. beneath the layer of bones came a second deposit of ashes, 2 feet thick by 2½ feet in diameter, and beneath this a mass of red clay, 18 inches in thickness. in the earth surrounding the ashes and clay, a number of skeletons were found; these were in such an advanced stage of decomposition that only a few fragments of skulls could be preserved. three feet below the second layer of bones, the undisturbed soil was reached. two boxes of bones were collected, the well-preserved crania numbering about twenty. a great many interesting specimens of the implements, utensils, and ornaments of the mound-builders were obtained. the following catalogue includes everything of interest: articles of stone. 62787, 62792, 62778, 62769, 62784, 62788. numerous specimens of arrow-points, flakes, cores, and rough masses of gray and black chalcedony, obtained partly from the mound, and partly from the soil surrounding it. 62793. a somewhat conical object of black compact graphite. the flattish base is rubbed off in an irregular way, as if in grinding down for use as a pigment. 62790. fragment of hammerstone of gray micaceous sandstone, 5 inches long by 3 inches in diameter. it was found associated with the upper layer of skeletons. 62808. pipe carved from gray marble. the bowl is symmetrically shaped, and resembles a common clay pipe. it is about 1½ inches in height and 1 in diameter. the stem part is about one-fourth of an inch in length. found with the upper layer of skeletons. 62786. a perforated stone tube, 1¼ inches long and three-fourths of an inch in diameter. it is probably the upper part of a pipe bowl. 62794. a large number of minute quartz pebbles, probably used in a rattle or in playing some game of chance. found with the skeletons in the mound. 62798. three glass beads, found 4 feet below the surface of the mound. one is a bright blue bead of translucent glass. one is opaque, resembling porcelain. the third is of blue-gray glass, and has three longitudinal stripes of brown, underlaid by bands of white. all are cylindrical in shape, and are from three-eighths to half an inch in length, and about one-fourth of an inch in diameter. articles of clay. the collection of pottery from this mound is of much interest. there is but one entire vessel, but the fragments are so plentiful and well preserved that many interesting forms can be restored, and a very good idea of the ceramic work of this locality be formed. _form._--i have spent much time in the examination of these fragments, and have assigned each to the form of vessel to which it belonged. where large pieces are preserved, especially if the rim is included, we have little trouble in reconstructing the entire vessel, without fear of being seriously wrong. the lower parts of the bodies of all forms are round or slightly flattened, and but a small fragment of the rim is needed to tell whether the vessel was a bottle, pot, or bowl. i find, however, that the forms merge into each other in such a way that a complete graduated series can be found. of first importance, are the round or globular vases with more or less constricted necks. _ornamentation._--the inside of all forms is plain with the exception of accidental markings of the fingers. the rim is square, sharp, or round on the edge, and sometimes slightly enlarged or beaded on the outer margin. a collar is attached to many forms, which at the lower edge overhangs. it is added to the body with the rim, or as a strip afterward attached. it is often notched or indented with a stick, bone, or reed, or with the fingers. the necks of vases and pot-shaped vessels have a great variety of handles, knobs, and ornaments. some of the latter seem to be atrophied handles. in some cases a low horizontal ridge, from 1 to 4 or more inches in length is placed near the rim, in place of the continuous collar. in other cases a narrow, crescent-shaped ridge is attached, the points reaching down on the shoulder, the arch lying upon the neck. still others have one or more handles which connect the rim with the neck or shoulder of the vessel, leaving a round or oblong passage for a cord or vine. these handles were added after the vessel was completed. they are never ornamented. in one case an arched handle, like the handle of a basket, connects the opposite sides of the rim. this is the only entire vessel recovered from the mound. it was associated with the upper layer of skeletons. diameter 4½ inches. fig. 118. [illustration: fig. 118.] the body of these vessels is sometimes quite plain, but is more frequently covered with cord markings. these, with one or two exceptions, seem to be made by a series of fine cords, approximately parallel, but without cross-threads of any kind. there is little uniformity of arrangement. in the upper part, and about the base of the neck, the indented lines are generally vertical. on the bottom they are quite irregular, as if the vessel, in making, had been rolled about on a piece of netting or coarse cloth. the cords have been about the size of the ordinary cotton cord used by merchants. one exception is seen in a fragment of a large, rudely-made vase, in which we have the impression of a fabric, the warp of which, whether wood or cord, has consisted of fillets more than one-fourth of an inch in width, the woof being fine cord. this is what is frequently spoken of as the ear-of-corn impression. no incised or excavated lines have been noticed in these fragments of pot-shaped vessels. some of the most elegant vessels are without upright necks. the upper or incurved surface of the body is approximately flat, forming, with the lower part of the body a more or less sharp peripheral angle. the base is rounded, and, so far as we can judge from the examples, the bottom is slightly flattened. vessels having vertical or flaring rims are generally somewhat more shallow. the incurved upper surface is often tastefully ornamented with patterns of incised or excavated lines which are arranged in groups, in vertical or oblique positions, or encircle the vessel parallel with the border. one specimen has a row of stamped circles, made by a reed or hollow bone. bowls of the ordinary shape are variously decorated. in one case we have on the outside of the rim, and projecting slightly above it, a rudely-modeled grotesque face. a notched fillet passes around the rim, near the lip, connecting with the sides of this head. in another case a rude node is added to the rim. the only bowl having a flaring rim is without ornament. we have only one fragment of a bowl in which the body has been marked with cords. _composition._--the clay used in the pottery from this mound is generally fine in texture, and of a light-gray color. many of the fragments have been blackened by burning subsequently to their original firing, and some may have been originally blackened with graphite. the prevailing colors seen in the fragments are yellowish and reddish grays. the percentage of powdered shell used in tempering has usually been very large, forming at times at least half the mass. the flakes of shell are very coarse, being often as much as one-fourth of an inch in diameter. in many cases they have been destroyed by burning, or have dropped out from decay, leaving a deeply pitted surface. _pipes._--there are a number of pipes in the collection, most of which were found near the surface of the mound. in some cases they resemble modern forms very closely. the most striking example is made of a fine-grained clay, without visible admixture of tempering material. the color is a reddish gray. it is neatly and symmetrically formed, the surface being finished by polishing with a smooth, hard implement, and shaving with a knife. the bowl is 2 inches high, and the rim is bell-shaped above, with a smooth, flat lip, one-fourth of an inch wide. the diameter of the opening is nearly 2 inches. the base is conical. the stem part is one-half an inch long and one-half an inch in diameter. the bowl and stem are both conically excavated. another specimen is made of clay mixed with powdered shell. the bowl is cylindrical, being a little larger at the rim, which is ornamented with rows of punctures. the elbow is ornamented by a rosette of indented lines. the mouth piece has been broken away. objects of metal. 62797. one of the most instructive finds in this mound is a pair of brass pins, of undoubted european manufacture. the collector makes the statement, with entire confidence in its correctness, that they had been encased in the earth at the time of the interment of the bodies. one was associated with the upper and the other with the lower layer of bones. in size and shape they resemble our ordinary brass toilet pin. the head is formed of a spiral coil of wire, the diameter of which is about one-half that of the shaft of the pin. it is also stated by the collector that an iron bolt was found in the lower stratum of bones. this object was unfortunately lost. 62795. a small brass cylinder, found 3 feet 7 inches below the surface of the mound. the thin sheet of which the coil is made is about 1 inch square. the edges are uneven. it was probably used as a bead. objects of shell. few mounds have rivaled this in its wealth of shell ornaments. engraved gorgets cut from the body of the _busycon perversum_ and large pins from the columellæ of the same shell are especially numerous and well-preserved. large numbers of beads and unworked shells were also found. all were intimately associated with the skeletons. while many of the specimens are well-preserved, we find that many are in an advanced stage of decay, and unless most carefully handled, crumble to powder. similar shell ornaments are found in mounds in other parts of tennessee, as well as in neighboring states. these have been pretty fully described in the second annual report. 62830-62839. these pins are all made from the _busycon perversum_. the entire specimens range from 3 to 6 inches in length; two are fragmentary, having lost their points by decay. the heads are from one-half to 1 inch in length, and are generally less than 1 inch in diameter. they are somewhat varied in shape, some being cylindrical, others being conical above. the shaft is pretty evenly rounded, but is seldom symmetrical or straight. it is rarely above one-half an inch in diameter, and tapers gradually to a more or less rounded point. the groove of the canal shows distinctly in all the heads, and may often be traced far down the shaft. in a number of cases the surface retains the fine polish of the newly finished object, but it is usually somewhat weathered, and frequently discolored or chalky. these specimens were found in the mounds along with deposits of human remains, and generally in close proximity to the head; this fact suggests their use as ornaments for the hair. 62840-62843. a number of saucer-shaped shell gorgets, the upper edge being somewhat straightened, the result of the natural limit of the body of the shell. two small holes, for suspension occur near the upper margin. the diameter ranges from 3 to 6 inches. [illustration: fig. 119. 62831] [illustration: fig. 120. 62831] in studying the design the attention is first attracted by an eye-like figure near the left border. this is formed of a series of concentric circles, and is partially inclosed by a looped band about one-eighth of an inch in width, which opens downward to the left. this band is occupied by a series of conical dots or depressions, the number of which varies in the different specimens. the part of the figure inclosed by this band represents the head and neck of the serpent. to the right of the eye we have the mouth, which is usually shown in profile, the upper jaw being turned upward exhibiting a double row of notches or teeth. the body encircles the head in a single coil, which appears from beneath the neck on the right, passes around the front of the head, and terminates at the back in a pointed tail armed with well-defined rattles. the spots and scales of the serpent are represented in a highly conventionalized manner. [illustration: fig. 121. fig. 122. shell gorgets with engraved designs representing the rattlesnake.] 62841-62845. the handsome specimen given in fig. 124 is in a very good state of preservation. it is a deep, somewhat oval plate, made from a _busycon perversum_. the surface is nicely polished and the margins neatly beveled. the marginal zone is less than half an inch wide and contains at the upper edge two perforations, which have been considerably abraded by the cord of suspension. four long curved slits or perforations almost sever the central design from the rim; the four narrow segments that remain are each ornamented with a single conical pit. the serpent is very neatly engraved and belongs to the chevroned variety. the eye is large and the neck is ornamented with a single rectangular intaglio figure. the mouth is more than usually well defined. the upper jaw is turned abruptly backward and is ornamented with lines peculiar to this variety of the designs. [illustration: fig. 123. (62841.) fig. 124. (62845.) shell gorgets with engraved designs representing the rattlesnake.] the body of the serpent opposite the perforations for suspension is interrupted by a rather mysterious cross band, consisting of one broad and two narrow lines. as this is a feature common to many specimens, it probably had some important office or significance. 62847-62848. mask-like shell ornaments. by a combination of engraving and sculpture a rude resemblance to the human features is produced. the objects are generally made from large pear-shaped sections of the lower whorl of marine univalves. the lower portion, which represents the neck and chin, is cut from the somewhat constricted part near the base of the shell, while the broad outline of the head reaches the first suture at the noded shoulder of the body whorl. the simplest form is shown in fig. 125. a more elaborate form is given in fig. 126. [illustration: fig. 125. (62348.) mask-like object of shell.] [illustration: fig. 126. (62347.) mask-like object of shell.] these objects are especially numerous in the mounds of tennessee, but their range is quite wide, examples having been reported from kentucky, virginia, illinois, missouri, and arkansas, and smaller ones of a somewhat different type from new york. in size they range from 2 to 10 inches in length, the width being considerably less. they are generally found associated with human remains in such a way as to suggest their use as ornaments for the head or neck. there are, however, no holes for suspension except those made to represent the eyes, and these, so far as i have observed, show no abrasion by a cord of suspension. their shape suggests the idea that they may have been used as masks, after the manner of metal masks by some of the oriental nations. [illustration: fig. 127.--shell gorget with engraving of a curious human figure.] 62846. engraved shell, fig. 127. this very interesting object has been fully described in the second annual report of the bureau. the figure is so obscure that considerable study is necessary in making it out. 62930. engraved shell, fig. 128. this remarkable specimen has already been described in the second annual report of the bureau. the engraved design is certainly of a very high order of merit, and suggests the work of the ancient mexicans. 62816-62822, 62824, 62826, 62828, 62829. shell beads discoidal and cylindrical in form, made chiefly from the columellæ and walls of marine univalves. 62825. shell bead made by grinding off the apex of a large _oliva biplicata_. (?) 62827. beads made from _marginella_ (?) shells. 62825, 62827, 62850-62857, 62782. species of shell found in the mound, some with the skeletons, others near the surface. [illustration: fig. 128.--shell gorget with engraved design representing two fighting figures.] the following genera and species are provisionally determined: _unio multiplicatus._ _uhio ovatus._ _unio crassidens._ _unio victorum._ _marginella (?)._ _oliva (?)._ _io spinosa._ _trypanostoma anthonyi._ _anculosa subglobosa._ _busycon perversum._ 62823. a tooth-shaped fresh-water pearl, found with the skeletons. animal substances. 62861. fragments of deer-horn found near the surface of the mound. 62858. an implement of unusual form, made from a flat piece of bone, found with the skeletons in the mound. 62859, 62860. bone implements, needles and perforators, some of which are well preserved and retain the original polish; others are in a very advanced stage of decay. three boxes of human bones (not numbered). from the fields at sevierville. articles of stone. 62770. a small grooved ax, formed of a coarse textured stone, resembling diorite. it is 4½ inches in length and 2½ in width. the head is rounded and the cutting edge much battered. the groove is wide and shallow, and the bordering ridges prominent. the blade thins out quite abruptly. presented by j. b. emert. 62772. a celt 6¾ inches long, 2½ inches wide, and 1 inch thick. the material is a compact, blue-gray, banded slate. the sides are straight and a transverse section is somewhat rectangular. both edges are sharpened, and are very neatly beveled and polished. presented by w. p. mitchell. 62771. a small celt of compact greenish slate; one face is flat, the other convex. it is neatly made and perfectly preserved, the broader end being oblique and sharp. it is 3-1/8 inches in length. 62777. a rude, much-battered celt of coarse sandstone or diorite. it is 4 inches in length by 2 in width near the cutting edge. the top is somewhat conical. 62774. a large unsymmetrical celt made of coarse yellowish sandstone; one side is much battered. the cutting edge is round and dull. it is 9 inches in length by 5 in width near the broad end and is 1½ inches thick. 62785. a knife-blade-shaped object, apparently a fragment of a winged ceremonial stone. the whole surface is smooth and shows no evidence of use. it is made of fine-grained gray slate. it is 2 inches in length by five-eighths in width. 62775. a bell-shaped pestle made of yellowish gray quartzite. the surface has been evenly roughened by picking, but has become slightly polished on parts most exposed when in use. the base part is subrectangular in section, and the bottom is slightly but evenly convex. the upper part, which has been shaped for convenient grasping by the hand, is evenly rounded at the top. height, 4½ inches; width, of base, 3½ inches. 62766. a well-formed globe of gritty sandstone. the surface is roughened or granular. it is 2½ inches in diameter. 62789. portion of an oblong hammer stone, 4 inches in length by 3 in diameter in the middle part. one end has been much reduced by use. it is made of some dark, much decomposed, crystalline rock. 62768. asymmetrical sandstone ring, 2 inches in diameter and three-fourths of an inch in thickness. the perforation is about five-eighths of an inch in diameter. the surface is roughened by picking. [illustration: fig. 129.] 62767. a symmetrical, neatly finished disk of light gray quartzite. it is 4¼ inches in diameter and 1¼ inches in thickness at the circumference, and less than 1 inch thick at the center. 62869. an hour-glass shaped tube made of gray hydro-mica schist, which resembles very compact steatite. it is 5½ inches long, 2 inches in diameter at the widest part and 1¼ inches at the narrowest part. the most restricted part near the middle is girdled by a ridge or ring, on the circumference of which seventy or eighty shallow notches have been cut. the perforation is much enlarged at the ends, giving cup-like cavities. the walls are thin near the ends and quite thick near the middle, the passage being hardly more than one-quarter of an inch in diameter. the markings on the inside indicate that the excavation has been made by a gouging process, rather than by the use of a rotary perforator. [illustration: fig. 130.] 62776. a boat-shaped ceremonial stone of banded slate, 3 inches long, 1 inch wide, and 1 inch deep. from the side the outline is triangular, the two lines of the keel forming almost a right angle. from the top the outline is a long, pointed oval, as seen in the illustration, fig. 131. [illustration: fig. 131.] the trough-shaped excavation is more rounded in outline, and is three-fourths of an inch in depth. perforations have been made near the ends of this trough; these seem to be somewhat abraded on the outside by a cord of suspension or attachment which has passed between them along a groove in the apex or angle of the keel. [illustration: fig. 132. 62868] 62868. an amulet or charm of dark-greenish rock, probably a serpentine, carved to represent a bird's head. the more highly polished parts are quite dark, while freshly cut lines are whitish. the head is graphically represented, the bill, the eye, and nostril being well shown. a stand-like base takes the place of the body of the bird. around this, near the bottom, a groove has been cut for the purpose of attaching a string or securing a handle. in dressing the surface some implement has been used that has left file-like scratches. fig. 132 represents this object natural size. 62773. fragment of a stone disk or wheel that has lines cut upon it resembling in arrangement the grooves of an ordinary millstone. diameter, 6 inches; thickness, 2 inches. this is probably not an aboriginal work. [illustration: fig. 133. 63186] 63186. a banner-stone of unusual shape, made of gray slate. the cut, fig. 133, represents this object three-fourths natural size. the perforation is one-half an inch in diameter, and is quite symmetrical. the entire surface is well polished. articles of clay. a few specimens of potsherds were collected from the fields about sevierville. most of these are identical in every way with the pottery of the mound, but three examples are of a totally different type. the material of these is a fine sandy clay, tempered with a large percentage of finely pulverized mica. the forms of the vessels cannot be made out. the outer surfaces were ornamented by a stamped pattern of small square or lozenge-shaped figures, a number of these together were apparently formed by a single stamp. among the fragments we have half a dozen disks, from 1 to 2 inches in diameter, worked from ordinary potsherds. a small rudely modeled figure of a bird was also found with these fragments. there were also masses of indurated clay, which seem to have been used for chinking purposes. collections from roane county, tennessee. mound at taylor's bend. this mound is situated three hundred and fifty yards from the french broad river, on the farm of mr. william harris. it is 10 feet high and nearly 50 feet in circumference. its summit has been cultivated for many years, and the height has doubtless been much reduced. immediately under the surface soil a heavy bed of ashes and charcoal was reached, which at the border of the mound was only a few inches thick, but at the center was about 3 feet thick. in this stratum were found a few implements, and fragments of pottery, and two very much decayed skeletons. a part of one cranium was preserved. the mound beneath this stratum was composed chiefly of loam, with some sand in the center, and contained nothing of interest. articles of stone. 62885. a needle-like implement, made of a soft black stone that may be cannel coal. it is 3½ inches in length, but is not entire. the shaft is a little more than one-fourth of an inch in diameter, is nearly round, and tapers to a symmetrical point. the surface is highly polished. it was found in the stratum of ashes. articles of clay. 62890, 62892-6. a considerable number of fragments of pottery was found in the stratum of ashes. _form._--vases of the wide-mouthed, round-bodied variety are represented, also a number of hemispherical bowls. one large fragment representing a vessel with rounded bottom was found. _size._--the pot-like vases have been quite large, the mouths being as much as 14 inches in diameter. the larger bowls have been 10 inches or more in diameter. others are smaller. the walls of some of the larger vessels have been half an inch in thickness. _material._--classified by material, there are two varieties, one is composed of the usual clay and pulverized shells, the latter being coarse and exceedingly plentiful; the other has no shell material, but in its place an admixture of sand and small quartz pebbles. _ornamentation._--the inside is plain as usual, and many of the fragments have no exterior ornament. there are two varieties of surface markings; one consists of impressions of basket work, which indicate a broad series of fillets bound together by small twisted cords of grass or bark; the other appears to have been made by an open net-work of fine cords, which have been quite irregularly arranged. objects of shell. 62898. a shell pin made from the columella of a large univalve. the original polish is still preserved. the head is round and small, and the shaft 2 inches in length. found in the stratum of ashes. 62899. two species of shells, _io spinosa_ and _pleurocera conradii_ (?), obtained from the stratum of ashes. collections from the fields at taylor's bend. articles of stone. 62883. a lot of arrow points, spear points, and knives, having a wide range of shape and size. a serrated specimen is 3 inches in length, and is made of yellowish striped chalcedony. one is made of white translucent quartz, and others of dark gray and black chalcedony. 62881. a stone disk, 1¼ inches in diameter and three-eighths of an inch thick. it is of gray sandstone, nicely smoothed. the edge is rounded and the sides slightly convex. 62882. two stone disks similar to the preceding, but smaller. 62878. a small, thick, nearly symmetrical celt, 2½ inches in length, 1½ inches in width, and one-half of an inch thick. the edge is rounded in outline and well sharpened. the beveled areas are narrow and stand at an angle of 30° with each other. it is widest at the edge, tapering above to a conical point. the material is apparently a compact greenish diorite. 62877. a small celt similar to the preceding in form and material. it is 3¼ inches long, and 1¾ inches in width near the cutting edge, which is considerably battered. 62875. a curved celt of considerable interest, made of a greenish diorite. it is 8 inches in length, 2½ inches wide near the cutting edge, and about 1 inch thick. it tapers toward the apex to 1½ inches in width. a transverse section would be a sharp oval. a longitudinal section showing the thickness of the implement gives a bow-like figure, the median line of which would deflect nearly half an inch from a straight line. 62876. a celt, 3½ inches in length, of the usual form, made of a greenish diorite. 62874. a grooved ax of gray sandstone, 5 inches long, 3 inches wide, and 1 inch thick. the groove is deep and well rounded, and has two bordering ridges in high relief. the head is low and conical, and the blade narrow and rectangular. the surface has originally been quite smooth, but is now somewhat battered. [illustration: fig. 134. 62879] [illustration: fig. 135. 62880] 62871. a cylindrical pestle of gray diorite (?), 11 inches long and 2 inches in diameter. the general surface is rough, the points being smoothed by use. 62879. a perforated tablet, made of gray, chloritic schist, 2½ inches long by 1½ inches broad, illustrated in fig. 134. the sides are notched in a way that gives a dumb-bell like outline. the ends are almost square. series of notches have been cut in the terminal edges. on one of the lateral margins rude notches and zigzag lines have been engraved. in the middle of the plate there is a circular perforation one-fourth of an inch in diameter. midway between this and the ends are two other perforations, one being circular and one-eighth of an inch in diameter, and the other lozenge or diamond shaped and nearly one-fourth of an inch in width. these show no evidence of wear. the surface is uneven, though somewhat polished. it has probably been used for straightening arrow shafts and shaping strings. 62880. fragment of a perforated tablet carved from gray slate. it has been broken transversely near the middle, through a perforation which has been about one-eighth of an inch in diameter. the remnant is 2 inches in length and 1½ inches in width at the perforation. one side is plain, the other has a design of plain and zigzag lines. the edges are beveled and notched. see fig. 135. vicinity of kingston. on the farm of mr. m. biss, three miles from kingston, on the tennessee river, a mound was opened which was so located as to overlook the river, and at the same time guard the approach from two pieces of projecting wood. it was 11 feet high, 29 feet wide on the top, and 45 feet in diameter at the base. it was composed entirely of clay. three feet from the surface six very much decayed skeletons were found, no parts of which could be preserved. the bodies seem to have been deposited without definite order. no objects of art were obtained. opposite kingston, on the clinch river, are three mounds, located on the farm of t. n. clark. they are all small, and, with the exception of two much decayed skeletons and a single arrow point, contained nothing of interest. on the farm of s. p. evans, three miles below kingston, are three groups of mounds. the first contains five mounds; the second, a little higher up, has the same number, while the third has but two. they are all built of clay, and seem to be without remains of any sort. mound at niles' ferry. on the farm of j. w. niles, at this point, is a large mound that has the appearance of a creek or cherokee ball-ground. it was flat on the top, and had an area of 1¾ acres. the height was 15 feet. in outline it was somewhat triangular. this mound was also constructed of clay, and contained nothing of interest. in the fields, near by, human bones, pottery, stone implements, beads, etc., are frequently plowed up. from this locality the following specimens were collected: 62957. arrow heads and knives of gray and black chalcedony. 62955. unworked unio shells. 62956. a number of shell beads of usual size and form. mounds near paint rock ferry. about three hundred yards from the tennessee river, at paint rock ferry, is a large mound 40 feet in height, and covering an area of about about two acres. permission could not be obtained to open the mound, on account of the crop of corn that covered it. near its base, on opposite sides, were two smaller mounds. one of these was 5 feet high and 10 in diameter, and contained a stone grave. the body which it contained had been laid on the ground and covered a foot deep with earth. a flat rock had been laid upon this, and slabs of limestone set on edge all around. the inclosed space was 4 feet in width by 5 in length. earth had been used to cover the cist and form the mound. about this mound were scattered many slabs of stone which had been plowed up during previous years; and it is stated that human bones and various objects of art have, at different times, been brought to light. a short distance from the large mound, and near the river bank, is another mound on which a barn has been built. several hundred yards from the river, in a meadow, is a third mound, less than half as large as that first mentioned. the owner would not allow it to be disturbed. still another mound, near by, was oval in outline, 28 feet long, by 20 wide, and 12 high. it was composed of clay and contained nothing but a few pieces of pottery. 62939, 62940, 62945. fragments of pottery from the mounds at paint rock ferry. objects of shell. [illustration: fig. 136. fig. 137.] 62935, 62937. shell beads, buttons, and pendants, made from marine shells. a neatly made pendant is 1 inch in diameter and one-sixth of an inch thick. near the edge are two small perforations for suspension, and at the center is a conical pit, encircled by a shallow incised line. beside this, there are a number of buttons of similar shape, which have single perforations at the center. some of the smaller beads seem to have been painted red. figs. 136, 137, and 138. 62936. fragment of a large _busycon perversum_. 62942. teeth of the bear, and possibly of the horse found near the surface of one of the mounds. [illustration: fig. 138.] collections from jefferson county. mound on fain's island. this mound is located on the east end of the island. although it has been under cultivation for many years, it is still 10 feet in height. the circumference at the base is about 100 feet. near the surface a bed of burned clay was encountered, in which were many impressions of poles, sticks, and grass. this was probably the remains of the roof of a house, which had been about 16 feet long by 15 feet in width. the bed of clay was about 4 inches thick. beneath this was a layer of charcoal and ashes, with much charred cane. there were also indications of charred posts, which probably served as supports to the roof. four feet below the surface were found the remains of thirty-two human skeletons. with the exception of seventeen skulls, none of the bones could be preserved. there seems to have been no regularity in the placing of the bodies. articles of clay. the fragments of pottery from this mound are unusually large and well preserved, and exhibit a number of varieties of form and ornamentation. _forms._--the prevailing form is a pot-shaped vase, with wide mouth, and rounded body; the neck is short and straight or but slightly constricted. the handles or ears which connect the upper part of the neck with the shoulder are in some cases as much as 3 inches wide. the bowls are mostly hemispherical, but in a few cases have incurved lips, the shoulder being rounded and the base somewhat flattened. the largest specimens have been 11 or 12 inches in diameter. the vases have been somewhat larger. _material._--classified by material, there seem to be two varieties, one with a very large percentage of coarsely pulverized shell material, the other without visible _dégraissant_. the clay is usually fine and apparently without admixture of sand or other impurities. a little comminuted mica may be seen in some cases. _color._--the prevailing color is a reddish gray, more or less blackened by use. a remarkable variety has a bright red surface, the mass being gray. _ornamentation._--the ornamentation consists of cord and net impressions, incised lines, stamped figures, indented fillets, and life and fanciful forms modeled in relief. the study of cord impressions is quite interesting. the cords are twisted and as large as medium twine. these cords appear to have been disconnected, at least, not woven into a fabric, and the impressions are generally nearly vertical about the upper part of the vessel, but below take all positions, the result being a sort of hatching of the lines. this effect may be the result of placing the vessel upon a coarse fabric while the rim was being finished or the handles added. it seems possible that a loose net of cords, probably with fine crossthreads, is used to suspend the vessel in during the process of modeling. it appears, however, if this has been the case, that the vessel has been taken out of this net before it was burned. where handles have been added, it will be found that the cord markings have been destroyed by the touch of the fingers. but the body has impressions of the net made after the addition of the handles and ornaments, as the impressions appear on the outside or lower edges of these additions. the lower part of the body may still have been supported by the net during the process of drying; but as some vessels have no cord markings whatever, it is evident that it was not difficult to complete the vessel without the support of the net. [illustration: fig. 139.] by making a clay impression of one of the fragments i have been able to determine the character of the fabric used. it was loosely woven and quite flexible, the clay often receiving finger impressions through it. it was probably made of grasses or the fibre of bark. beside the net and cord marks, which may or may not be the result of an attempt at ornament, there are ornaments made of fillets of clay. in a number of cases a comb-like figure made of thin fillets has been added to the shoulder of a vase. in other cases a fillet has been carried around the neck of the vase and indented by the finger or an implement. the rim of one bowl has been ornamented with three deeply incised or excavated lines, which form a sort of embattled figure about the incurved lip. another has a series of shallow, vertical, incised lines near the rim, and a circle of annular indentations, three-eighths of an inch in diameter, about one-fourth of an inch from the lip. there are also various forms of noded ornaments on the rims of bowls. the handles of vases are in a few cases effectively ornamented. in one case the handle has been elaborated into a life form, representing a frog or human figure. the arms are attached to the upper part of the handle and lie extended along the rim. the handle proper represents the body, the breast being protruded. the legs lie flattened out upon the shoulder of the vessel, the feet being bent back beneath the body; height 3½ inches. this vessel is illustrated in fig. 139. from the fields of fain's island. articles of stone. 62906. a very handsome specimen of grooved ax. it is made of a remarkable variety of porphyritic diorite that resembles breccia. the matrix has the appearance of a gray speckled quartzite; the angular inclusions being whitish feldspar, with dark-greenish patches of hornblende. the surface is smooth and shows but little wear. the length is 7 inches, the width 4, and the thickness 2 inches. the groove is deep, and has two well-defined bordering ridges. the head is low and rounded, and occupies about one-third of the length of the implement. the blade is well-formed, the sides being parallel or nearly so. the edge is slightly rounded in outline, and is polished and sharp. 62907. a grooved stone ax, 5 inches in length, 4½ inches in width, and 1¼ inches in thickness. the groove is placed as in the preceding example, but has a bordering ridge on the upper side only. the head is very large and narrow. the blade is rectangular in outline, and has a rounded, moderately sharp edge. the material is a compact graphic diorite (?). 62904. a grooved ax, 4 inches in length, 3½ inches in width, and three-fourths of an inch in thickness. the groove, which is well defined, has no lateral ridges. it seems to have been made from a flattish, oval, river pebble. 62902. fragment of a pierced tablet of slate. 62903. a well shaped disk of translucent quartz, 1¾ inches in diameter and three-fourths of an inch in thickness. the sides are nearly flat, and the edge evenly rounded. the surface is quite smooth. 62905. steatite pipe found on the surface of the mound. the bowl is about 6 inches in length and 1 inch in thickness. a section is nearly square. the cavities are roughly excavated. objects of shell. 62916. well preserved specimen of _io spinosa_. 62955. specimens of _unio probatus_. 62914. a large specimen of shell pin, made from the columella of a _busycon perversum_. it is much discolored and in an advanced stage of decay. length nearly 4 inches. form as usual. 62913. a shell pin similar to the preceding. [illustration: fig. 140.--shell gorget with an engraved cross.] 62931. a number of large shell beads, made from the columellæ of marine shells. the larger specimens are cylindrical in form, and are 1 inch in length and upwards of 1 inch in diameter. [illustration: fig. 141.--shell gorget with the engraving of a spider.] 62932-62834. shell beads of various sizes and shapes, made from the columellæ and walls of marine shells. 62928. a shell ornament, on the convex surface of which a very curious ornamental design has been engraved. the design, inclosed by a circle, represents a cross such as would be formed by two rectangular tablets or slips, slit longitudinally and interlaced at right-angles to each other. the lines are neatly and deeply incised. the edge of the ornament has been broken away nearly all around. it is represented natural size in the cut. fig. 140. 62929. this disk is somewhat more convex on the front than is indicated in the engraving. it is 2½ inches in diameter, and is quite thin and fragile, although the surface has not suffered much from decay. the margin is ornamented with twenty-four very neatly-made notches or scallops. immediately inside the border on the convex side are two incised circles, on the 3 outer of which two small perforations for suspension have been made; inside of these, and less than half an inch from the margin, is a circle of seventeen subtriangular perforations, the inner angle of each being much rounded. inside of this again is another incised circle, about 1¼ inches in diameter, which incloses the highly conventionalized figure of an insect resembling a spider. the middle segment of the body is nearly round and has near the center a large conical perforation. this round portion corresponds to the thorax of the insect and has four pairs of legs attached to it. it is difficult to distinguish the anterior and posterior extremities of the body. it is probable that the subtriangular figure below is intended for the head, as the two circles with central dots are good representations of eyes. fig. 141. animal substances. 62910, 62911, 62912. a number of bone implements, including needles, perforators, and paddle-shaped objects, found with the skeletons in the mound. collections from mississippi county, arkansas. pemisscott mound. on pemisscott bayou, 22 miles northwest of osceola, on the farm of samuel hector, is a mound 20 feet in height, with a surface area of about one-fourth of an acre. the sides have been dug into extensively, but the central part remained untouched. it was composed of sand and bluish clay, but contained no remains of interest. it is stated by the proprietor that formerly there were three circular ditches extending around the slopes of the mound. when the surface of the mound was first plowed quantities of charcoal and potsherds were found. chickasawba mound. this mound is situated at chickasawba village, 24 miles north of osceola. it is 25 feet high, and covers an area of one-fourth of an acre. collectors had already done much work on this mound, but obtained little or nothing. the owner does not wish it disturbed further. a field of several acres near by abounds in fragments of pottery, stone implements, and the remains of houses and camp-fires. the field contained originally many small mounds or heaps, which were probably the sites of houses. in a number of cases skeletons have been found beneath these heaps. mounds in carson lake township. in carson lake township, 6 miles southwest of osceola, on the farm of hugh walker, are three mounds, which were much disturbed by the earthquake that visited the new madrid district in 1811. the first one inspected is 59 feet wide by 75 feet long, but exhibits no evidence of having been a dwelling or burial place. the second mound is about 100 yards from the first, and is circular in outline, having two ridge-like projections from opposite sides. it is 20 feet in height, and about 23 feet across at the top. a number of recent interments have been made near the summit. the third mound is 250 yards from the preceding, and is 6 feet high, 34 feet wide, and 35 feet long. six skeletons were found in this mound. a stratum of ashes, charcoal, and burned clay was associated with them. one cranium and a few bones were collected. 63049. burnt clay from the third mound just described. 63052. fragment of a plain vase; interior, reddish; exterior, yellowish-gray. other fragments are of ordinary undecorated ware. mounds at pecan point. on the land of r. w. friend, 1 mile west of the mississippi river, are two mounds. the one first examined is 5 feet high and 150 feet in circumference. the other is 4 feet high and 75 feet in circumference. two skeletons were found near the surface of the latter mound. near these mounds is another, 4 feet high and 20 feet in diameter. formerly this mound was covered with large trees, and the roots have penetrated the soil, causing much injury to the contents. it is the opinion of the collector that this mound, as well as many others of the same region, has been used as a dwelling site, and that when a death occurred the dwelling was burned down over the body. before building again the site was covered with a few inches of earth. there was no uniformity in the position of the graves or their contents. the following objects were obtained from this mound: articles of clay. 63009. a jar-shaped vase, with low neck and much compressed body. height, 4 inches; width, 5½ inches; surface, moderately smooth; color, almost black. 63022. a jar similar to the preceding, but somewhat taller. 63046. a rather unusual form of bottle-shaped vase. the neck is narrow and tapering. a fillet with finger indentations encircles the lip. the base of the neck is also ornamented with a collar or fillet. the body is globular, apparently a little pointed above. whole height, 10½ inches; width, 8 inches; color, gray. 63029. a small, large-necked vase, with globular body, and lip a little recurved. the body is ornamented with a number of indentations, probably made with the finger nail. color, dark gray. 63008. a large, thick-bodied vase, modeled to represent a hunchbacked human figure. the head is missing. it is 9 inches in width, and has been about 12 inches in height. ware of the ordinary dark variety. 62995. fragments of steatite vessels which have been from 1 to 2 feet in diameter. the walls about the rims were quite thin. 62959. a large clay pipe, found in the soil near the banks of the mississippi. field graves and fields in the vicinity of pecan point. articles of stone. 63204. a large lot of arrow-points of yellow and gray jasper. 62966, 62976, 62979-62998, 63000-63006. celts or knives made of jasper and yellowish jaspery slate, which range from 2 to 5 inches in length, and are less than 1 inch in width and half an inch in thickness. they have been chipped into the desired shape, and finished by grinding off the more prominent parts and producing in many eases sharp cutting edges. a good example is shown in fig. 142. [illustration: fig. 142.] 62965. a flat pebble, with rudely-made notches at the side. 62967, 62968, 62974. fragments of celts. 62970. yellowish jasper pebble, resembling a celt. 62000. fragment of a long, chipped, knife-like implement, the extremities of which are lost. 62975. fragment of a steatite vessel. 62969, 62971. sandstone pebbles. 62960. hammer-stone, with conical points, made from a pebble of cherty sandstone. 62962. slightly grooved fragment of rubbing-stone. 62964. flat pebble, slightly hollowed by use; a sort of shallow mortar. 62961. fragment of a stone similar to the preceding. 62972. fragment of concretionary iron ore, concave on one side. 62973. red paint. articles of clay. [illustration: fig. 143.] a large number of very fine vessels of clay was presented by dr. j. m. lindsley. they were obtained from a field near pecan point, within half a mile of the mississippi river. in the fields is a large mound which could not be opened on account of the crops. years ago, when the timber was cleared from this field, many small elevations or hillocks were observed scattered irregularly over the surface. the plow has obliterated these, but has brought to light many evidences of ancient occupation, such as charcoal, ashes, burned clay, stone implements, and human bones. 63207. a large, beautifully-formed jar has received this number. the neck is short and slender, and the rim slightly enlarged and recurved. the body is full and symmetrical, but greatly compressed vertically, the width being about twice the height. the ware is of the dark, porous variety. full height, 8 inches; width, 10 inches. 63010. a bottle-shaped jar or vase, with long neck and globular body. the form is unusually graceful. height is 10 inches. diameter of body, 6½ inches. this vessel is shown in fig. 143. 63012. a well-formed jar, with plain neck and globular body. seven and one-half inches in height, and 8½ in width. [illustration: fig. 144.] 63013. a medium sized, bottle-shaped vessel, of elegant proportions. a rudimentary foot or stand is added to the bottom. height, 8 inches. fig. 144. 63017. a small, much compressed, bottle-shaped vase. height, 5 inches; width, 6½ inches. 63018. a bottle-shaped vase of reddish-gray color, resembling the preceding in shape and size. 63019. a large, bottle-shaped vase, with long neck and subglobular body. it is unique in having a stand or base which seems to have been added after the body was somewhat hardened. this stand has been perforated for ornament, as shown in fig. 145. height, 8 inches; diameter, 6 inches. 63011. a small vase, ornamented with a series of ribs, which extend around the body from the neck to the base. this vessel is shown in fig. 146. it is in a fragmentary state. height, 4¼ inches; width, 7 inches. [illustration: fig. 145.] [illustration: fig. 146.] 63016. a medium-sized vase with vertically compressed body. height, 6 inches; diameter, 8½ inches. fig. 147. 63015. a plain bowl, with flattish bottom. diameter, 9 inches; height 5 inches. [illustration: fig. 147.] 63014. a well-made jar or vase, with globular body, 6 inches in width and 4½ in height. the surface of the vessel is completely covered with an irregular, bead-like ornamentation, made by pinching the soft clay between the thumb and fingers. fig. 148. diameter 5½ inches. [illustration: fig. 148.] 63020. a much compressed vase, 4½ inches in height and 7½ in width. four equi-distant protuberances are placed about the widest part of the body and rudely imitate the extremities of some animal. 63021. a small, jar-like vase, with globular body, 6 inches in height, and the same in diameter. the form is not quite symmetrical. 63022. a small vase, with large, high neck and much compressed body. height, 5½ inches; width, 6½ inches. 63023. a vase similar to the preceding. 63024. a medium-sized bowl, 7½ inches in diameter and 3 inches in height. the rim has an exterior ornament of thumb indentations. 63025. a small, rudely-constructed jar, 4 inches in height and 4½ in width. [illustration: fig. 149.] 63026. a jar having a high, wide neck, and small, globular body. the bottom is flat. height, 5 inches; width, 4½ inches. 63027. a small, rudely-constructed cup, of a reddish color. height, 1 inch; width, 1½ inches. 63045. a small, rudely-finished vase, with high, wide neck and short pedestal. the globular body is embellished with an encircling band of scroll-work of incised lines. the scrolls are bordered by triangular wings filled with reticulated lines, as shown in fig. 149; height, 4¾ inches. nos. 63113, 63026, and 63099 are plain vessels of similar form. additional numbers have been given to numerous fragments from this locality. collection from arkansas county. mounds at arkansas post. a group of well-known mounds is situated on the farm of the late frank menard, 8 miles south-east of the village of arkansas post. the largest mound is 965 feet in circumference at the top and considerably larger at the base. the slopes are covered with trees and bushes. this mound had already been dug into quite extensively, and it was thought useless to explore it further. connected with this mound by a ridge of earth 300 feet long and 20 feet across, is a small circular mound, 15 feet high and 45 feet in diameter, which bore evidence of having been occupied by houses. articles of clay. near the middle of the connecting ridge, just under the soil, a layer of burnt clay, about 5 or 6 feet in diameter, was found. at one side, imbedded in the _débris_ of clay, a large quantity of fragments of earthen vessels was discovered. they comprise a number of bowls of various sizes, which are all quite new-looking, and are of a type of ware quite distinct from that found in the fields and graves of the same locality. restorations of a large number have been made, and the collection proves to be extremely interesting. the collector argues, from the position of the fragmentary vessels, that they had been placed by their owners upon the roof of the house, which, he surmises, was destroyed by fire. 63040, 63034, 63170, 63421, 65412, 65409, 65422, 65405. plain bowls of yellowish-gray ware, restored from fragments described above. they are wide and shallow, and somewhat conical below; hand-made, and without polish. composed of clay, tempered with pulverized shell. the walls are usually quite thin. diameter 10 to 13 inches. height 3 to 6 inches. [illustration: fig. 150.] 63039, 63033, 63041-63043, 64045, 65406, 65401-65403, 65415,-65417, 65408, 65410. bowls corresponding in general character to those described above, but having tasteful designs of incised lines and indentations on the exterior surface. the most interesting of these designs consists of series of interlaced or of festooned lines. the exterior margin is encircled, in all cases, by ornaments consisting of parallel lines, groups of short incised lines, or rows of indentations. [illustration: fig. 151.] the principal design encircles the body beneath this, as shown in figs. 150 and 151. 63037, 63038, 63416. bowls similar to the above having interior decorations consisting of curved lines. 63035, 63099, 65404, 65411, 65413, 65414, 65418-65420, 65423. bowls corresponding to the above in general characters, but having flaring rims. they are mostly plain. a few have decorative designs of incised lines. some have been blackened by use as cooking vessels. field graves near menard mound. surrounding the menard mound is a field containing about twenty acres, which appears at one time to have been the site of a great number of dwellings, as, at a depth of from 1 to 2 feet, layers of burned clay are found. this field seems also to have been a great cemetery, as the remains of skeletons are found in great numbers. pottery is found in great abundance. it has, as a rule, been deposited near the heads of the dead, but no ornaments or implements have been discovered with the remains. the frequent plowing of the field has destroyed many earthen vessels, the interments having been made quite near the surface. it is a noticeable fact that the pottery from these graves is of a character quite distinct from that of the mound. it is of the class of ware so common in this region. articles of stone. 63129, 63122, 63150. arrow-points, spear-points, and knives of chalcedony, jasper, and quartz. 63132. celt or chisel of mack slate, 2½ inches long, and 1¼ wide at the wider end. 63133. celt of gray diorite. the blade is quite smooth; the upper part is roughened. length, 3 inches. width, 1½ inches. thickness, 1 inch. 63134. celt of yellow limestone, 2½ inches long, and 1½ inches wide. 63135. a two-edged celt of gray quartzite, 2¼ inches long, and three-fourths of an inch wide. [illustration: fig. 152.] 63136. celt of yellowish-gray jasper, chipped, and afterwards partially smoothed by grinding. four and one-half inches long, and 1½ inches wide. 63137. celt very similar to the preceding. 63138. celt of dark-gray slate; edge nicely sharpened. lower part smooth, upper part rough; 4½ inches long, 1½ inches wide, and nearly 1 inch thick. 63123. fragment of a large celt, with conical apex. 63124. a hammer-stone. 63131. a pebble of coarse sandstone, resembling a celt in shape. 63127. a quartz pebble, probably used as a polishing-stone. 63139. a boat-shaped implement of speckled volcanic rock, 3 inches long, 1 inch wide, and three-fourths of an inch thick at the middle part. 63140. an implement of grayish-red sandstone similar to the above in size and shape. the ends are slightly squared. 63126. a small disk of gray quartzite, having a shallow circular depression in each face. 63128. a pendant of gray slate, somewhat pear-shaped in outline, 1½ inches in diameter, and one-eighth of an inch thick. near the pointed end, a neat, biconical perforation has been made. 63121. an implement or ceremonial stone of ferruginous slate, possibly a clay iron-stone, or limonite. it has a hatchet-like outline, the blade being semicircular, and the upper part elongated and narrow. a large biconical perforation has been made near the center of the implement; a smaller one, as if for suspension, at the upper end. it is 6¼ inches long, 5½ inches wide, and three-fourths of an inch thick. fig. 152. articles of clay. 63113. a small reddish cup or vase. the rim is low and wide and is ornamented with four ears placed at regular intervals on the exterior surface. two of these are pierced as if for the insertion of a string. height, 3 inches. width, 5 inches. fig. 153. [illustration: fig. 153.] 63111. a small bottle-shaped vase. the surface has been painted red. height, 4 inches. width, 3½ inches. fig. 154. [illustration: fig. 154.] 63091. a small globular vase, with low neck of medium width, which has an ornament consisting of a band of clay, slightly raised and indented with oblique lines. yellowish-gray ware with dark stains. height, 6 inches. 63108. a low bottle-shaped vase, of yellowish ware, with flaring rim and somewhat flattened body. height, 5 inches; width 5 inches. fig. 155. [illustration: fig. 155.] 63098. a well-made bottle shaped vase, with low neck and globular body, somewhat conical above. color dark brownish. 7½ inches in height. shown in fig. 156. [illustration: fig. 156.] 63090. fragments of vases corresponding in characters to the preceding. one example has been painted red. 63110. a small bottle-shaped vase of red ware. height 6 inches, width 5½ inches. 63102. the body of a small bottle-shaped vase, much flattened, the outline being quite angular at the most expanded part. yellowish-gray in color and without polish. there are indications that a design in red has ornamented the body. width 4 inches. 63092. the body of a small bottle-shaped vase, globular in form. surface painted red and unusually well polished. diameter 4½ inches. 63100. neck and upper part of body of a vase resembling in form and color the example last described. 63120. a handsome bottle-shaped vase with flaring lip. the neck widens toward the base. the body is almost globular, being slightly pointed above, and expanded along the equatorial belt. the surface is only moderately smooth. the body is ornamented with a very handsome design of incised lines, which consists of a scroll pattern, divided into four sections by perpendicular lines. the design covers the upper part of the body, the lower part being plain. height, 9½ inches. fig. 157. [illustration: fig. 157.] 63112. a bottle-shaped vessel of dark, rudely finished ware. the body is modeled to represent a fish, the mouth and eyes appearing on one side, and the tail upon the other. width 3¼ inches. fig. 158. 63114, 63117. two small vessels with globular bodies, which have a curious resemblance to an ordinary tea-pot. a spout has, in each case, been added to the side of the body. figs. 159 and 160 show these vessels on a scale of one-half. [illustration: fig. 158.] [illustration: fig. 159.] 63115. an oblong, shallow basin. wide, flat handles have been added to the rim at the ends of the vessel; one of these is pierced. length 8¾ inches, width 4 inches, depth 2 inches. color dark gray. fig. 161. [illustration: fig. 160.] [illustration: fig. 161.] 63103, 63101, 63169, 63176, 63116, 63199, 63098. plain bowls of ordinary composition and appearance. fig. 162 is a good example. diameter 9 inches. [illustration: fig. 162.] 63096. a handsome bowl of dark ware. the body is ornamented with an incised design, which consists of a somewhat disconnected running scroll. the bottom, is flat. diameter 8¼ inches. fig. 163. [illustration: fig. 163.] 63109. a bowl of dark porous ware, very nicely made. the rim is ornamented at one side with a grotesque head, representing some wild animal, probably a panther. the ornament on the opposite side takes the place of the tail of the animal. diameter of bowl 8 inches. fig. 164. 63028, 63046. fragments of many vessels, chiefly of black porous ware, among which are a number of handles representing the heads of birds and quadrupeds, also the fragments of a vessel which restored give the vase shown in fig. 165. the designs are red on a yellowish ground. diameter 5½ inches. 63107. a large vase modeled to represent a grotesque human figure. it is painted with designs in red and white, the ground color being a reddish yellow. the figure has a kneeling posture. the hands are upraised against the shoulders, with palms turned forward. height, 10½ inches; width of shoulders, 8 inches. fig. 166. [illustration: fig. 164.] [illustration: fig. 165.] 63090, 63054, 63095. fragments of pottery having incised designs, similar to the dark ware already described. a few of these fragments have been worked into rude disks. [illustration: fig. 166.] objects of metal. 62048. a thin plate of copper, probably intended for a pendent ornament, as two perforations have been made at one end. it is rectangular in outline, and has suffered much from corrosion. 63113. a fragment of galena ore. animal substances. 63142. fragment of a needle-like perforator. a conical perforation has been made toward the larger end. the point has been lost. 63047. a cubical fragment of bone, the sides of which have been squared by cutting or grinding. collection from monroe county, arkansas. mound at lawrenceville. on the farm of daniel thompson, near lawrenceville, the remains of ancient habitations are of frequent occurrence. the fields have been cultivated for many years. in one case a bed of clay 8 inches thick, and covering an area of many hundred feet, was discovered near the surface; this is supposed to be the remains of the roof of a house. associated with it were a number of objects, among which were five very interesting specimens of pottery. articles of clay. 63151. a large bottle-shaped vase of red and white ware. the upper part of the neck is lost. the body is encircled by an ornamental design in white, upon a red ground, which resembles a rudely drawn greek fret. the diameter of the body is 9 inches; the height has been 11 or 12 inches. [illustration: fig. 167.] 63152. a fine bottle-shaped vase, resembling the preceding; very handsome, and in a remarkably good state of preservation. it also has a design in red and white. the original color of the vase has been a dull reddish yellow. the neck is red, the body is ornamented with four red and four white figures, which extend from the neck to the base of the vessel. these belts of color are separated by bands of the ground-color of the vessel. height 12 inches. fig. 167. 63153. a small rude cup of gray clay, without decoration. diameter 4 inches. 63154. an egg-shaped vessel, made in imitation of a gourd. the mouth of this vessel is a small round opening on the side, near the pointed end. the base is somewhat flattened. height 5 inches. fig. 168. [illustration: fig. 168.] 63155. a minute cup, 1½ inches in diameter. the rim is encircled by a series of rude notches. mounds at indian bay. a large mound 30 feet high and 250 feet long is located on the farm of mr. a. spencer, near indian bay. our collector, however, could not obtain permission to examine it. at the edge of indian bay corporation is another large mound, used as a cemetery by the white residents. in a field near by were two small mounds about 3 feet in height and 30 feet in circumference. in one of these, two feet beneath the surface, a skeleton was found, near the head of which three earthen vessels had been placed. from the other small mound a very interesting collection of pottery was procured, much of which was in a fragmentary condition. from these fragments a number of vessels have been reconstructed. these are given in the following list: articles of clay. 63046. a bottle-shaped vase of dart, grayish-brown ware. the neck is quite high and slender, and the body globular--a little elongated above. the rim and collar are ornamented with incised notches. height, 10 inches. 63171. a large symmetrically shaped vase or jug of a grayish yellow color. restored from fragments. the body of the jug is globular, the neck slightly flaring, the rim being notched on the outer edge. the ware is coarse and rough. height, 10½ inches. 63156, 63163, 63164, 63173, 63174. fragments of vessels similar to that last described. 63191. a low wide-mouthed vase of dark gray compact ware. the neck is decorated by two series of lines, which cross and recross the neck in such a manner as to form diamond-shaped figures. they are deeply incised. the rim is notched, and has three small nodes on the outer margin. the body is covered with an ornament produced by pinching the clay while in a soft state. height, 6½ inches; diameter, 9 inches. [illustration: fig. 169.] 63159. a very large wide-mouthed vase, the body of which is conical below. the rim and neck are ornamented in a manner very similar to the one last described. height, 16 inches; diameter, 19 inches. fig. 169. 63028, 63029, 63030, 63164, 63166, 63167. fragments of vessels similar to the one last described. 63192, 63195, 63196. three small vessels restored from fragments; two of these resemble deep bowls with flaring rims. the lip is notched on the outer margin. the other has an upright, slightly constricted neck, ornamented with a band of rude indentations. diameter, 6¾ inches. fig. 170. 63161. a shallow bowl of yellowish gray ware, ornamented with irregular notches about the rim. diameter, 9 inches. 63197, 63162, 63185. bowls similar to the preceding. 63194, 63160, 63168. large bowls with flaring rims. 63176. a very deep bowl. fragmentary. 63189. a large, handled cup or ladle of yellowish clay. the bowl part is 6 inches in diameter. the extremity of the handle has been lost. fig. 171. [illustration: fig. 170.] 63157, 63,158. large portions of the bodies of two vessels of unusual shape. [illustration: fig. 171.] collection from ohio. from mounds and fields. during the year 1881 small collections of stone implements and articles of pottery were forwarded to the bureau by dr. wills de haas. most of these are, however, without record, excepting of the most general character. the majority appear to have been obtained from warren county, at or in the vicinity of fort ancient. articles of stone. 65613. spear points or knives of gray chalcedony. three are very sharply pointed, and have probably been used as perforators. average width 1 inch, average length 2½ inches. 65615. lot of rudely chipped arrow or spear points of grayish, chalcedony. notches quite shallow. 65616. a lot of medium-sized, rather heavy arrow points of gray chalcedony. 65617. lot of neatly shaped, deeply notched spear and arrow points, averaging about 1 inch in width, and ranging from 2 to 3 inches in length. made of gray chalcedony. 65618. lot of arrow points, spear points, and knives of various sizes and shapes. material same as the preceding. 65619. lot of rudely finished knives and spear points, mostly wide and heavy, some being almost circular in outline. material same as the preceding. 65620. lot of large knives and spear points of variously colored chalcedony. 65621. knives and flakes of chalcedony. 65722. large lot of long, triangular knives or spear points, made of gray and reddish mottled chalcedony. they average about 2½ inches in length, and 1½ in width. 65623. large lot of flakes and fragments of gray and dark chalcedony or flint, left from the manufacture of implements. 65434-65451. celts and fragments of celts of greatly varied size and shape, made of a grayish, speckled rock, resembling diorite. 65429-65430, 65431. medium-sized, grooved axes-of ordinary forms. one is made of diorite (?), the others of gray rock resembling sandstone. 65426-65428. very large grooved axes of greenish diorite (?). the largest is 9½ inches long, 5 inches wide, and 3 inches thick. 65450. short, heavy pestles with broad bases and conical tops, made of gray diorite or sandstone. diameter of bases from 2½ to 4 inches. height from 3 to 6 inches. 65448. a long, heavy, cylindrical pestle. 65464-65492. bound, oblong, and flattish pebbles, comprising several varieties of stone, used as hammer-stones, nut-crackers, &c., varying from 1 to 6 inches in diameter. the sides of many are flattened or hollowed out by use. 65463. fragment of cup stone, made of coarse sandstone. on one side two cavities remain; on the other, three. these are about 1¼ inches in diameter, and about one-half an inch in depth. 65449. a grooved stone implement, made from a large pebble of coarse gray stone. the groove about the middle has evidently been made for attaching a handle. the upper lobe has been considerably reduced by picking, and the base, which would correspond to the edge of an ax, has been worked quite flat. length of lower part 4½ inches. height of implement 3 inches. articles of clay. 65484. a number of small fragments of pottery of ordinary varieties. collection from oregon. articles of stone. the following articles were forwarded to the bureau from john day river, oregon, by captain bendire: 64102-64113. arrow-points, knives, and flakes of obsidian, agate, etc., from indian graves on john day river. 64125-64139. fragments of stone implements, including celts, cylindrical pestles, etc., mostly of compact, eruptive rock. 64127. pipe of gray sandstone, shaped very much like an ordinary straight cigar-holder; 3 inches long, and 1 inch in diameter at the larger end. obtained from an indian grave on john day river. 64126. fragment of a pipe-stem (?) made of soft black stone, apparently a chloritic slate. a very neat, ornamental design has been engraved upon the cylindrical stem. 64129. fragment of an ornament carved from greenish sandstone. collections from kentucky. a small collection of ancient relics, obtained from caves in the vicinity of mammoth cave, kentucky, was presented to the bureau by mr. francis klett. with this collection were a number of articles of stone, some of which were probably obtained from the fields of the same region. 87276. fragments of gourds. [illustration: fig. 172.] 87277. two very beautifully knit or plaited sandals. the fiber used has probably been obtained from the inner bark of trees. the combination of threads is shown in fig. 172. a small piece of matting from the same place is shown in fig. 173. [illustration: fig. 173.] 27278. two bundles of charred sticks and reeds. 27280-27283. spearheads of chert or flint. 27284. stone knife. 27285. flake knife. 27286. small spearheads. 27287. flint knife. 27288. arrow heads. 27289. same; small and thin. 27290-27293. stone awls or perforators. 27294. leaden bullet. 27295. pieces of pottery. collections from missouri. articles of clay. a fine collection of earthen vessels was purchased for the bureau from mr. j. t. gouden, of morrow, ohio, through the agency of dr. wills de haas. few facts in regard to them have been furnished, excepting that they were taken from graves in the vicinity of charleston, mo. they resemble so closely the well-known types of missouri pottery that it is safe to conclude that they were obtained from ancient graves and mounds in the locality named. the numerous cuts accompanying this section are intended for subsequent use in a general treatise on the works of the moundbuilders. [illustration: fig. 174.] this ware is generally of the dark gray or black variety, handsmoothed, or but slightly polished, and tempered with pulverized shells. a few examples are yellowish-red in color. some of these have been painted red or have been ornamented with designs in red. in one case white paint has been used. the prevailing form is a bottle-shaped vessel, the neck being frequently high and slender, and the body globular or subglobular. the base is nearly always slightly flattened. 65556. an effigy vase of unusual form. the body is subrectangular. the upper part or neck is lost, but has doubtless been modeled to represent the human figure, as the feet remain attached to the shoulder of the vessel. the color is yellowish gray. diameter, 5 inches. fig. 174. [illustration: fig. 175.] 65603. an effigy vase of the dark ware. the body is globular. a kneeling human figure forms the neck. the mouth of the vessel occurs at the back of the head--a rule in this class of vessels. is is finely made and symmetrical. 9¾ inches high and 7 inches in diameter. fig. 175. 65595. effigy vase representing a kneeling or squatting human figure, moderately well modeled. the exterior surface is painted red. height, 7 inches; diameter, 5 inches. the locality is not known with certainty. 65604-65607, 65611, 65612. effigy vases of human figures. sizes, medium to small. the body below the waist is hemispherical, and the legs are not indicated. fig. 176. [illustration: fig. 176.] 65597. effigy vase, representing an owl. the body is globular. the wings are indicated at the sides, and the legs and tail serve as a tripod when the vessel is placed in an upright position. the head is quite grotesque. this is a usual form in the middle mississippi district. height, 8 inches; width, 5½ inches. 65608. small example, resembling the preceding. 65601, 65596. vases with globular bodies; the necks represent an owl's head. size, medium. 65605. a small vase similar to the above, but having a human head. 65558. a minute vessel modeled to represent a bird, the opening or mouth being on the under side of the body; length, 2 inches. fig. 177. [illustration: fig. 177.] 65599, 65602, 65604, 65610. bottle-shaped vases, with globular or flattish bodies and grotesque tops. the rounded heads are armed with a number of nodes or horns, but no features are shown. the largest is 7 inches in width by 7 in height. fig. 178. [illustration: fig. 178.] 65598. similar vase of medium size. the top is modeled to represent the curved stem and neck of a gourd. fig. 179. height 7 inches. [illustration: fig. 179.] 65600. vase similar to the above. the top representing a gourd with short conical neck. four lines are drawn from the stem down the sides which represent the natural markings of the gourd. height, 5½ inches; diameter, 5½ inches. [illustration: fig. 180.] 65555. a two-storied vessel, the lower part being a cup of flattened globular form. the upper part is similar in size and shape, but is modeled to represent a univalve shell, the apex being represented by a large node surrounded by six smaller nodes, and the base or spine by a graceful extension of the rim. the groove or depression that encircles the vessel between the upper and lower parts of the body is spanned by two minute handles. height, 5 inches; width, 4½. fig. 180. [illustration: fig. 181.] 65543, 65551, 65552, 65554, 65573. small bowls or cups, made in imitation of shell vessels, the noded apex occurring at one side, and the more or less pointed beak at the opposite side fig. 181. another similar specimen with hemispherical body is given in fig. 182. length, 6 inches. [illustration: fig. 182.] 65542, 65545, 65550. small vases with wide mouths, the rim and shoulders of which have the heads and extremities of frogs, modeled in relief. fig. 183. diameter, 6 inches. [illustration: fig. 183.] 65539, 65541, 65544, 65546. low, wide-mouthed vases or bowls, modeled about the rim to represent sunfish. a vertical view is given in fig. 184. 5 inches in length. 65579. a small bowl, the rim of which is embellished on one side with the head of a panther, on the other side a flattish projection which resembles a tail. 65580. a small bowl, having upon the rim a human head, the face of which is turned inward. on the opposite side is the usual flattish projection. fig. 185. diameter of bowl 5 inches. [illustration: fig. 184.] 65578. small bowl, the rim of which is embellished with the head of a fox or wolf; at the opposite side is the usual tail. [illustration: fig. 185.] 65576, 65577, 65581, 65585. bowls of various sizes, the rims of which are ornamented with the heads and tails of birds. no. 65576 is an unusually fine example. besides the features described it has been farther embellished by four incised lines which encircle the rim, forming a loop on the opposite sides as seen in fig. 186. bowl 9 inches in diameter. 65553. small bowl, the rim of which has been embellished by four pairs of nodes. fig. 187. diameter, 6 inches. 65547. a small globular cup of dark ware which has four large nodes about the rim, between these on the sides of the vessel, four ornamental figures have been painted in red, these consist of an inner circle occupied by a cross, and an exterior circle of rays or scallops. height, 2½ inches; width, 3½ inches. the rim has been perforated for the purpose of suspension. fig. 188. [illustration: fig. 186.] [illustration: fig. 187.] [illustration: fig. 188.] 65487, 65512, 65514, 65519, 65521, 65523, 65525, 65531. bottle-shaped vases. the bodies are generally globular. a few are conical above, while others are much compressed vertically. some are slightly ridged about the greatest circumference, while all are slightly flattened on the bottom. the necks are slender and long, being about equal to the body in height. they are generally narrowest in the middle, expanding trumpet-like toward the mouth, and widening more or less abruptly toward the shoulder below. in a few cases a ridge or collar encircles the base of the neck. the exterior surface is generally quite smooth, but never polished, although a polishing implement seems to have been used. the largest is 9 inches in height and 7 inches in diameter. no. 65501 has a very tasteful incised design, encircling the shoulder as shown in fig. 189. diameter 6½ inches. [illustration: fig. 189.] 65520. vase similar to the above in form, but with the addition of a base or stand, 1 inch high and 3 inches in diameter at the base. 65486. same, with the base divided into three parts, forming a kind of tripod, the legs being flat. fig. 190. height, 9 inches. 65513, 65526, 65530, 65532, 65539. bottle or jug shaped vases, resembling the preceding, but having wide, short necks. fig. 191 illustrates a typical form. height, 4¼ inches. 65485. a vase similar to the above, but of yellowish gray ware, decorated with a design in broad red and white lines. height, 6 inches; width, 6 inches. height of neck, 2 inches; width, 3 inches. 65538. similar to the above in shape, but with flattish body, and peculiar in having two small handles or ears at the base of the neck. fig. 192. diameter, 5 inches. 65548, 65561, 65562, 65564, 65569. small caps, with low, wide necks, and globular or subglobular bodies, having two handles or ears which connect the lip with the shoulder. [illustration: fig. 190.] [illustration: fig. 191.] 65572. a cup like the above, with four handles. 65563, 65565, 65568. small cups similar to the preceding, but having a variety of indented ornaments about the shoulder and upper part of the body; these ornaments consist of wide vertical lines, or of encircling scalloped lines. figs. 193 and 194. diameter of each, 4½ inches. [illustration: fig. 192.] [illustration: fig. 193.] [illustration: fig. 194.] 65570. has six nodes about the circumference, and a scalloped figure of three incised lines encircling the vessel above them. the handles have oblique incised lines upon the outer surface. 65588, 65590. bowls with scalloped rims. the largest is 9 inches in diameter and 3 inches in height. fig. 195. [illustration: fig. 195.] 65574, 65575, 65586, 65587, 65591, 65593. plain bowls, of various sizes, and somewhat varied shapes. figs. 196 and 197. drawn one-half the real size. [illustration: fig. 196.] [illustration: fig. 197.] collections from other states. 65447. stone implement of unusual form. it may be described as a flattish cylinder tapering slightly toward the ends, which are truncated. in one end a hole has been bored one-half an inch in diameter and three-fourths of an inch deep. a narrow, shallow groove encircles the implement near the middle. the material is a grayish slate. the form is symmetrical and the surface quite smooth. found upon the surface in hamilton county, indiana. 65353. a copper knife or poinard, with bent point. found by edward daniels while digging a cellar at ripon, wis. 65352. a handsome vase, shaped like a bowl with incurved rim, obtained from a mound on the farm of a. c. zachary, in morgan county, georgia. the incurved surface above has an ornamental design of incised lines resembling the greek fret. the most expanded portion of the vessel is encircled by a raised band, which is neatly ornamented with notches. the lower part of the body is shaped like a bowl with a flattened base. diameter 9½ inches. presented by j. c. c. blackburn. collection from peru, south america. a number of interesting articles were presented by mr. g. h. hurlbut. these were obtained from ancient graves in the vicinity of lima by an agent sent out for the purpose by mr. hurlbut while the city was invested by the chilian army. details of their occurrence were consequently not obtained. a study of this collection leads to the belief that all the specimens are from one interment, that is, the grave of a single individual. the fact that there is but one skull, one mask-like idol, and but a small number of articles of each, of the classes represented, tends to confirm this supposition. 65377. skull retaining the scalp and hair. the latter is long, coarse, and black. the lower jaw is missing. 65376. a mask-like wooden figure, the face being somewhat above life-size. fig. 198. it is of a form not unusual in peruvian graves. the features are fairly well shown. the eyes are formed by excavating oval depressions and setting in pieces of shell. first, oval pieces of white clam-shell are inserted, which represent the whites of the eye; upon these small circular bits of dark shell are cemented, representing the pupils. locks of hair have been set in beneath the shell, the ends of which project, forming the lashes of the eye. the back head is formed by a neatly-rounded bundle of leaves, held in place by a net-work of coarse cord. the edges of the wooden mask are perforated in several places; by means of these the back head, some long locks of fine flax which serve as hair, and a number of other articles have been attached. upon the crown a large bunch of brilliantly colored feathers has been fixed; behind this, extending across the top of the head, is a long pouch of coarse white cloth in which a great number of articles have been placed--little packages of beans and seeds, rolls of cloth of different colors and textures, minute bundles of wool and flax and cords, bits of copper and earth carefully wrapped in husks, bundles of feathers, etc. encircling the crown are long, narrow bands or sashes, one of which is white, the others having figures woven in brilliant colors. the ends of these hang down at the sides of the face. attached to one side of the mask by long stout cords is a pouch of coarse cotton cloth resembling a tobacco-bag. it is about 6 inches square. attached to the lower edge of this is a fringe of long, heavy cords. to the opposite side a net is suspended, in which had been placed innumerable articles, probably intended for the use of the dead--a sling, made of cords, very skillfully plaited; bundles of cord and flax; small nets containing beans, seeds, and other articles; copper fish-hooks, still attached to the lines, which are wound about bits of cornstalk or cane; neatly-made sinkers wrapped in corn-husks, together with a variety of other articles. [illustration: fig. 198.] 65380, 65382. sinkers of gray slate, shaped somewhat like a cigar, one or more groves partially encircling the ends. these were carefully wrapped in corn-husks. fig. 199. 65383, 65384. two copper fish-hooks and the cords to which they are attached. the hooks pierce the ends of the bit of cornstalk about which the cord is wound. fig. 200. [illustration: fig. 199. 1/1] [illustration: fig. 200. 1/2] 65387. a sling, 4 feet long. the extremities consist of a single cord, the middle part of 4 heavy, compactly-plaited cords. 65389. head-bands of coarse fabrication, having figures of red, yellow and white. 65391. a large piece of cloth, possibly a mantle, made by piecing together fragments of highly-colored cloths. 65390. a large piece of gauze-like white cotton fabric. 65385, 65386. small nets containing a variety of articles. 65386. a head ornament of red feathers, skillfully attached to cords. index animal substances, collection of objects of 437, 467, 485 arkansas: collections of pottery from 476-478 arkansas county ancient pottery 476-485 monroe county ancient pottery 486-489 bendire, capt. g., sent stone relics from oregon 492 blackburn, j. c. s., presented vase from mound 507 cocke county, tennessee, collection from 433, 438-441 collections in 1881: bought of j. t. couden 495-506 by capt. c. bendire 492 dr. willis de haas 490 g. h. hurlbut 508-510 edward palmer 483-489 from cherokee indians 433-489 arkansas: carson lake township 468 chiokasawha mound 469 lawrenceville 486 menard mound 447 mounds at arkansas post 476 pecan point 469, 470 pemiscott mound 468 georgia 506 indiana 506 missouri 495-509 north carolina 434, 437 ohio mounds 490-491 oregon 492-494 peru, south america 508-510 tennessee: newport 438 junction of pigeon and french broad rivers 440 jefferson county 463-468 roane county 457-462 sevier county 442-456 wisconsin 506 articles of animal substances 437, 453, 458, 460, 467 clay 434, 443, 456, 463, 469, 471-475, 476, 479-485, 487, 488, 491, 495-507 metal 446, 485 shell 437, 446, 452-456, 458, 461, 466 stone 431, 442, 453, 457, 465, 470,478, 490, 492 vegetal substances 435 de haas, dr. w., bought indian relics 490 collected indian relics 494-506 fain's island, collection of relics from 463 french broad river, relics from 440 gorget, shell 488, 466 hurlbut, g. h., presented collection from ancient peruvian graves 508-510 indian bay, ark., collection of indian relics from 486 jackson county, north carolina, indian relics from 434-437 jefferson county, tennessee, collection of indian relics from 463-468 lawrenceville, ark., collection of indian relics from 486 metal objects from tennessee 446 mississippi county, arkansas, collection from 468 missouri, collection of indian relics from 495-507 monroe county, arkansas, collection from 495 newport, tenn., collection of relics from 438-441 niles ferry, tenn., collection of relics from 462 north carolina; collections from jackson county 434-437 ohio, collection of indian relics from 490 oregon, collection of indian relics from 492-494 paint rock ferry, collection from 461 palmer, e., collection of indian relics by 433-439 peru, collection of relics from 508-510 pigeon river, tenn., collection of relics from 440 roane county, tenn., collection of relics from 457-462 sevier county, tenn., collection of relics from 441-456 shell objects, collection of 437, 446, 448, 450, 452-456, 458, 460, 466 stone objects, collection of 431, 442, 453, 457, 465, 470, 478, 490 tennessee, collection of relics from- cocke county 433, 438-441 jefferson county 463-468 newport 438-441 roane county 457-462 vegetal substances, collections of 435 * * * * * errors and anomalies: differences between table of contents and body text: _this list does not include trivial differences such as singular for plural, or inconsistent use of "the"_ collection made by edward palmer, in north carolina, tennessee, and arkansas. _first heading in body text, before "introductory": missing from table of contents_ from the fields at newport _body text has "near newport"_ from a mound on pigeon river _body text has "mound at the junction of the pigeon and french broad rivers."_ mounds near paint rock ferry // fragments of pottery _printed heading not used in body text_ pemissicott mound _body text reads "pemisscott"_ collections from ohio // human remains _category does not appear in body text_ collections from peru _body text reads "peru, south america"_ 63068 ... diameter _text reads "diamter"_ 62793 ... flattish base _text reads "flatish"_ collections from jefferson county _state not named: tennessee_ the vases have been somewhat larger. _text reads "somwhat"_ on pemisscott bayou _"o" in "bayou" invisible_ a large number of very fine vessels _text reads "vessls"_ 65353. a copper knife or poinard _so in original: "poniard"?_ [index] peru, collection of relics from ... 508-510 _text reads "508-511"_ up terrapin river. by opie p. read. chicago and new york: rand, mcnally & company, publishers up terrapin river. chapter i. terrapin river flows through the northern part of arkansas. it is a small stream, winding its way among hills, which here with graceful slope, and there with rugged brows, overlook the smooth and gliding water. the water, when the current is not swollen, is so clear that the stream suggests the blended flow of countless dewdrops. the brooks that flow into terrapin river seem to float down sun-beams, gathered in the hill-tops. up the "hollow," the cow-bell's mellow clang floats away in slowly dying echo. the spring frog struggles through a miniature forest of rank ferns; the dew that has gathered on the rugged cliffs, trickles slowly down at the rising sun's command, like tears flowing along the wrinkles of a time-worn face. the soft air plays in gentle hide-and-seek, and the wild rose, leaning over, bathes its blushing face in the mirroring stream. the country through which upper terrapin river flows is slow of agricultural development. wild hogs abound in the cane-brakes, and on the hill-sides, where the dogwood saplings tangle their blooming boughs in perfumed network, the bristling deer kills the rattlesnake, and the wild turkey-gobbler struts in barbaric vanity. the shriek of the steam-whistle has never disturbed the blue jay's noontide nap, but the water-mill, with its rhythmic splash, grinds the corn which the whistling boy, barefoot and astride the sack, brings from over the hills. the rankest of corn grows in the "bottoms," and on the uplands the passing breezes steal the fragrance of the mellowest of horse-apples. the people, the most of them at least, are rude of speech. to them the smooth sentences of culture are as over-ripe strawberries--unfit for use. the popular estimate of a man's mental strength in this neighborhood is based upon the roughness of his expressions. there are schools, but, save in the winter, they are ill attended, for the children, so soon as they are old enough to study, are also large enough to lend important aid to the cultivation of the crops. among those people there are many peculiar characters. they know of no country but america, and are therefore strictly american. they have a half-formed idea that there is an outside world, and that andrew jackson whipped it; and tradition tells them that george washington became involved in a quarrel with a king, an awful monster with horns of gold, boxed his jaws, knocked off his horns, and sent him howling home. their ignorance is not of the pernicious sort, but of that humorous kind which finds bright laughter clinging to the very semblance of a joke. one afternoon a boy was plowing corn in a field not far from the river. he was apparently about sixteen years old. under the sunburn on his face there could be seen the soft color of sadness. he was tall and well formed, and his eyes, when he looked up to tell the time of day by the sun, showed, by their wide-open earnestness--if there be anything in such surmises--that his nature was deep and his disposition frank. he had reached the end of the row, near a rail fence along whose zig-zag way there ran a road half overgrown with briers, and, after turning his horse about, was fanning himself with his broad-brim straw hat, when someone called out: "halloa, young man!" the plowboy looked around and saw a man standing on the road-side, with his arms resting on the top rail of the fence. the man was of uncommon height, and his hair and bushy beard were of such fiery red as they caught a sunbeam that came down through the wavering boughs of an oak, that the boy, bursting into a laugh, cried out: "ef you ain't on fire, i never seed er bresh heap a burnin'." "well," the man replied, with a smile of good nature, "i'm not exactly burning, but i am pretty warm. drive your horse up there in the shade, and come over and sit down awhile. you look as if you are tired, and besides, i feel disposed to talk to someone." "i am tired," the boy rejoined, "but ef my uncle wuz ter ketch me er settin' erroun', he mout norate it about that i'm lazy. "the fresh-stirred soil shows that you have plowed many furrows to day. if your uncle should circulate such a report," he added, with another good-natured smile, "i will go with you about the neighborhood, and assist you in correcting it. come, for i know that in talking with me, you would not be ill-spending your time." "then i reckon you air a school-teacher." "no, i am nothing--nothing but an everyday sort of wayward man." "b'l'eve i'll jine you wunst jest fur luck." he drove his horse into a fence-corner, where the tall alder bushes cast an inviting shadow, and joined the man, who had sat down with his back against a tree. "what is your name?" the man asked. "john lucas. what's yo'n?" "sam potter." "you air a mighty big man, mr. potter, an' i reckon you'd be a powerful fine han' ter break a yoke uv steers. peers ter me like ef i wuz ez strong ez you air, i'd go roun' the country an' grab er-holt uv cattle, an' hold em' jest fur the fun uv seein' 'em kick." he laughed boisterously, and then, when his many shouts had ceased, potter saw the soft color of sadness, under the sunburn on his face. "just now you spoke of your uncle," said potter; "do you live with him?" "yes, sir. my daddy an' mammy wuz drownded a long time ergo, in the river up yander at the fo'd. did you come that er way?" "yes." "did you see er tall rock stickin' up outen the groun'?" "i think i did." "wall, i put that rock thar when i got big ernuff. it's ther tombstone." "are they buried there?" "no; they wuz washed erway, an' never wuz found, an' i put that rock thar becaze it is the place whar they wuz last seed. thar's a caterpiller on yo' neck. let me bresh him off." "john, i rather like you." "much erbleeged ter you, sir." "and i think that there is about you excellent material for the making of a man." "i dunno; but that's what old alf says." "who is old alf?" "he's a nigger; but lemme tell you thar ain't no whiter man nowhar than he is. he works fur my uncle, ur ruther sorter craps it on the sheers. he don't peer to kere fur nobody much but me an' his daughter, that's all crippled up with the rheumatiz, an' when she cries in the night with her pains, it don't make no diffunce how hard he has worked durin' the day, he takes her up in his arms, an' walks erbout with her till she hushes. that's what i call a white man. whar air you frum, mr. potter?" "from almost everywhere." "whar do you live?" "nearly everywhere." "ain't you got nothin' ter bind you down ter one place?" "no." "then you ain't ez well off ez old alf, fur he has got that little crippled-up gal." potter bent upon the boy a look of contemplation, and addressing himself more than his companion, said: "ah, young man, you do not know the force of your own philosophy. from the woods there often come the simple words of truest wisdom. any tie of life that holds us to someone, although at times its straining may fall little short of agony, is better far than slip-shod freedom from responsibilty." "you talk like er preacher," said the boy. "air you one?" "no. as i told you, i am not anything, except a tramp. i used to be a sort of lawyer, but my neglect of law texts and love for other books drove my clients away. what's that noise?" "it's the dinner ho'n, an' i ain't sorry ter hear it, nuther. won't you come ter the house, an' take pot-luck with us? ain't fur. see," he added; "its right over yander on the hill." "i will go with you, john, for to tell the truth, i am as hungry as a bear. wait a moment until i get my carpet-bag. there is nothing in it but a shirt and a few old books--nothing in it to eat, i well know." when they reached the stable, potter climbed up into the loft, to throw down some corn and fodder, while john was taking the gear off of the horse. "now we'll go ter the house," said john, when potter had come down, "but ez we walk erlong lemme tell you suthin'. no matter whut aunt liz says, don't pay no ertention to her. mebbe she won't say nuthin' much, but ef she's on one uv her tantrums, ez uncle jeff calls 'em, she's mighty ap' ter make you bat yo' eyes like dust wuz er-blowin' yo' way, but keep on er battin' an' don't say nuthin'. you mout think that she is the audationist woman you ever seed, an' it mout 'pear like she's goin' ter eat you bodatiously up, but ez i said befo' keep on e' battin' an' don't say nuthin'!" just as they were entering the yard, a woman's shrill voice cried out: "my stairs, john, who on the top uv the yeth have you picked up this time? wall, ef he ain't er sight fur ter see i wish i may never stir agin." "keep on er battin'," john whispered. "fur pity sake," the woman continued, "is he er red shanghai ur old satan's whut not? john, i oughter bump yo' head ergin the wall fur pickin' up ever rag-tag an' bob-tail that comes erlong." "madam," said potter, making a profound bow, "i hope i do not intrude." "lissen at him! my stairs, he's the biggest thing i ever seed lessen it wuz on wheels." "hush, an' keep on er battin'," whispered john. "i never seed the like in my borned days," the woman went on. "the shotes got in the garden, an' momoxed up the cabbages, an' now the fetchtaked bucket had to git off down in the well. pap, he's gone ter the blacksmith shop, an' old alf is er-pokin' roun' summers, an' thar aint er body on the place ter do nothin'. shew thar! the fetchtaked hens is boun' ter scratch up the red pepper, an' the red ca'f has run agin the corner uv the fence an' mighty nigh killed hisse'f. laws er massy, it do 'pear like eve'thing is goin' ter rack and ruin." potter, as he stood looking at her, thought that he had never before seen so strange a creature. she was angular, and, using a country expression descriptive of extreme leanness, was rawboned. her iron-gray hair stood out in frowsy fierceness, and her fading black eyes seemed never to have been lighted with a glow of gentleness. she had a snarling habit of wrinkling her long, sharp nose, and at times all her ill-nature would apparently find settlement on a hair-covered mole that grew on her chin. "madam," said potter, "i don't think that i can repair all the damage that has been done, but if you will show me the well i will make an effort to get the bucket." "yander," she replied, pointing. he went to the well, climbed down the rough stones of the wall by placing his feet on each side, and soon came up with the bucket. "wall, ef he ain't got it, hope i may never stir agin," the woman exclaimed. "yander is pap." a man well advanced in years dismounted from a swayback horse at the gate, threw a plow point on the ground and came forward. so far from being ill-looking, there was something comical about him. "uncle jeff," said the boy, "this here man's name is potter. i met him over at the fiel' an' axed him ter come ter dinner with me, an' he 'lowed he wuz as hungry as a b'ar." "how air you, sir? glad to make yo' 'quaintance. we ain't got no great show uv suthin' ter eat, but i reckin we kin sorter dam up yo' appetite er leetle." "pap," said the woman, "erbody ter hear you talk would think that we never did have nuthin' ter eat. i spize ter see er man ack like he didn't have no raisin'." "yas," the old fellow replied, "but i'd ruther see that than ter see er woman with the tanterums." she cast a quick glance at him, wrinkled her nose, and then turning away, said: "come on in now, an' let yo vidults stop yo' mouth." during the meal, potter talked with the spirit of such entertainment, that at times the old man sat in open-mouth heed of his words; and the old woman, forgetful of her snappishness, bestowed upon him many glances of not unkind attention. after dinner, as they sat under the trees in the yard, the old man, addressing john, said: "ez it is saturday evenin', you mout ez well knock off yo' plowin' fur the balunce uv the day. me an' yo' aunt liz is goin' over ter frazier's ter stay all night, an' go frum thar ter meetin' ter-mor'. thar's plenty ter eat cooked, an' ef yo' frien' wants ter stay here with you, all right." the boy's face lighted up with a smile, and turning to potter, he said: "wish you would stay." "i will," replied potter. when old jeff and his wife had gone, when the horses' hoofs, rattling over the flinty road, were no longer heard, john, awakening from a seeming reverie, arose, placed his hands with a sort of tender touch on the back of potter's chair, and said: "i am powerful glad you air goin' to stay, for you air the first great big man that ever tuck the trouble ter talk much ter me. i aint never been cuffed erroun' none, but thar is a heap er ways to make er boy feel bad without cuffin' him erroun'. not understandin' him is er putty sho way uv hurtin' his feelin's." "you are right, and i wonder that a boy of your surroundings should have such ripe conclusions--i mean that i am surprised at your good sense." "i hope i don't look like er fool." "oh, no," potter quickly rejoined; "there is at times about your face a glow of struggling inspiration--i mean that i like your face. if we were together very long i think i could teach you to understand my odd expressions." "it would be ez good ez understandin' uv er book, wouldn't it?" "well, i could help you to understand books, and books would help you to understand me." john sat down, and potter, glancing at him, saw that on his face there lay a strange expression--that through the soft color of sadness a ray of hope was shining. at length the boy said: "uncle jeff told me the other day that the best way fur er boy ter make er man outen hisse'f is ter git out an' hussle. he ken git ernuther boy ter plow for his vidults an' clothes. let me go with you." "what, do you mean that you really want to go with me?" "yas." "let me lie down under this tree and sleep a little while, john. when i awake we will talk over the matter. the fact is i have been walking all day and am very tired." chapter ii. had potter been less tired, to sleep would not have required an effort. nature's noises, it seemed, had conspired to "weigh the eyelids down" with pleasant drowsiness. the "chatter-jack," clinging to the nodding iron-weed's purple top, trilled his carol in praise of midsummer. the cat-bird, with soft nursing song, taught her young ones among the trumpet vines; and all the sounds were gathered up and borne away by breezes that brought sweetened scents from gullied hill-sides where larkspurs grew. the boy sat gazing at his new-found friend, and with that innate admiration of the powerful, which is felt alike by the savage and the cultivated man, contemplated his great chest and mighty arms. nature's sleep-wooing sounds began to affect him. he nodded, and felt himself sliding from the chair, but making no effort to regain his seat, he stretched himself upon the grass and slept. when john opened his eyes, he saw potter sitting on a chair looking at him. "well, my young friend, have you enjoyed your nap?" "yes, sir. seein' you sleep so easy, made me sleepy. now," he continued as he got up, "let's talk erbout me goin' with you." "all right. i have just thought of a plan that will be better for us than to stroll about the country. there, i see you are disappointed. let me explain my plan. i thought that we might rent a small farm somewhere in this neighborhood, and together cultivate it. we would not permit our work to interfere with necessary pleasure. we would not strive to make money, but would compel our farm to render us liberal support. in season we could hunt and fish, and beside our own fire-place, we could grow wise in the study of books. i would be your teacher. you spoke of the negro, old alf. let him and his daughter go with us. after a few years you would be fitted to go out into the world. ah, your eyes brighten. you approve of the plan?" "yes, sir. if you will learn me how to read i'll go anywhar with you." "i will take as much pains with you as if you were my son. you may wonder why i wish to settle down in such an out-of-the-way place. after awhile you shall know--i hope." "why do you say you hope; kain't you tell me now?" "no, not now; perhaps never, but i hope to--well, we will talk about that some other time. all i ask of you now is to have perfect confidence in me. it is a strange request, no doubt, but you shall not regret the granting of it. who is that coming?" "alf," the boy replied. a negro, not very large, and yet seemingly possessed of much strength, climbed over the fence, hung a scythe in a tree, and approached the place where potter and john were sitting. his face was a study of good humor, tenderness, and quaint thoughtfulness. he was more intelligent than the average man of the neighborhood. he had lived in other parts of the country, and had, before the war, belong to a north carolina planter. when john introduced him to potter, and when potter had courteously taken his hand, alf, removing his straw hat, made a profound bow and said: "i'se mighty pleased ter meet you, sah, caze i sees de true genermen er shinin' on yo' face; but lemme tell you, white man, i wouldn't hab you hit me wid dat fist o' yo'n fur all de co'n dars gwine ter be raised in dis yere county fur two year. er haw, haw! if dis man doan tote er maul 'roun' wid him i neber seed one. look here, mr. potter, whar you frum, nohow?" "as i told our friend john, i am from nearly everywhere." "yas, sah, i better b'leve you is, better b'leve dat fur er fact, caze da ain't turnin' out sich men in dis yere 'munity at de present ercasion. haw, haw! john, jes look at dat man, will you? huh, er pusson would be flingin' way his time ter come projickin wid you; but lemme tell you, i likes er big man. dar's a heep mo' comferdence ter be put in er hoss den dar is in er fox. yas, sah, yas. how long you gwinter circle 'roun' in dis yere neighborhood, mr. potter?" potter replied by gradually unfolding his plan. old alf listened with his head turned to one side, like a blackbird that hears the twanging of a fiddlestring. when potter had concluded, old alf scratched his head for a moment, and then, addressing john, remarked: "dem's calkerlations, i tell you dat. whut does yo'se'l think erbout it?" "fits me so well," john replied, "that i feel like gittin' out thar an' caperin' 'round like er ca'f. i ain't had no chances; alf, you know that. i have allus been tied down here with er putty short rope, too, an' ain't had er chance ter graze out ter the end uv the line; an' i've pulled agin the rope till my neck is gettin' putty sore, yit knowin' all the time that ef i broke the rope i wouldn't know whar ter go, nor what ter do arter i got thar." "talkin' like er floserfer an' er gogerfy an' er rithermertik, now, chile. i thinks it will be er good thing myse'f," old alf went on. "i knows what edycation is--knows what it is by de lack o' it. dar's one man dat knows de full wuth o' er dollar, an' dat's de man dat ain't got it." "you can trust me," said potter, "to carry out with the utmost faithfulness my part of the contract. of course, i am a stranger to both of you, but----" "jes hol' on er minnit," alf broke in. "you ain't gwine tell us how hones' you is, i hope." "oh, no; for i do not claim to be more honest than the average man is." "glad ter yere you say dat, fur de man dat's allus er talkin' 'bout how hones' he is, an' sorter wants ter prove 'fo' anybody dun 'sputed it, is 'spicious o' de fack hisse'f, an' de proof is 'tended ter 'vince his own mine ez much ez it is de folks dat's listenin' ter him. dar wuz er man in ole north kliney dat one day while ridin' long de pike come ter er toll gate. de gate wuz open, but dar wa'nt nobody at de house. de man looked way 'cross de fiel', he did, an' he seed de toll-gate keeper at work. he pitched out ober dar, er ha'f mile through de brilin' sun, an' gin de man five cents. 'you'se de hones' man i eber seed,' said de toll-gate keeper, 'ter come all ober dis hot groun' ter gin me five cents.' 'yas,' said de traveler, sorter drawin' his mouf down like he been eatin' er green pear, 'nobody is mo' hones' den i is.' he went on er way, an' sah, in three munts from dat time he'd dun been sent ter de penytenchy fur stealin' er hoss." potter laughed with good-natured uproar--laughed so loud that a bee martin, which had just alighted on the fence, flapped its wings in sudden fright and flew away. "i am not going about making a show of honesty, alf," said potter, when the echo of his merriment had died in the valley. "glad to know dat, sah, mighty glad ter know it ef i'se gwine ter hab dealin's wid you. i ken tell de right sort o' man putty nigh ever' time. i'll go inter dis 'rangement, caze we'll hab er lot o' fun 'long wid our work." "do you like to fish, alf?" "do er yaller dog like er fried chicken?" "well, i rather think he does." "uh, huh. wall den, i likes ter fish." "do you like to hunt?" "do er muley steer like de sweet grass dat grows in de cornder o' de fence up ergin de bottom rail?" "it strikes me that he does." "uh, huh. wall, it strikes me dat i likes ter hunt." "mr. potter," said john, "the sun is er goin' down an' its erbout time we wuz eatin' uv er snack. you an' alf jest keep on er talkin' while i go an' put the vidults on the table." "dat's er monster fine boy," said alf, when john had gone into the house. "he's sorter quiet now caze he ain't much erquainted, but airter while he'll argy er p'int wid you. dar ain't nobody dat's got er better heart den he has, but lemme tell you, dat white boy ain't erfeerd o' ole nick hisse'f." "i have known him but a few hours," potter replied, "but i have become much attached to him. where is your daughter. alf?" "ober yander in er cabin on de hillside. ef you lissun you mout yere her singin', dat is, ef her pains ain't on her. po' chile, she hab paid mighty dear fur de singin' she's done in dis yere life; but her reward gwine ter come airter while, mr. potter. her crown goin' ter be mighty bright--rubbed bright wid de soft rag o' long sufferin', sah. huh, my mouf waters now when i think 'bout dem huntin' sprees we'se gwine ter hab; an' lemme tell you, i knows whar de b'ars is way up de riber in de canebrakes, knows zactly whar da uses. john he's got er rifle mighty nigh long ez he is, an' i'se got one deze yere army guns--her name's nance--dat shoots--wall, when er bullet gits outen dat gun it jes keeps on er goin', it peer like, an' i hab trained her sights down till she shoots right whar i hol's her, too. dar, john say come on." they went into the house. alf did not care for anything to eat. he had eaten just before leaving home, but he found so much satisfaction in seeing his friends eat that he would take a seat near the table and watch the performance. the old negro became more and more interested in potter, and occasionally, after a sort of digestive contemplation of a remark made by the gigantic guest, he would slowly nod his head in thorough approval. suddenly he slapped his leg and exclaimed: "de lawd is already dun hepped us out on dis yere pilgumage by puttin' me in mine o' de very place we wants. up de river 'bout six miles frum yere--john, you know de place--dar's er farm o' some sebenty-five acres, er good 'eal o' it dun cleared. some o' it is in de riber bottom an' is monst'us rich. b'longs ter ole man sevier dat libes 'bout two mile frum yere. think we ken git it fur mighty low rent, fur nobody ain't lived on it fur three ur fo' year. how does dem obserwations strike de 'sembly?" potter and john were delighted with the prospect of so early a ripening of their hopes. the place was in the edge of a wild section of the country. so much the better. it was at least two miles from any other house. better still. "uncle jeff won't object to me goin'," said john, "but aunt liz will, not 'cause she's afeerd i won't do well, but 'cause----" "'cause she's feerd you will," old alf broke in. "oh, i knows dat lady. haw, haw! knows dat lady frum way back yander way up inter de time whut ain't got yere yit, but dat doan make no diffunce. we'll whittle off all de wrinkles on de ho'n o' her ubjections." "you are the most figurative man i ever knew," potter smilingly remarked. "oh, no, sah, dat's whar you's wrong. i ain't figertive hardly none. i ken make er figer one an' ken cut er mighty caper wid er figer two, but i kain't add 'em tergedder 'cept i do it in my mine; but let us git down ter dis yere bizness. i'll go ober ter ole man sevier's dis ebenin' an' tell him ter drap ober yere arly monday mawnin', an' he'll come, lemme tell you, fur he is ez keen ter let us hab dat place ez we is ter git it. b'lebe i'll go dis minit," he added, taking up his hat. "good ebenin', 'panions o' de mighty fine enterprise; good ebenin' ter you." potter and john talked until a late hour and then went to bed up near the clapboard roof. john soon sank to sleep. potter lay gazing at the stars that winked through holes in the roof. a whippoorwill sat on the stack chimney and sang a lonesome song, but a cricket came out from under an old trunk, stopped in a bar of moonlight that fell on the floor, and chirruped merrily. the screech-owl, muffling and fluttering among the damp leaves of the rank greenbrier, cried with annoying cadence, but the tree-toad, with his somnolent croak, smoothed down the pillow with gentle sleepiness. potter was awakend by john, who called him to breakfast. old alf soon came. old man sevier would be pleased to rent his farm. he cared not so much for the money as for the improvements that might be made. the morning hours were spent in a delighted talking over of maturing plans. in the afternoon old jeff and his wife returned. old jeff smiled upon the project, but the old woman wrinkled her long nose, drove to the mole on her chin the wavering lines of dissatisfaction, and declared that people who took up with every rag-tag that came along always starved to death or had to beg among the neighbors. everyone knew that she had done her duty by john, and why he wanted to leave was something she could not understand. "you never seed this man till yistidy," the old woman went on, addressing her nephew, "an' i don't know why in the name uv common sense you wanter foller him off. jest like men folks, anyway. anybody ken come erlong an' lead 'em by the nose. alf!" "yessum." "ain't you got no sense?" "wall'um, i'se got mo' den de man dat tried ter rive clapboards wid er razor an' den tried ter shave hisse'f wid er froe." "i don't b'leve it." "i kaint hep dat. mr. potter, doan pay no 'tention ter de lady, sah." "you good for nuthin' black imp, you neenter be er tellin' nobody what ter do on my ercount." "come, come," said old jeff; "ef you must chop wood be keerful uv yo' chips. ef john wants ter go, w'y he's goin', that's all. he won't be so fur erway but you ken see him ever' once in er while." "oh, i won't be hankerin' airter seein' him. he ain't no blood kin uv mine, the lawd knows." "madam," said potter, "i am very sorry that i have caused----" "oh, shet ye' mouth," she snapped. "you don't know what you ase sorry uv." with the exception of an occasional outburst from the old woman the remainder of the day was passed pleasantly. early the next morning sevier came over. the farm was rented on easy terms. preparations for immediate departure were begun. john and alf each owned a horse. alf had two plows and several hoes. old jeff would lend them his wagon to haul their "plunder" over to their new home. just as they had finished loading the wagon alf's daughter came, walking with a crutch. she was but little more than a child, and though she bore the marks of great suffering yet she was bright and cheerful. when everything was ready, old alf, taking hold of his daughter's arm, said: "jule, me'n you will ride up yere on dis seat, fur i gwine ter drive. mr. potter, you an' john set back dar on dat straw bed." jeff and his wife were standing near the wagon. mrs. lucas, while watching the smallest detail of every movement, kept up a constant wrinkling of her nose. "this is the biggest fool caper i ever seed," she declared. "shew, thar! the fetchtaked chickens air scratchin' up the pepper agin. the biggest fool caper i ever seed." "i knowd o' er bigger one once," alf replied, slily winking at jeff. "i don't know when it wuz." "it wuz the time," alf rejoined, again winking at jeff, "that one o' the scroggins boys clim up a sycamore tree an' tried to blow out de moon." "oh, go on an' keep yo' mouth shet." "i'se gwine on, lady, but i kaint promise you ter keep my mouf shet, fur de man dat keeps his mouf shet is gwine ter starve, caze lessen he opens it he kaint put nuthen ter eat in it--er haw, haw." "oh, shet up. jest ter think you would run erway and leave er half-grown crap." "me an' mr. jeff dun fixed dat, lady." "oh, i'll be bound he'd fix anything that don't take no trouble. stands thar now, grinnin' like er possum. don't peer like he'd kere whuther we raise a crap or not. thar, drive on with you, now. never seed sich a fool caper in my life. bet you all starve to death." it was so early when they drove off that the dew was still dripping from a vine-covered tree. alf and his daughter hummed a tune. john, placing one hand on potter's knee, looked earnestly into his face and said: "this is the happiest day uv my life." "ah, my boy, we may spend many happy days together. i was just thinking how, in my case, a few hours had brought such a change--the change from a tramp to a man who is driving toward his own home." "whoa, whoa," exclaimed alf, pulling on the lines. "john, reach back dar an' han' me ole nance (meaning his gun). come back yere, pete, you triflin' raskil (addressing his dog)." "what's the matter?" potter asked. "matter? is you so blind dat you kaint see dat monst'us rattlesnake crossin' de road right up dar?" "my gracious, what a monster!" potter exclaimed. "yas," replied alf, as he took his gun and cautiously climbed down out of the wagon, "an' he ain't eat no less'n er ha'f er dozen squirrels fur his breakfast. git out, generman, an' watch de 'formance." potter and john got out. alf continued: "wait till he curls an' hol's up his head. doan git up too close, caze he blow at you an' make you sick. greshus, how pizen he is. now hol' on." the snake was holding up its head. alf took deliberate aim and fired. instantly the reptile was a twisting and tumbling mass of yellow and black and green. "he's lookin' round fur his head," alf remarked, "but he ain't gwine ter find it dis mawnin'. wait till i pull off his rattles. wants 'em ter put in my fiddle." he pulled off the rattles while the snake was still writhing, and, as he climbed back into the wagon, remarked: "it's allus a sign o' good luck ter kill er rattlesnake dat's crossin' yo' road. get-ep, boys." they crossed the beautiful river and drove up the stream. "yander is de place," said alf, pointing. yes, it was the place--a place from which john's life was to turn in a new direction--a place of learning, romance, and adventure--a place of laughter and of tears. chapter iii. the house was situated on a hill near the river. from one of its windows the crystal stream could be seen. every surrounding was attractive to a lover of nature. the house was built of logs and contained two rooms. in one of the rooms there was a great fireplace. it did not take the new occupants long to arrange their scanty collection of furniture. the girl, woman-like, regretted that no better show was made, but the men declared that the house contained everything that was strictly necessary. the third day after their arrival potter, upon getting up from the breakfast-table (he and john ate at one large box and alf and his daughter ate at another one of exact pattern), turned to his friends and remarked: "i am going over to sunset to-day (a village about twenty-five miles distant), to get a winchester rifle--saw one in a store as i came through the other day--and the books necessary for the beginning of our educational course. i have a few dollars, not many, it is true, but quite enough. john, you and alf get as much work done as you can. of course, the season is so far advanced that we can not get in much of a crop, but we must try to raise enough corn to run us during the winter." never before had john gone to work with such enjoyment. he sang as he turned over the soil. encouragement had put a song in his mouth. alf was delighted, and jule was so light-hearted and so improved that she sometimes ventured out without her crutch. there was much work to be done, but they all regarded its accomplishment as a pleasure. potter did not return until late at night, but his friends had sat up waiting to receive him. he brought the winchester rifle and a supply of cartridges; he brought the books, some needed dishes, a pair of shoes for john, a sunday hat for alf, and a calico dress for jule. "oh, it's de putties thing i eber seed in my life," the girl exclaimed. "w'y dady, jes' look yere at de flowers." "grasshoppers, aint da?" said alf, slyly winking at potter. "you know da aint. whut you come talk dat way fur, say?" she took hold of his ears with a tender pretense of anger, and shook his head. "i'll l'arn you how ter talk dater way 'bout deze flowers. w'y da's so much like sho nuff flowers dat i ken almos' smell de 'fume. look yere dady, we mus' git mr. potter suthin' ter eat." "aint i dun heatin' de skillet?" alf replied. "cose i is." he went to a box, which, nailed up against the wall, served as a "cubbard," and took out several pieces of white-looking meat. "what sort of meat do you call that?" potter asked. "dis, sah," alf rejoined, as he began to dip the meat into a tin plate containing flour, "is some slices offen de breast o' one o' de fines' turkey gobblers i eber seed. john ken tell you how it got here." "i wuz plowin' 'long jest before dinner," said john, "an' i hearn the gentleman gobblin' out in the woods. i wuz sorter 'stonished, too, fur it's gittin' putty late in the season fur turkeys ter be struttin' erbout. i slipped to the house an' got my rifle an' went into the woods airter him. he wuz so high up in er tree that he didn't pay no 'tention ter me, not b'lievin' i could reach him, i reckon, but i drawed a bead on his head an' down he come." "i am glad you got him," potter replied. "you are an excellent shot, i suppose?" "wall, i mout not hit er pin-head, but i reckon i could hit er steer." "mr. potter," said alf, as he stood over the fire frying the turkey breast, "wush i had axed you ter fetch de ole man some fiddle strings." "well, if i didn't bring you some i hope, as john's aunt would say, 'i may never stir agin.' here they are." "wall, fo' greshus, ef you ain't de thoughtfules' white man i eber seed. thankee, sah, thankee. man mus' almos' be 'spired ter think erbout ever'thing diser way. now, sah, we gwine ter hab some music in dis yere house. bible say er man kaint lib by meat an' bread by itse'f; means dat folks aughter hab er little music. ole mars david uster play on er harp, an' i lay he done it well, too." "the fiddle is your favorite instrument, i suppose?" "you shoutin' now. de ho'n is er mule an' brays; de banger is er chicken dat clucks; de 'cordeon is er dog dat whines; de flute is er sheep dat blates, but de fiddle is er man dat praises de lawd. de fiddle, sah, is de human bein' o' instrumen's. now, set up yere ter de table, fur yo' supper's ready." "is that rain?" potter remarked, as he drew his chair up to the box. "yas, sah, an' we'se needin' it, too. look at john, how he's handlin' dem books. gwine read 'em atter while, ain't you, john?" "yes, an' i hope befo' long, too. ef stickin' to it counts for anything, i know i will. i'd ruther have er good education, than ter have money, an' horses, an' fine clothes." "you shall have it, my dear boy," potter replied. "the truest friends of this life are books. with them every man is a king; without them every man is a slave. the mind is god-given, and every good book bears the stamp of divinity. books are the poor man's riches--the tramp's magnificent coach. i would rather live in a prison where there are books, than in a palace destitute of them." "dat's all mighty well, mr. potter," alf interposed, "but yo' vidults gettin' cold. books ain' gwine keep er man's supper warm. look at john. he b'l'ebes ever' word you say, an' i doan' know but you'se right myse'f, but books ain't all. er good heart is better den er book. look, my little gal is settin' dar fas' ersleep, wid dat caliker coat in her arms. i mus' put her ter bed. ah, little angel," he added, as he took her up in his arms, "you is de only book dat yo' po' daddy reads. ter him you is de book o' dis life. all yo' leaves is got love an' tenderness writ on 'em. god bless you." he went into the other room, and closed the door. a heavy rain fell during the remainder of the night, and at morning, as the soil was too wet to be worked, potter suggested the advisability of a fishing expedition. "jule, you ain't erfeerd ter stay by yo'se'f, air you?" john asked, when all the arrangements had been made. "cose i ain't; an' 'sides dat, de lawd ain't gwine let nobody hurt er po' crippled up chile ez i is." "your simple faith is beautiful," said potter. "dar ain't no true faith, sah, dat ain't simple," alf rejoined. "you are right," potter responded, "for when faith ceases to be simple, it becomes a showy pretense. well, is everything ready?" "yes, sah. we'll go erbout er mile up de riber, whar dar is er good hole, an' den feesh up de stream." the clouds had rolled away, and the day was as bright as a christian's smile. the mocking-bird, influenced to sportive capers, flew high in the air, poured out an impulsive rhapsody, and then pretended to fall. down the gullies, spider webs, catching the glare of the sun, shone like mirrors. they soon reached the "hole" of which alf had spoken, but the fish would not bite. "i'll tell you de reason," said the old negro. "dis water is still risin'. you kaint 'suade er feesh ter bite while de water's risin', but soon ez it 'gins ter fall, w'y da'll grab deze hooks like er chicken pickin' up co'n. hol' him, john, hol' him. fo' greshus, dat boy dun hung er whale. play him roun' diser way. doan pull him too hard, you'll break yo' line. swing co'ners wid him; dat's right. wait; lemme git hold de line. yere he is. monst'ous channel cat. uh, whut er beauty. weigh ten pounds ef he'll weigh er ounce." "good for you, john," said potter. "good fur us all," replied alf, "fur i gwine ter put dat feesh on ter cook ez soon ez i ken make er fire an' git him ready." "it is a pity we forgot to bring a frying pan," potter remarked. "doan need one, sah." "how are you going to cook him, then?" "you jest wait," said alf, as he begun preparations for building a fire. when he had made the fire, he killed the fish and dressed it. "are you not going to skin it?" potter asked. "you jest wait erwhile, now. neber seeb sech eatin' in yo' life ez we'se gwine ter hab." he dug some clay from a bank, poured water upon it, and begun to knead it. then he took a piece of paper, wrapped the fish in it, and then put on a thick coating of clay. "see; now i gwine ter put him right yere in de fire, an' let him cook erbout two hours, an' den we'll crack his shell." they threw out their lines again, but the fish would not bite. "it ain't no use tryin," alf declared. "da ain't gwine ter bite till de water ginter fall." "why did one of them bite?" potter asked. "caze he didn' hab ernuff sense ter know dat de water want fallin', sah. you mer jest put it down fur er fack dat when er feesh bites when de water's risin', he ain't got no sense." "we don't kere whuther they've got any sense or not, so long as they bite," john remarked. "you're right dar; plum right. i'd ruther know dat er feesh no longer den my han' would bite, den ter know dat one ez big ez me wuz smart ernuff ter preach. wall, ef dat boy ain't dun fotch dat book wid him." "a good idea, john," said potter. "we'll sit up there under that rock, and while the fish is cooking we will study our lesson." so intent was the boy in this, his initiative step in the pursuit of knowledge, that time seemed to take the wings of the sparrow-hawk and swiftly sail away. alf called them to dinner. "see," said the negro, "all i had ter do wuz ter crack his shell. you axed me ef i want gwine ter skin him. see, de skin peels right off wid de paper. openin' yo' eyes in 'stonishment, is you? jest wait till you taste him. set down on de rock, an' lemme he'p you ter er monst'ous piece. sprinkle er little salt on him, dis way. now, how do he go?" "best fish i ever tasted, i must say." "cose he is. all de flaber kep' in by dat clay." "if we had brought our guns along, we might have had some squirrels." "not lessen we'd fotch de dog ter tree 'em." "well, we might have brought the dog." "no, fur it's bad luck ter take er dog wid you er feeshin'. dat's de reason i driv ole pete back. tuck er dog feeshin' wid me wunst an' it want mo' den er week airter dat till i tuck de dew pizen in one o' my feet." "not because you took the dog, alf, but because you went in the dew." "dar mout be suthin in dat fack, sah, but i know dat airterwards i went feeshin' widout takin' de dog an' soon got well o' de pizen. tell you whut we better do airter we git done eatin'. better go 'bout er mile up de riber ter er place whar de bass will bite like er settin' hen. de water will be fallin' by dat time. dar's er bend in the riber right up yander, an' we ken cut off er good many steps by goin' through de bottom." they started immediately after dinner, and had gone but a short distance into the "bottom", when old alf stopped, took off his hat, and said: "dar now, dat do settle it, sho." "what is the matter?" potter asked. "doan you yere dem wolves? my greshus, whut er pack it is, too. lissen." "i hear them now," said potter. "do you hear them, john?" "yes, sir. i have been hearin' em fur some time, but didn't zackly know whut they was. it ain't common that they come inter this neighborhood." "no," alf rejoined; "an' it won't be common dat we'll go anywhar airter dis day lessen we make some mighty fast preparations. 'tain't no use'n us tryin' ter run erway, mr. potter, fur da'd ketch us 'fo' we got ha'f er mile. we'll hatter climb up er tree an' wait till da goes erway. de only trouble is da mout keep us yere till we starve ter death. da's gittin' yere. hop up in er tree." potter and alf climbed one tree; john sought refuge in another one a short distance away. the howling grew louder and louder. alf declared that the wolves must be nearly starved or they would not cut up such "shines" in daylight. a small open space that lay between the two trees was soon alive with the howling, snarling, and snapping "varmints," as alf termed them. occasionally some bold leader would leap high in the air and snap at the men; others busied themselves with gnawing at the trees. "did'n' i tell you it wuz bad luck ter bring er dog er feeshin'?" said alf. "yes," potter replied; "but what new fact has caused you to speak of it again? the dog did not come with us, yet we have the bad luck of being treed by wolves." "yas, sah, yas; but if dat dog wuz yere deze wolves would eat him up, an' dat would be monst'ous bad luck fur him. how i do wush i had my gun. i wouldn' ax fur nuthin' sweeter den ter set up yere an' blow de life outen deze raskils. how you gittin' long ober dar, john?" "fust rate; but i'd be enjoyin' myse'f er good deal better ef i had my rifle. how i'd like ter draw er bead on that whopper; that old shaggy feller." "laws er massy, how i would. he's er ole pollertician, he is, an' i lay he gits ever' vote in de croud. bet he ain't been de sheriff o' de den no less 'en er dozen times. i--whut de matter wid 'em?" suddenly the wolves with one impulse ceased their howling, "tucked" their tails, and ran away. "a very gentlemanly act," potter exclaimed. "now we can get down from these uncomfortable perches." "hol' on," cried alf. "set right whar you is, fur dar's suthen wus den wolves round yere now. look dar! lawd an' de mussyful hebens proteck us!" two enormous panthers bounded into the open space. they cast quick glances in the direction which the wolves had taken, and then, turning about, bent their fiery gaze on potter and the old negro. potter turned pale, and, addressing alf, said: "old man, we are doomed. they will never leave us until their awful mouths are stained with our blood." "oh, lawd," the old negro cried, "look down yere an' see de awful fix yo' po' servant dun got inter. lawd, da gwine ter chaw de life outen yo' po' servant. lawd, de bigges' one got his eyes dead set on yo' po' servant. where'll i be dis time ter mor'. oh, mr. potter, how i wush i wuz at de house drinkin' butter milk. lawd, yo' ole servant wushes you'd strike deze pant'ers wid lightnin'. oh, lawd, i'd ruther die den ter be killed by er pant'er." the panthers stood gazing at them. potter's pallor was gone, and on his face there rested an expression of resignation. "if they intend to do anything," said he, "i wish they would not put it off any longer. this delay is awful." "oh, doan say dat, mr. potter; oh, sweet mr. potter, doan say dat. doan make no sich subjestions ter 'em, fur doan you see da's jes' waitin' fur dar mines ter git made up. my greshus, i ken feel dat monster's eyes. da burns inter my flesh. da ain't payin' no 'tention ter john. look yere, dat boy ain't in de tree!" "that's a fact," potter cried. "what do you suppose has become of him?" "god bless him, he's slipped down an' is gone home airter er gun. oh, lawd, gib de rabbit's mobement ter his legs. let him leap ober rocks an' gullies like er fox. dar ain't much hope fur us, though, mr. potter, fur by de time he gits back dem may-apple stalks down dar will be stained wid our blood. da won't wait no longer den sundown, nohow, an' see, de sun ain't high. ef john--mussyful hebens!" one of the panthers had run forward, but he only sniffed the air at the root of the tree and then returned to his companion. "dat's right, good lawd, hold de monster back, an' please doan let him stick his nose ergin dis tree no mo'. look at 'em watchin' de sun. da's sorter skittish o' de bright blaze, but when de blaze goes out an' de red glow comes, den suthen' redder will be poured on de groun'. it will be our blood. oh, lawd, dat raskil is lookin' harder an' harder at yo' po' servant. wush i had er went ter er camp meetin' summers 'stead o' cumin' yere ter day, but, lawd, it's allus de way wid er po' weak man. he's allus treadin' de path dat leads ter 'struckshun. wush i wuz plowin' right now, eben ef de groun' is too wet. i'd ruther be anywhar--anything. wush i wuz er 'oman er takin' in washin' fur er livin'. wush i wuz er gal er patchin' geans britches." "i hope john will bring my winchester rifle," said potter. "he'll do dat, sah; he'll do dat." "but do you suppose he knows how to use it?" "yes, sah; he's seed 'em befo'. oh, lawd, doan furgit whut er awful fix yo' po' servant is in. dat sun goin' down mighty fas'. look how da watchin' it." it did seem as if the panthers stole an occasional and anxious glance at the sun. "de fust pant'ers i'se seed in dis yere 'munity fur er mighty long time," old alf went on, in his prayerful way, "an' i wushes, lawd, dat i neber had seed deze. wush i wuz er boy in er swimin' under some shady tree. oh, lawd, de raskil dun looked at de sun ergin." he kept up a ceaseless flow of supplication. the sun seemed to sink rapidly. the shadows of the may-apple stalks were getting longer and longer. the panthers became restless. the old negro's prayer increased in earnestness. one of the panthers, the male, ran back a short distance, then coming forward with mighty bounds, sprang high in the air and caught the body of the tree. _bang!_ the panther fell to the ground. the other one ran forward, touched, with her bristly lips, her dead companion's blood, and then springing up, caught the body of the tree. _bang!_ "thank de lawd; thank de lawd!" cried alf, as he began to scramble down; "thank de lawd." he seized john in his arms. "oh, de lawd ain't gwine ter let his chillun suffer long. yas, mr. potter, take holter dis young pussun. dat's right, hug him, but look out, for you'se monst'ous strong. bless us, de chile come back on er hoss. sheddin' tears, too. huh, i comin' back yere termor' an' skin deze genermen. frien's, jes' wait er minit till i git down on my knees an' pray." john and potter removed their hats. the old negro sank down upon his knees, raised his clasped hands, and delivered in these words his simple prayer: "lawd, whuteber happens un'er yo' count'nance is right, but we do thank thee fur dis ack o' hebenly mussy. amen." chapter iv. the glare of summer was softened into the glow of autumn. in the field the dry corn-blades, gently stirring, hoarsely whispered; and the grasshopper, stiffened by the chilling dew, sat on the pumpkin where the sunlight fell. the mornings were rosy, the noontide shone with a deeper red, but the evenings came, serenely stealing, it seemed, out of the heavily-wooded land, spreading over the fields and creeping along the hill-sides where the bell-cow rang her melancholy curfew. john was a devoted student, and potter, almost as much interested, was never too tired to assist him. "don't sit up too late, john," the giant would sometimes say. "to-morrow night, remember, will soon be here." alf, delighted to know that his violin did not disturb the cause of education, mainly spent his evenings with that instrument. one night, with sudden enthusiasm, he exclaimed: "look yere, mr. potter, i wants er little o' dat edycation merse'f. gimme holt o' dat book er minit. now show me er j." "there is one," potter replied, pointing out the letter. "is you sho dat's er j?" "yes," said potter, smiling at john. "no chance whuteber fur er mistake in dis yere matter?" "none at all." "uh, huh. so dis yere is de j dat i'se hearn so much erbout. an' yere's er nuder one. i tell you dis yere book couldn' git er long widout de j. whut's dis yere one?" "that is an s," potter replied. "is you sho it is er s?" "yes." "wall, wall; so yere's de s dat's been er dodgen me fur sich er long time; but i got him now." "here is an l," said potter. "i doan kere nothin' 'bout dat," alf said, closing the book. "i wouldn' git outen de way ef i wuz ter meet er l in de road. de j an' de s wuz whut i was airter." "do you not want to know the other letters?" "no, sah; i dun got ernuff. airter wile, ef de j an s wars out, i mout call fur some more, but i'se fixed ez long ez da lasts. jule, wouldn' you like ter know er bout de j?" "i knows 'em all," the girl replied. "take ere; take ere. i neber did see so much edycation; man kaint step round yere widout trampin' on it." "these cool days, when we have no important work to perform," said potter, "can be well spent." "mine shall be," john responded. "how long will it be, you reckon, before i ken stop this sort uv splashin' with these books, an' jump right in an' swim." "not a great while. you must lay the worm rail, you know, before you can build the fence. in truth, you learn more rapidly than anyone else i ever knew; and sometimes, while watching your progress, i can not help but look back with pity upon the snail-like movements of my early efforts." "oh, dar ain't no question 'bout dat boy l'arnin'," alf exclaimed. "er boy dat l'arned ter break er colt ez easy ez he did one time, ain't gwine ter hab much trouble wid dis s an' j bizness. whut, er boy dat ken slip down outen er tree widout er quick-eyed pant'er seein' him, ain't got sly mubement ernuff ter ketch deze yere books er nappin'? doan know dat chile yit; doan know him." one afternoon while potter and john were at their books, and while alf was playing on his fiddle a sort of accompaniment to a doleful tune hummed by his daughter, there came a tapping on the facing of the open door. "come in," potter called. a woman and a girl stepped into the room. john and potter sprang up with the quick impulse of courtesy's sudden demand, and offered them seats. alf put down his fiddle, and bowing, gave the visitors a grinning welcome. "where are your women folks?" the elder visitor inquired. "we have none, madam," potter replied, "except this girl, the daughter of this old----" "servant o' the lawd," alf interjected. "this servant of the lord," potter smilingly repeated, "who assists us in tending our crop, and who is----" "erbout de bes' cook in dis yere neighborhood," alf again broke in. "my daughter eva and i were passing," said the woman, "and having noticed for some time that this old house was again inhabited, decided to stop and investigate. we live about five miles from here, on the sunset road. i am mrs. lucy forest, widow of henry forest, who died several years ago. you have heard of him, of course." "i am a comparative stranger in this neighborhood," potter replied. "i ricolleck seein' him," john remarked. "uster have something to do with the sunday-school at mt. pleasant. alf knowed him, too, i reckon." "lawd bless me, yas," alf exclaimed. "i dug de man's grave." "i remember you now," mrs. forest rejoined, "and i remember you, too," addressing john. "your name," turning to potter, "is----" "excuse me for not introducing myself. my name is potter." "well, i was going to say that your name was bradshaw, and that i had seen you before." "excuse me a moment," said potter, "i see your horse is loose. let me go and hitch him for you." "i'm younger than you, let me go," john insisted. when john had gone, mrs. forest, looking after him, remarked: "that young man has a splendid face. don't you think so, eva?" "yes; strong and expressive of true refinement," the girl replied. potter looked in admiration upon her. she was apparently but little more than fifteen years of age, but in form was well advanced toward graceful womanhood. her eyes were large, dark, and beautiful. her hair was as threads of fine and blackest silk, and in its graceful clustering, romance, it seemed, had found a lurking place. there was not a ruddy glow upon her cheeks, but with a creamy shading they tended toward paleness. an expression of quiet thought lay about the corners of her shapely mouth, but on her forehead, low and broad, fancy traced a brightening picture. the girl's mother, noticing potter's look, which had now almost deepened into a gaze, remarked: "i don't think my daughter is looking very well. for some time she has been at school over at sunset, where there is an excellent teacher, but she studied so hard that i had to take her away." "mother, please don't make me out an invalid, for you know that i can walk long distances and climb steep hills without fatigue." "oh, i don't mean that you are an invalid, daughter; but you know yourself, mr. brad--mr. potter, that it is not well for one so young to be so devoted to books. it was her father's only trouble--i came near saying fault." "it was his greatest pleasure," the girl suggested. "yes; but if it hadn't been for books he might have been a successful business man, and we might not have been compelled to leave our home in tennessee, where i was so contented, and settle in this out-of-the-way place, and, of necessity, take up ignorance for our neighbors." "his neighbors, the few books which he saved, are not ignorant," the girl replied. "he loved them, found them true, and left them friends to me." "yes, child, yes; i know all that; but it was a hardship on me, and since his death the cultivation of the farm has given me no end of trouble. oh, i like books well enough, but unless we can write them they don't make us a living." "but," said potter, "they reduce a dreary and barren hour into a minute of ripe delight." the girl clapped her hands. "i thank you for so bright a defense," she exclaimed. "oh, when you come ter talk erbout books," said alf, "mr. potter he plum dar. got er big luther-kivered book yere dat he read mighty nigh all de time." "the bible i hope," mrs. forest remarked. "the bible often, mrs. forest, but the book to which he refers is the bible's wise, though sometimes sportive, child--shakespeare." john re-entered the room. "there's comin' up a shower," said he, "an' i took the horse to the stable." "it is fortunate that we stopped, even though there are no women folks," mrs. forest replied. eva turned to john. "this room has somewhat the appearance of a school," she said. "it is a school to me," john answered. "you are anxious to learn, i suppose." "yes, so anxious that the time, it 'pears like, flies away befo' i l'arn anything." "time will seem kinder after awhile, for then you will be more able to employ it. when you want books that are full of interest, come over to our house." rain began to pour down. a frightened quail fluttered past the door. a baffled hawk screamed in anger. a rabbit ran into the yard and squatted under an old and tangled rose-bush. the rain ceased. the rabbit shook himself and ran away. the hawk screamed in anger. "it is time we were going, daughter," said mrs. forest when a stream of sunlight came through the window. "will you please get our horse?" she added, addressing john. john bowed, rather awkwardly, perhaps, yet with not a bad show of courtesy, and hurried away to execute the commission. "mrs. forest," said potter, "we do not live so far apart but that we might be more neighborly in the future." "why, surely not," mrs. forest replied. "you will find everyone neighborly in this part of the country. many of the people have nothing, you might say, except a neighborly disposition." when the visitors were gone, and when john had again taken up his book, potter remarked: "excellent people, i warrant you. what do you think of that young lady, john?" "i don't know, sir. she's so fur away frum me, it 'pears like that i can't think about her at all. mr. potter, do you think i'm learnin' how to talk any better than i did?" "yes, and very rapidly, too; but the book which you are of necessity studying now, can only serve you in a preliminary way--i mean that what you are studying now, will prepare you for grammar, and grammar will lead you into the excellencies of speech." "look yere," said alf, "its erbout time i wuz er slicin' off our names, an' er puttin' 'em in de pot. i keep er tellin' you, dat edycation gittin' powerful thick round yere, but huh, when er man's hungry, he'd ruther yere suthin' er singin' in er skillet den ter fool wid er book, i doan' kere how many picters it got in it. i'll take deze yere squirl's dat we picked offen dem hickory trees dis mawnin', an' putty soon you'll yere er song in dat fryin' pan dat'll make you genermen drap dem books. i'se dun blowed my ho'n." early the next morning, before potter and john had got out of bed, alf came bustling into the room, bringing the appearance of great excitement. "genermen," he exclaimed, "dis ain't no time ter lie yere!" "what's the matter?" potter demanded. "what has happened; can't you speak?" "cose i ken speak. ef i couldn' speak, i couldn' tell you dat dis ain't no time ter lay yere. whut's happened? b'ar tracks, sah; dat's whut's happened. i wus down in the fiel' jes' now ter see ef i could find any dem raskil coons t'arin' down de co'n, an' all at once i come ter er place so tangled wid stalks dat, fo' greshus, i dun thought er whirlwin' hit de co'n, but den it wuz all splained, fur dar wuz b'ar tracks mighty nigh ez big ez er ham. huh, i dun thought somebody dun been goin' long dar er hittin' de groun' wid er maul. let's git er bite ter eat ez soon ez we ken, an' foller de ole scounul." immediately after breakfast they set out to look for the bear. the tracks in the field proclaimed him to be of monstrous size. pete, alf's dog, well understood the importance of the pursuit. they followed the trail a long distance up the river, and then into a dense cane-brake. "mr. potter, did you ever kill a bear?" john asked. "no; the truth is i have never seen a wild one. you have killed a number of them, i suppose?" "no, sir; but i shot one last winter, but he got away. my gun don't carry a ball large enough, i reckon, unless i mout hit him in the eye." "yere's de ole lady dat totes de ball," said alf, affectionately tapping the barrel of his army gun. "doan kere whar i hit one o' em, he gwine squeal, lemme tell you. jes' look at ole pete, how he prance. he uster be er mighty fine b'ar dog, but he ain't seed one in so long, dat i'se almos' afeerd dat he dun furgot how ter keep outen de way. b'ar git er holt o' er dog an' dat dog's gone, i tell you. le's stop right yere, an' let him go on out in yander." the dog ran forward, becoming more and more excited. the trail was evidently warm. the dog barked some distance away. "hol' on," said the old negro. "lissun er minut'." another bark; followed by a distressing howl. alf sprang forward. potter and john followed as rapidly as they could through the tangled cane. after a tiresome struggle, they came to a small open space. there lay the dog, dead. the old negro dropped his gun, got down on his knees, and lifted the animal's bleeding head. it was some time before the old negro spoke. his companions, respecting a grief which they saw was deep and stirring, remained silent. at length old alf said: "po' ole frien'. too ole an' stiff in de j'ints ter git outen de way. we's all gittin' dat way, ole frien'. we'se gittin' so ole an' stiff dat we kaint git outen de way o' trouble w'en we sees it comin' down de road. genermen, i lubed dis yere po' dog. he didn' know nuthin' but ter lub me. he neber seed nuthin' wrong wid de ole man. no matter whut i done, it wuz all right ter him. but he gone now--i doan know whar--but he's gone. lemme tell you, though (arising and taking up his gun), suthin' gwine suffer fur dis. mr. potter, you an' john go roun' dat way, an' i go dis. ef you hear my gun, come ter me. ef i hear yo'n, i'll come." they separated. "i feel sorry for the old fellow," potter remarked. "he's a man of very deep affections, with all his african peculiarities. indeed, he has feelings finer than many a man would ascribe to one of his color." "i know he is one of the best men i ever seed--saw," john replied. "i have hearn folks try to make out that the nigger ain't got as big a soul as the white man, but nobody's got any bigger soul than alf has. there's his gun!" again they struggled through the cane, and again they came upon a small, open space. there they found alf, sitting on a bear, smoking his pipe and fanning himself with his straw hat. "you have him sure enough!" potter exclaimed. "sah?" alf replied, with pretended unconcern. "i say you have killed the bear!" "whut b'ar?" "why, the one you are sitting on." john was leaning against a tree, shaking with laughter. he understood the old man. "oh, dis yere b'ar." "yes; that bear." "oh, yas, sah; i got him. tell you whut it is" (getting up, and putting on his hat), "it won't do fur er b'ar ter come killin' one o' my ole frien's. dangerous, sah, dangerous. wall, we'll go home now, get de hosses, an' drag dis generman ter de house." "an enormous animal," said potter. "cose he is. oh, i ain't trampin' roun' de neighborhood er shootin' kittens, i tell you." chapter v. when the bear had been dragged home, skinned and cut up, the work of dividing with the nearest neighbors was begun. john took a choice roast over to mrs. forest, whose overflowing expressions of thanks quite embarrassed him, but eva came forward with such frankness of manner that his confusion was put to instant flight. "come into the other room," said the girl, "and let me show you some of my books." he followed her into a room situated at the end of a gallery that ran the full length of the old log house. the collection numbered but a few volumes, but john opened his eyes in great astonishment. "you haven't read all these here, have you?" he asked. "oh, yes, some of them many times. it doesn't take long to read them all. after awhile i will lend them to you." "i will take good care of them." "oh, i know that. anyone who would not take care of a book is not worthy of the slightest trust." mrs. forest came to the door. "eva," she said, "yonder comes that good-for-nothing bob juckels. i wish he would stay at home. look; he threw a stone at the calf. i could wring his good-for-nothing neck." eva and john went out onto the gallery. bob juckels climbed over the fence, though the gate was near, and, in a skulking and "scuffing" manner, approached. he was just old enough to be "gawky," and was not intelligent enough to understand even the demands of the uncouth politeness of the neighborhood. his face was covered with red freckles, his teeth protruded, and his dingy hair looked as though it might, at some time, have been chewed by a calf. "hi, folks," he said, as he stepped upon the gallery. "'lowed i'd drap in an' see you erwhile. pap wanted me ter chop sprouts outen the corners uv the fence ter-day, but i don't feel like it. ain't this here john lucas?" "yes," john replied. "that's whut i 'lowed. i was over at ole lucas' house one time; drapped in ter git a drink uv water, an' hanged ef that wife uv hizen didn't skeer me putty nigh ter death. i ain't been thar sense, fur it's sorter outen my range, anyhow. eva, have you got any fresh water handy?" "some there in the bucket, i think," the girl replied. "sho it's fresh?" "if it isn't, you know where the well is," said mrs. forest. "yas, ought ter. john, is that yo' hoss hitched out thar?" "yes." "'lowed so. sorter looks like you--haw! haw! say, ef you'll go my way i'll ride behind you?" "i'm not goin' your way; but you shouldn't ride behind me if you was goin' mine." "reckon we'd see erbout that." "well, i must go," said john, addressing mrs. forest and eva. "don't be snatched," juckles replied. john gave the fellow a contemptuous look; and then, after shaking hands with the ladies, and especially after listening with gratitude to their sincere declarations that he would ever be a welcome visitor at their house, mounted his horse and rode away. he had not gone far when his saddle-girth broke. he dismounted, and while he was mending it with a string, bob juckles climbed over a fence, and approached him. "'lowed i'd cut across the field an' beat you," said bob. "that ain't much uv a nag you've got, nohow. don't look like he could pull er settin' hen offen her nest." "he's putty strong," john replied, "but there air some things he can't pull. he couldn't pull the truth out of you, for instance." "oh, you air gettin' mighty high up sense you been 'sociatin' with that ole nigger an' that big red-headed feller. i've hearn all erbout you." "i expect you have hearn more about us than anybody cares to hear about you." "keep on that er way," bob replied, "an' you'll be sharp ernuff ter drive in the ground airter while." "juckels, go on erway now and leave me alone. i don't like you, and i don't want to have anything to do with you." "how do you know whuther you like me ur not, when you don't know much erbout me?" "i know enough about you. i've seen you a number of times. alf knows you, too." "alf's er ole fool." "go on away, now." "say," said juckels, "what made you go over thar ter the wider's?" "none of your business." "fine-lookin' gal they've got over thar, ain't she? ken make er putty fair article uv pie, too, i tell you. say, i bet i ken outrassle you fur that coat you've got on." "i told you to go away." "wall, then, i ken outbox you fur that ar hat." john had mended the girth and was trimming a switch that he had cut from a hickory sapling. "did you hear whut i said?" juckels remarked. john, without replying, was preparing to mount his horse, when juckels took hold of his arm. john wheeled about, and with the switch gave the intruder so sharp a cut across the face that he roared with pain. "never mind," he yelled as john rode away, "this ain't the last day in the world. you'll hear frum me one uv these days in a way that'll make you squeal." john, upon arriving home, found his uncle and aunt. old jeff was wheezy with a cold which he had caught some time before, while tying fodder at night in the dew. he and his wife had met alf, who was on his way to take them a piece of bear meat, had faced him about and compelled him to go back with them, declaring that they could take the meat home themselves. "i never was mo' s'prized in my life than when i found you folks had suthin' ter eat over here," said mrs. lucas. "my consceounce alive, i wush i may never stir agin, ef i didn't 'spect ter find you all starved ter death." potter looked up with a broad smile, and attempted to make some sort of a pleasant reply, but had no sooner said "madam" than the old woman, using an illustration afterward employed by alf, "fairly fluttered." "oh don't call me er madam," she exclaimed. "gracious knows i didn't come all the way over here ter be madamed. when a man calls a woman madam, he thinks he's done the biggest sorter day's work. now thar's jeff grinnin' jest like er 'possum. do b'le've in my soul he would grin ef the woods was afire." "i mout ef i had ter go through 'em" old jeff replied. "yes, i'll be bound you would," she answered, giving, as a recognition of his reply, a sort of savage nod. "wall, we kaint be settin' 'round here allus, jeff. let's be gittin' on home, fur it'll be night 'fo' we git thar, nohow." winter came. snowbirds fluttered on the smoking ground where the hogs were fed. the dry and cupped leaf of the hornbeam tree floated down the shivering rivulet, carrying as a cargo the lifeless body of a cricket. as the weather grew colder, alf's daughter seemed to grow weaker. she spoke not of the pain she must have suffered, but all day, when the wind howled, she sat in a corner near the fire, with her wasted hands clasped and with musing gaze fixed upon the glowing coals. in the night, when the sharp sleet rattled against the window--when some homeless and abused dog howled dismally on the hill-side--old alf would take her in his arms and walk the floor with her, whispering the while soft words of love's encouragement. the winter would soon be gone; the dry and stiffened twig would soon again be "velveted" with buds. he told her to think of the garden that he was going to clear for her in the edge of the woods. "doan talk erbout gittin' weaker ever' day, little angel," he would say. "w'y bless me, chile, you's gittin' heavier all time. huh, airter while it will take er man ez strong ez mr. potter ter lif' you roun'." but when he would put her down and turn away from her, tears would start from his eyes. one night, after a physician had gravely shaken his head and gone away, alf called potter and john. "come in yere er minit, genermen," he said. they followed him. a large stove had been placed in alf's room. two holes in the stove glared like two red eyes. "can we do anything for her?" potter asked. "i'se erfeered not; but i kaint think, sah, dat she's so much wus ter day. yeres de genermen, jule. you wanted me to call 'em." she smiled in reply. alf knelt beside the bed. "you doan feel so much wus, does you, honey?" "no, sah; i feels much better." "thank de lawd fur dat. set down, genermen. oh, i tole you dat doctor didn' know whut he talkin' 'bout. is you sufferin' much pain, little gal?" "no, sah; none er tall. whut time is it?" "bout 12 o'clock." "i thought it wuz day. ain't dat de sun shinin' dar ergin de wall?" "no; dat's de light frum dem holes in de stove." "i thought de fire wuz out," she replied. "it's so col' in yere." "oh, no; we got er monst'us good fire. i put in some hickory chunks jes' now." "i wush i could see de sun." "you ken termor' mornin', honey. it's been cloudy, you know, fur two or three days, but it's cl'ar now, fur when i looked out jes' now, er thousan' stars wuz er winkin' at each uder, thinkin' dat da got er good joke on de weather." "de moon ain't shinin', is it?" she asked. "no. it sorter 'pears like she's got tangled up in de underbresh way over yander on de uder side de hill, but termor' mornin' de sun gwine git up early, an' fling er bushel o' gold right inter dis yere room." "daddy?" "yas, honey." "you won't feel too bad ef i tell you suthin', will you?" "no, darlin'." "daddy?" "yes." "i'se dyin'." "oh, doan say dat." he took her hands. "my god, genermen," he exclaimed, "she is cold. oh, fur god's sake, kain't you he'p me? john, kain't--oh, hebenly father----" "daddy?" "yas, angel." "didn' you tell me erbout de good man dat died? daddy, i--oh, i'se so happy--i----" "my god, she's gone!" exclaimed the old negro; "gone, gone. oh, god, have mercy on my po' ole heart. genermen, leave me yere er little while." potter and john went out into the night. the thousand stars were still winking at each other. without speaking the two friends turned down toward the river. "what noise is that?" potter asked suddenly stopping. it was the wild wailing of alf's fiddle. the old man was pouring out his grief. chapter vi. three years passed. no change had come over the old house where potter, john, and alf lived, but the farm was no longer a place half covered with bushes and briers. it was a long time after jule's death before old alf regained his wonted cheerfulness; and one night when she had, for more than two years, been in her grave, old alf got out of bed, and began to walk up and down the room. potter, who heard him, asked if he was ill. "oh, no, sah," he replied. "i am jes' walkin' wid de speret o' my chile." to john there had come a great change. he had studied with unwavering determination, and had during two winters attended school at sunset. from a charge, he had become a companion to potter, who, during more than one conversation with mrs. forest and eva, had said: "that boy has a wonderfully strong and original mind. his teacher declares that he never saw his equal. the mark he is going to make will be deeper than any furrow he has ever plowed." potter and john had spent many pleasant hours at the forest house. john had read all of eva's books. he had not stopped at this; he had bought a number of books which he found in a store at sunset--old books, which were thought by the storekeeper to be hopelessly out of date. he had laughed when john marched proudly away with a sack full of treasures. "that feller will never make a livin'," said the storekeeper. "why, he give me $5 for a lot of old rubbish that i've been tumblin' about the store for years." john also laughed, but with quiet joy, for in the sack there were "burns' poems," the "vicar of wakefield," "paul and virginia," "plutarch's lives," and "macaulay's essays." one afternoon, john and eva were strolling along a flower-fringed road near mrs. forest's house, when the girl remarked: "it is not strange to me that you are so different intellectually now from your former self. when i first saw you i knew that this time would come." "it is so strange to me," john replied, "that i can scarcely realize it. oh, of course, i am by no means learned, and doubtless never shall be, but every day i see the light of perseverance thrown upon mysteries which were once dark and stubborn. eva, there is no life so wretched as that of the yearning backwoods boy. his hands are tied; the dust from the field of ignorance blinds his eyes. but there is hope for every boy. i believe that as a case of hopelessness mine was at one time without a parallel." "yes," she replied, "but you have sat between two remarkable teachers. on one side, a man of books, not a great philosopher, but a man of engaging fancy and bright illustration. on the other side, a child of nature--a man who can feel the pulse of a leaf, who can hear the beating of the heart of a tree." "yes, but those teachers came to me," john rejoined, "just as opportunities must at some time come to all boys. if i could preach to every farmer boy, or for that matter to every boy, the first word uttered should be 'books.' yonder comes that fellow juckels. let us go back toward the house." they turned back, but had not gone far when juckels overtook them. "out sorter sunin' yo'selves, i see," he said. john gave him a short "yes;" eva said nothing. "tell me, they do, that you air sorter gittin' up in the picters, john." "i am not studying pictures. i have no intention of becoming an artist." "oh, you know what i mean? say, one time er good while ergo, i told you that you would hear from me in a way that would make you squeal. ricolleck?" "yes, i remember." "wall, the reason you ain't is becaze i went off down ter my uncle's in the white oak neighborhood, an' ever' time i came back you was off at school or somewhar else. now, don't you think it is erbout time we was havin' er settlement?" "i don't owe you anything," john replied. "no; but i owe you suthin'." "all right, then, pay it." john felt the girl's trembling touch upon his arm. he looked at her, and saw that her face had grown paler. she gave him a look of earnest meaning, and then slowly shook her head. not another word was spoken until they were within a few steps of eva's home. then john, bidding her good evening, said that he must hurry on and assist potter and alf in feeding the cattle. "i wish to see you a moment," said the girl, drawing him aside. "don't have anything to do with that man." she added, in an undertone, "he is utterly without principle." "i will keep an eye on him," john replied. "the coward ever seems to fear the light of an open eye quite as much as he does the gleaming of a weapon. good-evening." john walked rapidly, but juckels, moving with a sort of dog trot, soon overtook him. "looks like we mout have rain, john; the sun's goin' ter bed sorter bloody, ez the feller says." "yes," john replied. "hickory switches grow putty plentiful long here, don't they?" "yes." "never wuz cut in the face with one, i reckon?" "no." "they say it hurts putty bad." "you ought to know." "sho nuff; mebbe, then, i do." "i should think so, if you have a good memory." "you bet i've got er good one. now here, i want you ter 'polyjise ter me." "what for?" "you know, an' you've got ter do it ur suthin' is goin' ter happen." "something is always happening. if something didn't happen, time would be very dull to some people." "yas; an' when suthin' do happen, time mout stop ter some people. you've hearn uv fellers what b'l'eves that er pistol sometimes snaps, but er knife don't, hain't you?" "yes." "wall, i'm one uv them fellers." "there are fellows, too, that i suppose you have heard of." "whut sort?" "the kind that would not hesitate a moment to knock you down and kick you across the road. i see your knife, you coward." they had stopped in the road, and were facing each other. "yas, an' you'll feel----" john knocked him down with a blow, lightning-like in its quickness, and, without waiting for him to get up, resumed his brisk walk. juckels did not follow, but in a sort of hoarse roar exclaimed: "you'll hear from me in a way that'll make you squeal! see if you don't." when john reached home, he found that the cattle had been fed, and that supper was waiting for him. "suthin' gwine ter snatch you up one deze nights an' run erway wid you," said alf, slyly winking at potter. "keep on prowlin' 'round de woods at night, an' you'll see bimeby. set up dar now an' eat some o' dem fish me an' mr. potter dun cotch. b'l'ebes da bites in dis airly fall weder better den da do in de spring. yo' aunt liz wuz ober yere terday, an' wuz powerful 'stonished ter see dat we ain't dun starved ter death yit. when she seed deze new cheers an' table it made de ole lady open her eyes, i tell you. seed dat pizen feller juckels pokin' roun' down by de river 'bout dinner time. dat feller ain't gwine ter come ter no good. i lay er rattlesnake gwine ter bite him some day. huh, an' i lay it'll kill de snake, too." john then related his adventure with juckels. "why, you ought to have stamped the life out of the scoundrel," potter exclaimed. "don't you know that he might hide behind a tree and shoot you. i will go over to-morrow, see his father, and tell him that unless something is done his son is likely to be badly hurt. why, it is an outrage." "doan reckon it is much use ter see his daddy," alf replied. "w'y, dat feller is older den john, an' i doan reckon his daddy ken do much wid him." "that may be, but something must be done. by the way, this morning while strolling up the river i met two well-dressed men, horseback, who asked me if i knew who was cutting that cedar timber away up beyond rocky bend." alf opened his eyes and straightened up. "you didn' know o' co'se," he said, with the thickness of a half-strangled whisper. "why, yes; i told them that four or five brothers named dun were doing it." "den de lawd hab mussy on us!" the old negro exclaimed. "what difference did it make? i don't understand you." "oh, i 'tended ter tell you 'bout dat, but it's too late now, for we'se gone. lawd, da's got you po' ole servant on de hip ergin!" "alf, are you crazy?" "no, sah; an' i'se erfeerd i won't be nuthin' putty soon. mr. potter, dat cedar timber up dar is on guberment lan', an' dem men dat axed you erbout it wuz guberment men. w'y, nobody in dis yere neighborhood would er tole on dem duns, fur da's de wust men you eber seed. da'll dodge dem guberment men an' come right yere airter us. doan ax me how da'll fine out who tole on 'em, fur i lay da knows dis minit. did anybody yere you tole 'em?" "there was a man fishing close by." "dat settles it. lawd, da dun built er nudder fire un'er yo' po' ole servant." "i didn't think to caution mr. potter," said john. "too late ter talk erbout it now," alf went on. "dem duns comin' right yere dis night, set dis house erfire an' shoot us ez we runs out." "the situation is serious," potter admitted. "serious!" alf exclaimed. "does you call it serious fur er man ter run outen de house ter keep frum bein' burnt up an' den git shot down like er deer? oh, lawd, you better take yo' po' servant home, caze he kain't git erlong down yere." "i didn't mean to harm the dun brothers or in the least meddle with their affairs," said potter, "but if they hold my action to be of such mortal sin and come to this house to seek a bloody revenge i shall deem it my duty to shoot them." "that is the way to talk," john replied. "yes," said alf, "it's de way ter talk, an' it's de way ter ack, too, but de danger is in 'em settin' de house erfire. wall, i'se got er powerful good ole gun yere, an' ef i draw down on one o' dem men he'll wish he had er staid at home, i tell you. we'd better put deze lights out, caze dem raskils ken slip up yere an' shoot us through de cracks." action upon the old negro's advice was immediately taken. the wind began to howl furiously. a rumbling, low and distant, proclaimed with sullen threatening the coming of a storm. nearer, nearer the rumbling came, and glittering spears of blinding light were thrust with angry flashing through the chink holes of the wall. the wind became more violent, the rumbling burst into a deafening clap, and ragged sheets of water lashed the house. the lingering lightning, quivering in fearful dalliance, as though loth to sink back into the dark and surging cloud, wrought upon the river, which could be seen through the window, a thousand terror-breeding shapes--great monsters that lashed the water into fiery foam. "we better put down deze yere guns an' pray erwhile," said alf. "oh, lawd, is you gwine ter let de elements kill yo' po' ole servant? my greshus, yere dem limbs strikin' de house! dar ain't been no sich er storm ez dis--mussyful hebens, is de house down! oh, i thought we gone dat time, sho. deze ole logs wuz put yere ter stay--dat is, i hopes so." "this storm will protect us from the duns until morning, at least," potter rejoined. "this lightning will purify our air against their poisonous vapors." "then," said john, "let us hope that this wind is not ill. mr. potter, you remember the first day i ever saw you, when we were sitting in the yard discussing a plan upon which, to me at least, there has fallen such a promise of ripeness, you said that i might think it strange that you should seek to bury yourself here in the woods." "yes, i remember." "and you said that some time in the future you hoped to tell me the cause." "yes." "well, is not this a most befitting time? if a storm drove you to this place let a storm drive out to me your confidence. i have often seen you put your book aside and give yourself to moments of so deep a brooding that, though i would not seek to be obtrusive, i have tried to study out your mystery. this storm, i think, is growing worse. to-morrow--well, to-morrow we may not be here. tell me now." a lingering, quivering light fell on potter's face, and under the glare john could see the darkened lines of trouble. "no, my dear boy, i can not tell you now. that i have confidence in you, you well know; that i have an affection for you, you must feel. i have watched the soft color of sadness which i once saw under the sunburn on your face grow brighter with an eager glow. i have seen your mind unfold, and each day have found something new in you to admire, but i can not tell you what you crave to know. there, the lightning is growing dimmer. from a roar the wind is shrinking to a wail." "yas," said alf, "an' i thank de lawd fur it, too; i tell you dat. it won't do ter fool wid one deze yere storms dat puts on er black nightcap an' w'ars red ribbons at its throat. i think we mout ez well lay down yere now an' sleep erwhile. dem men ain't gwine ter come yere ter-night; but i do b'l'ebe da'll be yere in de mawnin'; an' ef da block us up in yere de neighbors will jes' let us stay yere an' starve, caze, i tell yo, da so monst'us feerd o' dem fellers." they had not long to wait when morning came until they saw that alf's prediction had not been an idle one; for when potter opened the door to look out, there came a short report from an opposite hillside, and a bullet sent splinters flying from the door facing. "shet de do'," alf cried. "grab yo' guns an' lay down on de flo'. when de sun comes up da gwine shoot through deze yere cracks. oh, lawd, da's still atter yo' po' ole servant. lissun how da shoot. biz! yere dem balls!" "if i can get a sight at one of them," said potter, peering through a hole in the wall, "i think that i can relieve him from duty. boys, shoot, anyway." a brisk firing was now begun on each side. a small mirror flew into fragments and fell on the floor. a dish pan with a ringing "tang" fell from the wall. "oh, de scounule," said alf. "it's er powerful good thing for us dat dar ain't no cracks closer ter de flo'. helloa! what's de matter? thank de lawd, w'y look yander; de guberment men is airter 'em." indeed, a deputy united states marshal and his men had arrived, and the duns, five in number, were captured, not however until two of them had been severely wounded. the prisoners were brought to the house, where one man, a sort of physician, attended to the wounded. "i am very sorry that we got you into trouble," said the deputy marshal, addressing potter, "but you have greatly aided us in breaking up this gang." "what will you do with them?" potter asked. "they will be sent to the united states prison at detroit. they have stolen a great deal of valuable timber, for which the government has use, and their terms are not likely to be short. i don't think you need to fear any more trouble, as the entire gang is now broken up. well, boys, go and get the wagon and we will haul our violent woodchoppers to little rock." that night old alf, taking down his fiddle, remarked: "got ter hab some music, now. oh, i tell yer dat when er man praises de lawd wid er little music now an' den, it takes er mighty powerful evil speret ter lay his claw on him." chapter vii. one evening old alf, having put away the supper dishes, took down his fiddle and began to twang its strings, but failing to feel his wonted interest in the instrument, put it down and then sought diversion in the humming of an old "corn-shucking" song; but again meeting with failure, he got up, sadly shook his head, and began to walk up and down the room. potter and john, who were reading, paid no attention. suddenly he exclaimed: "uh, huh, now i got it, got it sho." "what have you got?" potter asked. "w'y, sah, got de reason dat i'se troubled in my mine dis ebenin'." "are you troubled?" "is i troubled? now, dat's er fine question ter ax er man dat has been carryin' on like i has. ain't my fiddle 'fused ter talk ter me, an' ain't er old song dun failed ter fetch de co'n-bread crumbs o' comfort? tibby sho. now, whut's de matter? suthin' dat i needs. whut is dat suthin'? w'y, i needs ter go er possum huntin', sah, dat's whut i needs. i dreamed last night dat i seed er piece o' fat meat an' er sweet pertater er raslin'. i knowed it meant suthin', but i didn' know whut till jes' now. it means dat we got ter go er possum huntin' dis yere very night, sah. how do it hit you?" "i'm willing. what do you say, john?" "suits me exactly," john replied. "then, let us get ready and go at once," said potter. "there is no retrospective hand that reaches so kindly out of the past and touches me with a thrill of so endearing a memory as the hand that comes out from under the hazy curtain of an indian-summer night and gently draws me back into a hallowed past, when, with eager footsteps, i followed the negroes on my father's farm to the place where the dogs had treed." "yas, i reckon so," alf replied; "i do reckon dat; yas, sah, i do. i doan know nuthin' 'bout no arm comin' out, but i knows dat de ricollection o' some frosty nights in ole north kliny makes me wush dat i wuz dar, er boy ergin. but let us go on ef we gwine, caze it's been some time sense de oven has shined wid de sweet grease o' de possum. deze new dogs we got, i doan know so much erbout 'em. wush ole pete--neber mine, dat's all right. lawd, yo' ole servant 'bout ter grumble ergin." they went out into the beautiful night. nature was so hushed that the rythmic flow of the river could be heard. the stars seemed to shine through a gauzy sheen. in the air there was a faltering promise of the coming of winter. on a log, where the moonbeams fell, there lay a substance of greenish white. it was a dead tree-toad. "let's cross dis fiel'," said alf, "an' skirt 'long de edge o' de woods whar de 'simmon trees grows. whoop--ee! [calling to the dogs]. git 'em down, ole boys. whoop--ee, git 'em down!" the old negro was joyous. he hummed old tunes. "i doan know whut make dem varmints so skace ter-night," said he. "knowing that you were coming after them, they have doubtless all left the country," john replied. "i reckon you's hit it, sah; i reckon you has, caze when i starts out, suthin' mighty nigh sho ter happen. whoop--shove 'em ole boys! whoop, push 'em!" "hold on a minute," said potter, stopping. "what is the cause of that bright light over yonder?" "bresh heep er burnin' whar somebody cl'arin' up new groun', i reckon," alf replied. "not that," john remarked. "a brush heap would hardly send its light so high." "dat's er fack," the old man admitted. "that is someone's house on fire," said potter. "who lives over that way?" "miz forest's house is ober dat way ef i ain't turned 'roun'." "it is her house!" john exclaimed, bounding forward. "come on!" they ran with the speed of utmost exertion. john gained on his companions. he jumped over a rail fence without touching it. "come on," he cried. they could now plainly see the house. the roof was in flames. no one could be seen near the burning building. "is it possible that they are burning up?" john thought. he reached the yard fence, cleared it at a bound, ran across the yard, sprang upon the gallery, and threw himself with all his weight against the door. it did not yield. "eva," he cried, beating on the door. "eva!" no answer came. he leaped from the gallery, seized the door-step, a ponderous log, staggered upon the gallery and threw the log against the door. an oak latch snapped and the door flew open. he did not rush into the room. his sense of modesty, even at such a time, forbade it, but with a loud voice he exclaimed: "for god's sake come out; your house is on fire." the next moment mrs. forest and eva, almost frantic with excitement, but wrapped in the clothes which they had gathered from the bed, rushed from the room. by this time potter and alf had arrived. they dashed into the house to save what furniture they could. "don't be excited," said potter. "fire is dropping down, but it will take quite a while for those oak rafters to burn in two. carry out the trunks; we can save all the clothes. here, alf, you are too much excited. where is john?" john had thought of eva's books, and although that end of the house was almost entirely wrapped in flames, was exerting himself in the dangerous work of saving the cherished volumes, and before the roof fell in, he had carried out the last book. a number of the neighbors soon arrived, for the cry of "fire!" "fire!" had echoed through the woods. mrs. forest and eva, having dressed themselves in the barn, stood looking at the destruction of their home. "i don't know how it could have happened," said mrs. forest. "it must have caught from the upper part of the chimney. i don't know how to thank you all. the fact that this is the first time i have ever been placed under such serious obligations, makes me awkward in acknowledging them. eva, can't you say something?" the girl stood trembling. john stood near her. "no," she replied, "i--i--don't know----" she burst into tears. "come, daughter, we are going home with mrs. patterson and stay until we can have another house built." the next day john went over to patterson's. mrs. forest and eva, with that strong recuperative force found among people who live in the woods, had recovered from the effect of the excitement of the previous night. "let us walk over and look at the ruins," said john, addressing eva. "there is but little to look at," she replied, "but we will go." they spoke but few words as they crossed the fields, but each one felt that the other was not unhappy. the leaves on the running brier were red, and the velvety top of the sassafras sprout was cool to the touch. there was nothing left of the old house but a few smoldering chunks. john and eva sat down on a log that had served as a horse-block. "it would have been a great disappointment to me, eva, if your books had not been saved." "yes," she replied, "but they were not worth so great a risk." "oh, the risk was nothing. all that was required was a little activity." they were silent for some time, and then john remarked: "how strange everything has been. i used to fear that there never would be a time when i could talk to you without embarrassment. this fear did not come from any word or action of yours, but from a true estimate of myself." "how a true estimate?" "why, an almost overpowering knowledge of my own ignorance." she gave him an imploring look. he continued: "you have ever been kind to me. you have helped me, inspired me. i know nothing of the world, but i know gratitude. when i am reading a book, and hold so much within my grasp, the world seems very small; but when i look away at the clouds floating far beyond the hills, i then feel that the world is very large. but, eva, may it be large or small, there is to me but one source of true happiness. you are that source, my angel. i love you--love you. when i am near you nature is more beautiful. there is religion in the soft light of your eyes. there is the thrill of deep poetry in every sound of your voice. i do not come to you with pleading, for i feel that you love me--not because i have done you a service, but because our souls, waving in a perfumed atmosphere, touch each other." "john." "yes, angel." "you are the only human being who has ever understood me; you are the only human being whom i have ever understood. yes, i do love you--loved you when i saw you with a child's primer in your hand--loved you when i saw you a grasping student of rhetoric. that we should love each other, seems to me as natural as that the sun should shine. it could be the only result of our association." he put his arm about her and drew her closer to him. "eva, as you say, love could be the only result of our association; and now do you not know that there can be but one true result of our love?" "yes," she replied, "only one." the neighbors soon decided to build mrs. forest another house. the building of a log house in the country is looked upon as a sort of holiday frolic, and there is no man in the immediate neighborhood too busy with his own affairs to lend a helping hand. the new house was built upon the same site, and after the same pattern as the old one. eva had, one day, just finished arranging her books, when bob juckels stepped upon the gallery. "hi," said he, as he reached into an adjoining room, drew out a chair and sat down. "mr. juckels, i want you to go away from here," the girl replied. she stood in the library door. he looked up at her, with an attempt at a smile, but with the result of an ugly grin. "pretty good house you got here. woulder come over ter the raisin', but i didn't wanter meet lucas, fur when i meet him, we're goin' ter mix. i'm me, let me tell you that." he took out a bottle of whisky, shook it, held it up, squinted at it and then took a drink. the girl was afraid of him. her mother had gone over to a neighbor's house. "putty good house you've got here. made outen green logs an' it won't burn ez easy ez the old one did. say, did you tell lucas that i had axed you ter marry me?" "no; i dislike you so much that i do not mention your name to anyone." "good idee. wall, i've come ter ax you agin." "and i tell you that i wouldn't marry you to save my life. i despise you." "that don't make no diffunce ter me, fur airter we was married erwhile you would git over that. when i axed you befo' an' you 'lowed you wouldn't, i said you would hear from me." "yes." he shook the bottle again, and took another drink. "an' you did hear frum me," he said, after a few moments' silence. "i don't know that i have." he laughed with a low and malicious chuckle, looked about him, looked up at the rafters, looked down at the floor, chuckled again, and said: "ever'thing new." "i don't understand you," eva replied. "reckon not. wimin kain't grab er p'int ez quick ez men ken. i mean that i sot yo' house afire. hol' on, now; hol' on. go ter cuttin' up an' it won't be good fur you, an' mo'n that, ef you ever breathe er word uv whut i've said it'll be good-by ter you an' that feller lucas, too. green logs mout not burn, but thar's suthin' else that will. powder'll burn, er--haw, haw! yes, it'll burn like er flash." "oh, you wretch!" "yas; that's whut the grasshopper 'lowed, but the wild turkey picked him up all the same. wall, i must be shovin' erlong; sorter knockin' 'round fur my health. i'll come over agin ter-morrer an' see whut you've got ter say. but, my lady, ef you say er word ter yo' mother, ur anybody else, it'll be good-by ter the whole kit an' bilin' uv you." a few hours later, while potter, john, and alf were strolling along the river bank, they came upon juckels. he stood with one hand resting upon a rock that protruded from a rugged cliff. an empty whisky bottle lay on the ground. as the men approached, juckels looked up with a frown, and, with thick utterance, said: "i want you fellers ter go on erway frum here now. never mind, lucas, i am goin' ter settle with you." "any time will suit me," john replied. "my time will suit _me_," juckels rejoined. "it don't make no diffunce whuther it suits you or not. but i want you fellers ter go on erway frum here now, fur i got here fust an' this is mine." "whut is yo'n?" alf asked. "this possum." "whar's any possum?" "under this here rock; that's whar." "what's er possum doin' under dat rock when dar's plenty trees fur him ter climb!" alf asked. "that's none uv yo' lookout," said juckels. "he's under this rock, an' i'm goin' ter crawl up under thar arter him." alf looked at the ground, examined a number of tracks, and then remarked: "co'se you ken do what you please 'bout dis yere matter, but ef you wuz er frien' o' mine i'd t'ar yo' coat mightily er holdin' ter you fo' i'd let you go up under dar." "yas, i reckon you would t'ar er feller's coat, an' take it erway frum him too, ef you could." "oh, go on up under de rock ef you wants to," alf exclaimed; "but i tell you now dat ef you wuz er frien' o' mine i'd beg you might'ly not ter go under dar." "you air er old thief, an' want me ter leave this possum so you ken git him." "come," said potter, "there is no occasion for such language." "this ain't none uv yo' er'fair, nuther," juckels responded. "i'm goin' under thar, an' that's all thar is erbout it." he threw his hat aside, kicked the whisky bottle into the river, got down on his hands and knees, and crawled under the rock. the men had turned to go away, when there issued from under the rock the most frightful noises--the yells of juckels and the fierce shrieking of furious animals. juckels rolled out from under the cliff. he was literally covered with wildcats. the men ran to his assistance. the animals ran back into their den. juckels was unable to speak. he was bleeding from many wounds, and when he breathed, blood bubbled from a hole in his throat. some time elapsed before a word was spoken. "we must take him home," potter said. "cut down some saplings and we will make a stretcher." they started on their burdensome and solemn march, and must have gone two miles, when alf said: "we mout ez well put him down now an' rest erwhile." "no," replied potter; "let us hurry on so that a physician may be summoned." "dar ain't no use'n er doctor," said alf. "de man is dun dead." so he was. they put down the stretcher. the sounds of hoofs attracted their attention. "yonder comes mrs. forest," said john. "yes," replied potter, "and i will meet her and guide her away from this awful sight." "you are the very man i want to see," cried mrs. forest when potter approached within hailing distance. "i am on my way to your house to consult you," she added, reining up the horse when they met in the road. "i want to ask your advice about something. that good-for-nothing bob juckels has told eva that he set fire to our house, and has declared that he will kill us all if we--i hardly know what all he didn't say, but i want to ask you if you think it best to have him arrested!" "he is beyond the power of the law, mrs. forest. yonder he lies dead." chapter viii. two more years, years without especial incident to the people who lived up terrapin river, passed away. everyone knew of john and eva's betrothal, and as no one had any objections to offer, there came not a jar, not a harsh sound to disturb the smoothly flowing current of their affection. one evening, as potter and john sat in the old house awaiting the return of alf, who had gone to sunset to make some small purchases, the young man, after many minutes of deep meditation, looked up and remarked: "i have worked harder of late in the hope that i might make money enough to place my approaching marriage upon a sensible footing, but it seems----" "there, my boy," potter broke in, "there now, don't worry. of course every man should look to the future, but not to brood in dark foreboding. we are getting along very well, and i think you may safely--there's alf." the old man came in bringing several bundles. "fetchtaked fellers ober yander," said he, "put er brick under my saddle when i had my hoss hitched, an' when i got on ter come home w'y de old critter flung me in de road. huh, when i hit de groun' i thought de whole face o' de yeth dun struck loose. suthin' gwine obertake dem boys one deze days. da's dun forgot erbout dem she bears dat grabbed up dem mean white chillun when da made fun o' er old servant. suthin' gwine ter obertake 'em, i tell you. oh, you neenter laugh, genermen, fur suthin' gwine ter slip up behin' 'em an' grab 'em, sho." they had eaten supper, and potter, in his favorite position, was leaning back against the wall, when a newspaper in which one of the bundles had been wrapped, attracted his attention. "alf, hand me that paper," said he. "i would subscribe for some paper if we lived nearer a post office. ah! a country sheet from kentucky. let me see if uncle billie jackson was in town yesterday, or if aunt nancy phelps has the thanks of the editor for a choice lot of radishes. i see that uncle bob redmond has sold a fine colt to anthony boyle, and here is also the startling information that abe stallcup has purchased the old adams place. i suppose----" he started. the paper shook. he sprang from the chair, pressed his hands to his head, sank upon his knees, clasped his hands and exclaimed: "thank god! thank god! oh, merciful heaven, it has come at last!" he bowed his head and wept. john and alf stood looking on in speechless amazement. "thank god, it has come at last. oh, my friends--you--you----" "what is the matter?" john cried. "wait. i--i will tell you. here," he added, "read this. read it out for i have only seen its aim." john took the paper and read the following: "a number of years ago, our readers will remember, hon. sam bradwell, who lived near lexington, this state, was convicted of the murder of colonel joe moore, and was sentenced to be hanged, but made his escape the night before the execution was to take place. now comes a sequel. about two weeks ago a man named zack fry, supposing that he was on his death-bed, confessed that he was the murderer of moore. but instead of dying, he soon recovered. he was then brought to trial, and, instead of attempting to make a defense, reiterated his confession. he was sentenced to be hanged, and his execution took place last friday. the governor has issued a proclamation declaring bradwell innocent, and offers a reward for intelligence of his whereabouts. bradwell was one of the most prominent men in the state. he was a bachelor and owns one of the largest and finest farms in the famous blue grass region. he had served three terms in the legislature, and but for the moore trouble would doubtless have been sent to congress. he and moore were not on friendly terms--in fact, they were opposed to each other in the house of representatives, of which body moore was also a member. nothing has been heard of bradwell since his escape from jail. he has no very near relatives, and his farm, we understand, is looked after by a number of his friends. there is great rejoicing, we hear, over the proof of his innocence, for he was exceedingly popular with all classes, and especially so with the more refined element. nearly every paper throughout the country has either published or referred to the governor's proclamation, and we sincerely trust that the wanderer may soon return home." potter, or bradwell, stood complacently smiling upon john as he neared the end of the article. his excitement had passed away, leaving not the slightest trace of its sudden bursting forth. john sat in a sort of dazed silence, gazing at his friends, and alf, whose half-open mouth bespoke a mystified state of mind, stood leaning against the wall. "now, my friends," said bradwell, "you know why sam potter lived in this out-of-the-way place. let us all be perfectly easy now. alf, sit down. you look as though you were about to be hanged. i will walk up and down the room, as it would be almost impossible for me to keep still, and will tell you the story of my trouble in kentucky. as the newspaper article states, moore and i were members of the legislature. one day he introduced a bill, the passage of which i did not think would be of benefit to the state. in fact, it was full of what we called buncombe, and was, i thought, intended to play upon an unthoughtful constituency and insure the re-election of its author. i opposed the measure, and was somewhat instrumental in its defeat. this inflamed moore's anger. he denounced me in most violent terms, and swore that he would hold me to an account which might prove painful to one of us. the legislature adjourned the next day, and, as i did not make it my business to look for moore, i left the capital without seeing him. he lived near lexington, to the east; i lived west. one day, several weeks later, while riding horseback to town, i saw, sitting on a fence, a hawk that had just caught a quail. i drew my pistol and fired at the hawk, but missed it. i went on into town, and, as i was going to remain but a very short time, did not put up my horse at a livery stable, but tied him to a rack in a lot in the rear of several stores. i had transacted my business, and was going through an alley leading to the lot, when i heard the report of a pistol. i hurried onward, and, upon turning into the lot, came upon the dead body of moore. a bullet had passed through his head. before i had recovered from the shock of so ghastly a discovery, several men ran to the place, and it was not long until a large crowd had gathered in the lot. i did not think of my position, and surely had no idea that i should be suspected. you may therefore well imagine my surprise when the sheriff arrested me. i was searched. one chamber of my revolver was empty, and, still worse, the bullet which had passed through moore's head, and which was extracted from a cedar post, corresponded in size with the bore of my pistol. i was taken to jail. the next day bail was refused. this was annoying, but aside from being suspected of so grave a charge, i did not regard the affair as serious. i had not counted upon the men whom i had to fight. i had not thought of moore's enraged relatives. the trial came on. there was great excitement. i had many friends, but it seemed that they were afraid of the moores. the jury was cowed. a verdict of guilty was brought in. a motion for a new trial was overruled. my lawyers, prominent and able men, appealed to the supreme court. the decision of the court below was sustained. the date of execution was fixed. i could not realize it. one day i saw through my grated window that men were putting up a scaffold in the jail yard. my blood ran cold. far into the night they carried their labors. lanterns, like the red eyes of vultures, shed a lurid--i thought bloody--light upon the scene. i heard the hammers and saws. a nail glanced under the blow of a hammer and struck my window. it fell inside the cell. the hammers and saws hushed their awful noises. 'all done, dave?' i heard someone ask. 'yes,' came the reply; 'everything's ready.' the workmen went away. the red eyes disappeared, and all was dark. i got down from the window and found the nail. it was a large one. the window through which i had been looking was some distance from the floor. the sheriff's officer in the yard rarely glanced at it. i heard the 'death watch' whistling in the corridor. i climbed up to the window. the ends of the bars, where they fitted into the stones on each side of the window, were made more secure with lead that had been melted and poured about them. with the nail i soon gouged away the lead from one of the bars, but the bar could not be moved. i attempted to gouge out more lead. i dropped the nail. it fell outside. in despair i seized the bar and fell backward. it broke. a thrill shot through me. had anyone heard me? no. the 'death watch' continued to whistle. the broken bar was a powerful lever. another bar and another one was forced out, until not one remained. i looked out. no sounds--all darkness. i went through the window, feet foremost, and dropped to the ground. heavens, i could not scale the outer wall! i thought of the scaffold. it was near the wall. i mounted it. a rope dangled from a beam overhead. i seized the rope, swung out, turned loose and caught the top of the wall. in a moment more i was on the ground--free. i sank upon my knees and thanked god. i was afraid to go home, so, without a cent of money, i set out on my journey. i will not speak of my privations, of the weary miles i walked--of how i worked on a new railroad, and how i managed to get a few books. but i will say this, my dear boy, your face was the first to beam upon the outcast a true and generous welcome. there, there now. i am sorry that my simple recital has moved you to tears. alf, what are you blubbering about?" "sorter got suthin' in dis eye jes' now, an' got suthin' in my throat, too, i b'l'ebe. neber seed de like. man kaint stan' erbout yere widout gittin' all used up, things flyin' roun' so." john caught bradwell's hand and pressed it to his breast. "my dear boy," said the giant, "your approaching marriage is now placed upon a sensible footing. you and your wife shall go with me to kentucky. the farm is not mine, but yours and mine. the house is large, is built of stone, and in it there are many rare books. i have all the time trusted that the light of truth would fall upon that crime, and now--but we will not talk about it. john, we will go over to-morrow and tell mrs. forest and eva. alf, you shall go to kentucky with us." john went to bed in a whirl of happiness. he could not sleep long at a time. joy, as well as sorrow, puts sleep to flight. would morning never come? what can come with such slowness as a wished-for day-break? another doze. sunlight streamed in upon the bed. when bradwell had shown mrs. forest the newspaper article, he told his story. the ladies were much affected, and mrs. forest, as she wiped her eyes, said: "well, i called you bradshaw, you remember. i just knew it was brad something, for i do think that i saw you in kentucky years ago." eva and john walked along the road whose edges were fringed with flowers. "there is nothing in our way now, precious." "no," she replied, "nothing has been in the way, nothing, dear, but your groundless concern. our life, i know, will almost be an ideal one." "it shall be if love and faithfulness can make it so," he replied. they sat down on a log and talked until the horn summoned them to dinner. that afternoon, as bradwell and john were walking toward home, the young man remarked: "eva has only one trouble now." "what is that?" "leaving her mother." "is she going to leave her?" "of course. are we not going to kentucky?" "yes; but mrs. forest, or rather mrs. bradwell, is going with us. oh, you young fellows don't know everything." they shook hands and walked on in happy silence. * * * * * the day was beautiful. it was autumn, and streaks of gray could be seen in the crab-grass. age and infirmity had given to the "chatter jack's" song a harsher sound, and the toad, avoiding the grass where the dew was chilly, stretched himself in the dusty road. the neighbors for miles around had gathered at mrs. forest's house. the bashful boy in brown homespun cast a wistful eye at the dining-table, and the half-grown girl in her linsey frock longed to see the marriage ceremonies performed. "where is alf?" bradwell asked. no one knew. old jeff lucas "'lowed" that he must be prowling around looking for something to eat, and "aunt liz," with a violent wrinkling of her nose, declared that if he wanted anything to eat he should get it at once, for she knew he would starve to death away off there in kentucky. "mandy," said mrs. forest, addressing a colored woman who had come to assist in waiting on the guests, "do you know where alf is?" "how i know whar he is?" the woman replied. "ef he got bizness ober yere i reckon he be yere airter while." the ceremonies were performed, and while congratulations were still being extended alf stepped up on the gallery. "yere," he cried, waving a piece of paper, "somebody else got tet git married yere. come on, mandy." he and mandy were married. "oh!" the old negro exclaimed, with a pretense of great surprise, "i neber did see de like o' marryin' dat's gwine on dese days. man kaint walk roun' yere widout bumpin' ergin somebody dat's dun married." bradwell and mrs. bradwell, john and eva, were to go to the railway station, thirty miles away, in a wagon. alf and his wife would ride a mule. after many farewells had been exchanged, and after john had affectionately kissed his aunt, old jeff's wife remarked: "i jest know you air all goin' to starve ter death, but don't think i want ter keep you here, fur goodness knows i don't." she watched the wagon until it had turned a bend in the road, and then, clasping her hands over old jeff's shoulder, bowed her head and sobbed. the bridal party stood on the railway platform. "eva," said john, "are you happy?" "yes, my soul is filled with a quiet joy." the train came within sight. "it is the vehicle," said john, gazing up the road, "that is to convey us to a new and happy life." "yes." bradwell lifted his hand to point out something. john seized it and pressed it to his breast. behind a bugler. the conversation had turned upon the war and the old soldiers' fondness for reminiscence had been freely indulged, when someone, addressing alf billingsly, asked if he had served during the war. "no," billingsly replied. "i was not in the army, but i was in one engagement. i was a boy and was living in gallatin, tenn., when john morgan dashed in and captured colonel boon. some time had elapsed since the confederate forces were driven away, and the villagers, especially the boys, were almost wild with joy at the sight of gray uniform. a season of feasting followed, and then there came the report that colonel johnson, a dashing federal officer, was, with a thousand picked cavalrymen, advancing upon the town. my mother gathered her children about her and took refuge in a cellar, but, feeling that my pride had been trampled upon, i escaped and mingled with the soldiers that were preparing for battle. old wine, and whisky of less venerable age, had flowed during the feast, and many of the men and officers were drunk. some were singing songs of more implied patriotism than of actual tune; others, with the rising fervor of tipsyness, declared that they would not go home till morning. ah, before the next morning came many of them had gone home. i importuned a bugler to let me get on his horse behind him and ride out to the battle. he said that if i would take his canteen over to the house of a well-known old negro and bring it back full of peach brandy, i might go home with him. i did so, having left with the negro my hat and jacket as pawned evidences of good faith, and took my place behind the bugler. an officer ordered me to get down, but i begged so hard that his reckless good humor overcame his soberer sense of discipline. with shouts and songs of discordant loudness we marched out to battle. the morning was beautiful. the ironweed was in bloom, and sitting on its purple top the dryfly sang the song of midsummer. mockingbirds flitted in the apple trees, and the bee-martin flew round and round, waiting for a sight of the honey-laden laborer that had just gone over into a field of clover. the troops dashed out upon a blue-grass plane, jeweled here and there with the rich setting of a long-cared-for and magnificent tree. over the brow of a green slope--the phrenological bump of perception on the face of the landscape--the enemy was seen advancing. it was to be a cavalry fight. it was to be a shock of horse and a clash of sabre. i looked to the right and saw that our men were stretched out in a long line, and looking ahead, i saw that the enemy was in similar form. my friend blew his bugle. every horse dashed forward. a line of blue dashed to meet us. i felt a keen sense of delight. my friend blew his bugle. clash! the two lines had met with drawn sabres. it was a beautiful sight. not a shot had been fired. there was no dust. clash! far to the right, as the sabres flashed, there were two long lines of brightness, broken into whirling glints of sun-ray-catching silver. i may not have had the spirit of a poet, but the beauty and not the horror impressed me. i lost not an adjunct--i failed not to catch a single shading. i saw a bee-martin catch a bee; i saw an ironweed bend its purple head beneath the touch of a lark; i saw a man, with his skull split open fall to the ground. my friend blew his bugle. the horses leaped forward. the line of blue began to grow ragged. wild shouts arose. gunshots with, it seemed to me, intruding noise like the yap, yap, yap of a stray dog, rang out here and there. the enemy was retreating. my friend, standing in his stirrups, waved his bugle high in the air and then blew upon it a triumphant blast. the enemy made a stand, and again the sabres flashed, but the old wine and new whisky made the confederates impetuous. my friend blew his bugle. the opposing line broke, and then there came gunshots with, it seemed to me, a sort of revengful bark. my friend lifted his bugle, but did not blow it. i thought that he had taken pity upon the vanquished line. we bounded forward. my friend began to lean back against me. he was laughing, i could plainly see. he leaned back farther. 'don't lean back so far,' i said. 'stop; don't you see you are about to shove me off?' he leaned back farther. i moved to one side--reached around and took hold of the horn of the saddle. blood spurted from the bugler's breast. i looked up and saw that death had thrown its film into his eyes. i reached down with my foot and kicked the stirrup away. the bugler leaned over and fell to the ground. i got into the saddle, rode up to a fence, threw the bridle rein over a stake, climbed down off the horse and ran away. i went back over the grassy slope. i saw a martin catch a bee; i saw the purple head of the ironweed bend beneath the touch of the lark." in the cumberland mountains. a physician told tom blake that he not only needed a change of scene, but that to regain his health he required absolute freedom from business cares. "i would advise you," said the doctor, "to get on a horse and ride away, no matter whither. go to the mountains--shun the merest suggestions of civilization; in short, sleep out like a bear." blake attempted to act upon this advice. he stuffed a few shirts into a pair of saddlebags, mounted a jolting horse, and rode up into the grandeur of rugged mountain gorges. but to him the scenery imparted no thrill of admiration. his heart beat low, and his pulse quivered with a weakening flutter. the fox that in sudden alarm sprang across the pathway, the raccoon that, with awkward scramble, climbed a leaning tree, called not for a momentary quickening of his blood. he was passing through one of the most distressing of human trials. he had no disease; every muscle was sound. what, then, was the trouble? you shall know. he lay at night in a bank of leaves. now everything startled him. he trembled violently when the sun went down. once he sprang, with a cry of alarm, from his bed of leaves. then he lay down again, ashamed. the horse had snorted. farther and farther he went into the wildness of the mountains. one evening he came upon a narrow road, and, following it for some distance, saw a house. it was an old inn, with a suggestion of the brigand about it. he tied his horse to a fence made of poles and went into the house. there he found a man with a parchment face and small, evil eyes, and a woman who, on the stage, could have appropriately taken the _rã´le_ of hag. "why, come in, sir, come in," said the man, getting up and placing a chair for blake. "wife and i have been so lonesome for the last day or so that we have been wishing somebody would come. haven't we, moll?" the woman removed a cob pipe from her mouth, drew the back of a skinny hand across her blue-looking lips, made a noise like the guttural croak of an old hen with the roup, and said, "yes." "you'll of course stay all night with us," the man remarked. "we can't possibly allow you to go on, especially as we are going to have falling weather. oh, when it comes to hospitality, why, you'll find it right here. i'll go out and put up your horse." blake entered no objections. his deplorable condition would have forced him into a compliance with almost any sort of proposition. the man went out, put up the horse, and soon returned with a log of wood. "the more fire we have the more cheerful it will be," he explained. "out prospecting?" he asked. "no," blake answered. "don't live nowhere near here, i reckon?" "no." "how long do you expect to remain in this part of the country?" "i don't know." the old woman mumbled and then, with a grating croak, said: "he don't 'pear willin' ter tell much about hisse'f. some folks is mighty curi's thater way." "never mind, moll," the host quickly responded. "it ain't quite time for you to put in, except in the way of getting us a bite to eat." she arose, without replying, and began preparations for supper. "it is a dull time of the year with us," said the host. "it has been about two weeks since our last boarder left. but i reckon business will pearten up a little when the fishing season opens." blake paid no attention, except when some sharp and unexpected note in the old man's voice produced a tingling of the nerves. shortly after supper, blake declared his readiness to go to bed. he was shown into a sort of shed room, separated by a thin partition from the room which he had just quitted. the old man placed a spluttering candle on the hearth, and, expressing the hope that his guest would pass a quiet and peaceful night, withdrew. blake lay unable to sleep. once the spluttering candle caused him to spring up in bed. suddenly his ears, extremely sensitive with his nervousness, caught the sounds of a whispered conversation. "it won't do to shed blood," said the old man. "it won't do, for we made a mighty narrow escape the last time. it's impossible to get blood stains out of the house. "i b'l'eve them saddlebags air full uv money," the hag replied. "i don't doubt that, and we've got to have it." "how air you goin' ter git it?" "poison him. i wasn't a sort of doctor all these years for nothing." "you never was no doctor ter hurt." "but i'll be a doctor to-night to hurt." "how air you goin' ter pizen him? thar ain't a speck uv pizen on the place." "where is that morphine?" "up thar in the bottle, but will that fix him?" "yes, and in such a way that nobody will suspect anything." "how air you goin' ter do? hold it under his nose?" "hold it under his foot!" the man contemptuously replied. "i am going to make him take it." "how?" "i'll fix it." then there occurred a whispering of which blake caught the following: "think that's ernuff?" the woman asked. "it's nearly half a teaspoonful. enough to make five men sleep throughout eternity." a moment later the host entered blake's room. his manner was free from embarrassment. in one hand he held a glass containing water. "stranger, i don't want to disturb you, but it occurred to me just now that you looked as if you might be going to have a spell of sickness, so i thought i would bring you some medicine. i am willing to help a man, but i don't want him to be sick on my hands. i am a doctor, but i don't propose to keep a hospital." "suppose i refuse to take the medicine?" "then you'll put me to the trouble of pouring it down you, that's all. i am a mighty gentle sort of a fellow as long as everything goes on all right, but if a hitch occurs, why i am as rough as a swamp oak." "are you sure the medicine will not hurt me?" "hurt you! why, it will do you good. here, swallow it down." blake drank the contents of the glass. the host smiled, bowed, and withdrew. then there followed another whispered conversation. "tuck it all right, did he?" "like a lamb. he'll be all right in a half-hour from now." during fifteen or twenty minutes blake lay quietly in bed. then he got up, dressed himself noiselessly, arranged the bed covers to resemble the form of a man, took his saddlebags, stepped out at a back door, went to the stable, saddled his horse, mounted and rode up to a window and looked into the room which he had occupied. cattle were tramping about the yard, and the noise made by the horse attracted no attention. he took a position so that he could, unobserved, see all that passed within the room. the "doctor" and the old woman soon entered. they made no attempt to speak in low tones. "whar is his saddlebags?" the woman asked. "under his head, i reckon. snatch off the covers. he won't wake up." the old woman pulled off the covers and uttered a cry of surprise. blake tapped on the window glass. "say, doc," he called, "bring me the rest of that morphine. you see, i have been a morphine eater for a number of years, but am trying to quit. your dose came in pretty handy, for i was in a bad fix. i am all right now, and am much obliged to you. good-night." less than a week from that time the "doctor" and his wife were in jail, charged with the murder of a traveler. they were hanged at greenville last september. a commercial rip-snorter. several years ago i was the editor and proprietor of the new ebeneezer _plow point_. it was a weekly publication, and, with its name as well as with its class of matter, appealed to the farmers, and danced a pandering jig to the shrill whistle of their prejudices. one day e. sim nolan, a prominent man in the community, came into my office and said: "i have been thinking of you for the past day or two, and i think that with my keen business instincts i have unearthed the stone with which you may pave your way to fortune. writing is a very fine accomplishment and plays its little part in journalism, but it is not the main thing. now, the main thing in the newspaper business is to achieve success. 'how can this be done?' you naturally ask. not by advising the county to repair the bridge over cypress bayou; not the editorial advising the party to organize, but by getting business. one line in a thoroughly thrifty paper is worth more and has more weight than a thousand lines in a dragging publication that has to apologize every other week for its inability to get out on time. you want a partner, not to help you write, but a commercial rip-snorter, who can run business into a corner, choke it into submission, and then drag it into the office. that's the kind of a man you need. 'where can i find him?' you are about to ask. you have found him, or rather he has found you. i am that man. i am that commercial rip-snorter. i can go out and in two days load the _plow point_ so full of advertisements that you'll have to put up side-boards. what do you think of it?" "i have no doubt of your ability," i replied, "but i can not afford to pay you." "you don't have to pay me. the work will pay for itself. now here; say that you are making seventy-five dollars per month. very well. the commercial rip-snorter comes in. you get one hundred and fifty dollars per month and the commercial rip-snorter gets one fifty. w'y, it's as plain and simple and guileless as the soft laughter of a child. it shall not be for one month but for all time. in short, take me in as a partner. what is the greatest business stimulant? salary? no, sir. proprietary interest. give me a half interest in your paper, and it will fly higher than the kite of franklin. it will roar louder than a cyclone, and scatter dollars where we can easily gather them up. as a rule, i am not an enthusiast. ordinarily i am a quiet man. the soldier is quiet until his grand occasion comes." i told him that i would think about it and give him an answer on the following day. that afternoon i consulted with several friends. the county judge declared that when nolan put his shoulder to the wheel the wagon moved. the county attorney said that i could well afford to pay nolan to take a half interest. that night i went to bed in a highly agreeable state of mind. the clouds were breaking away, and i could see the sun shining. the business cares of the office would be lifted off my mind, and i could devote myself to writing and to study. with nothing to do but to digest my subjects, i could write editorials that would establish me as a party leader. i dreamed of web perfecting presses, and of being consulted by great politicians. i hummed a tune before breakfast. the trade was soon consummated; and, delivering the books to nolan, i seated myself in my inner sanctum, warmed by a stove pipe which came through from an adjoining shed occupied by a shoemaker, and gave myself up to deep thought. at last my time had come. at last the people must acknowledge my leader-writing ability. the next day nolan brought in a few advertisements. ah, the ripened fruit had already begun to fall. "by the way," said nolan, as he seated himself on a corner of my table, "i have got a great scheme on hand." "glad of it," i rapturously replied. "what is it?" "a number of our most prominent men have boned me to run for sheriff." "but will it not take up too much of your time?" "why, no. you see, i can be elected as easily as falling off a log, and then, as sheriff, i can flood our paper with legal advertisements." "nolan, you are a remarkable man." "you just wait." i wrote editorials in his behalf, and even left my sanctum and made speeches for him. he was elected. he turned over his newspaper books to his son, and took charge of the sheriff's office. the boy sat in the office, and, during the forenoon, whistled a circus tune. in the afternoon he got drunk. a few days after nolan was installed, i went over to get an armful of legal advertisements. there were none on hand just at that time, nolan told me. "in fact," said he "it has been decided not to print the delinquent-tax list this year." i was disappointed. the boy whistled his circus tune and then went out and got drunk. the next day, when i wanted to draw five dollars, the boy gave me thirty-five cents. bills began to come in, and my deep thought was much disturbed by them. one morning nolan came in, and, after whistling in imitation of his son, said: "it's pretty tough." "what is?" "why, as sheriff, i've got to take charge of this office. paper bill." i was staggered. "can't we pay our bill?" i exclaimed. "haven't any money at present, i am sorry to say. i regret now that i ran for sheriff, for it's devilish uncomfortable to close out a partner." i did not exactly understand it, but when he served an execution on me i went out. as sheriff, he took charge of the office, discharged his son, and took charge of the business and editorial departments. i consulted several lawyers. they said that i was out. i knew that. they didn't know how i could get in again. the law was very peculiar. i knew that, too. i found out afterward that nolan had called on all the lawyers, and had told them that if they interfered with his affairs, he would bear down on their clients, and as most of their clients were in jail, they did not interfere. nolan, as sheriff--and he is now serving his fourth term--is still editor and proprietor of the new ebeneezer _plow point_. his friend flanders. when the hum in the court-room had settled into an occasional whisper, the judge asked the prisoner if he would like to make a statement. the prisoner, a slender man, with hair holding a slight intention to curl, and with eyes large and willful, arose and made this statement: john flanders and i were the best of friends, though we were not drawn toward each other by any common ties of vocation. in the early part of my life i turned to literature, not that i expected to realize a fortune in such a pursuit, but because i could do nothing else. flanders was a sort of general speculator. it seemed to me that every time he stepped out in the street he saw a dollar, chased it, overtook it, and put it in his pocket. my work was difficult and uncertain; and the pigeon-holes of my desk were often stuffed with rejected manuscripts. gradually i discovered that i could not write if i knew that flanders was in the same building in which i had a room. at first i regarded this feeling as a nervous freak, and tried to put it aside, but then, finding that every literary thought had flown away from me, i would discover that flanders was in the building. one day when i heard his footsteps in the hall i called him into my room. "flanders," said i, "you know that i have to make my living by literary work?" "yes," he replied. "well, but do you know that you contribute largely to my failure?" "no," he replied; "how can that be?" "it is in this way, flanders: i can not write while you are in this building. just so soon as you step into the elevator downstairs, my ideas droop and my pen splutters." "i am sorry," he rejoined. "i know you are," said i, "for there is not in the world a more sympathetic man than you are." "if i am so sympathetic, then why should i disturb you so?" "i don't know, flanders, but you do disturb me. now, i have a favor to ask of you." "it shall be granted." "it is this: please do not come into this building again." "i will stay away," he said. he did not come into the building again, and for a time i wrote with ease; but one day my ideas flew away and my pen cut through the paper. i knew that flanders was not in the building, but i knew that he was in town. i strove to write, but this fact weighed upon me. i went out to look for flanders. i found him in the open board of trade, busily engaged in driving a bargain. i drew him to one side. "flanders," said i, "you have again put my ideas to flight." "how so?" he asked. "i have not been in your building since you requested me to keep away." "i know that; but you are in chicago, and i have discovered that i can not write if we are in the same town. now, it really makes no difference to you where you are." "no," he replied. "you can make a living anywhere." "yes." "well, then, leave this city." "i will do so," said he. "i will go to new york." i bade him an affectionate good-by, and he left on the next eastern-bound train. i returned to my work with a feeling of refreshment. my pen tripped over the paper with graceful airiness, and my thoughts, arrayed in gay apparel, sported joyously. thus several weeks went by, but one day my pen stopped. i urged it, as a farmer urges a balky horse, but it refused to move forward. it was because flanders was in this country. i wrote to him: "flanders," said i, "you must leave new york--must leave the united states. i can not write if we are both under the same flag. i have a great piece of work to perform and i know that you will not seek to deprive me of the fame which its accomplishment will bring. please leave this country." a few days later i received the following reply: "i leave to-day for london." again i went to work with a thrill of pleasure. the rosebuds of thought opened with each passing breeze of inspiration. a month passed. one day my pen fell. instantly my thoughts flew to flanders, and i sadly shook my head. i could not write if flanders and i lived in english-speaking countries. i wrote to him. he was still generous, for in his reply he said: "i appreciate your feelings. to-morrow i shall sail for asia." again i experienced the usual relief, and the rosebuds which had so long been covered with dust, opened with blooming freshness. flanders wrote to me from pekin. then my pen fell again. i could not write if he and i were in the same world. i replied to his letter: "flanders," said i, "come home at once." i waited two weary months. one night, just as i had lighted my lamp and sat down to dream with de quincy, flanders shoved open the door and entered the room. i threw my arms about him and pressed him to me for i loved him. "are you glad to see me, flanders?" i asked, shoving him into an easy seat. "delighted," he replied. "what is it you would have me do?" "nothing but sit where you are." he looked at me with affection. his eyes were soft and glowing. i reached into my desk and took out a sharp paper-cutter, and, as flanders was beaming upon me, i stabbed him. he sprang to his feet and threw his arms about me, but i stabbed him again and again. he sank to the floor and i sat down to my work. oh, how my thoughts flew. with wings that were feathered with silvery down and tipped with gold, they soared higher and higher. i---"hold on," said the judge. "i would not have permitted this statement had i not from the first been interested in its very curiousness. you are not charged with the murder of anyone named flanders. you found a little boy playing among the flowers in a park and slew him." the prisoner pressed his hands to his head. "oh," he cried, "if flanders be not dead i can not write. he would not deprive me of the fame----" an officer led him away. hendricks knew it. jasper hendricks, old man blue, abe stallcup, and several other men, farmers in the neighborhood, sat, one rainy day, about the fireplace in a tennessee crossroads store. autumn had just begun to enforce its principles--that is, a lingering mildness of atmosphere had just turned cool enough to shiver a little when the sun had sunk behind the distant timber line. the "evangelist" had made his annual fall visit to the neighborhood, and, assisted by local talent, was holding a revival in round pound meeting-house. the party of men in the store had been discussing the main features of the meeting, and in their crude way had been speculating upon religion in general, when old man blue, a deacon and an ultra-religionist, remarked: "wall, gentle_men_, it's all right ter talk, but when the ho'n blows, callin' us ter a final settle_ment_, w'y we jest nachully cave; that's all. the bravest man in the world would a leetle ruther stay here, ef he's in his right mind, than ter take the chances in a neighborhood (as a feller named _hamestring_ or _hamlet_, i dunno which, once said) frum which thar ain't nobody returned ter tell us the condition uv the craps an' sich. now i've a putty strong hope that my after-life will be smooth an' easy, but i'll jest tell you whut's er fack, i'd ruther stay here er leetle longer, even ef i hafter plow with er jumpin' coulter an' break a yoke of calves urcasion'ly, than ter go thar." "you air right!" stallcup responded. "at times when we air sorter shoutin' round the mourner's bench we feel like we wouldn't kere ef we wuz called erway at wunst, but airter we git out an' see the sun shine the next day, an' see the birds erhoppin' erround the straw-stack, an' lissen ter the ole jaybird that's dun picked a quarrel with the yallerhammer, w'y we feel sorter like stayin' here a while longer." then jasper hendricks spoke. every one turned to pay him particular attention. he was the one man in the neighborhood whom no one understood. he was strikingly handsome--tall, with soft black hair that seemed to worm itself into graceful curls. he was not saintly in his deportment. often at night, while a furious storm was raging, and while the lightning painted in frightful colors a momentary picture on the cliffs, hendricks, half drunk and chanting a stirring tune, had been seen to gallop at desperate speed through the crash and roar of the weather's awful outbreak. "gentlemen," said hendricks, "you air but pore proofs uv yo' faith. ef you really believe whut you say you do--believe that thar is er crown that airter while will press with gentle soothin' on your troubled brows, you would long fur the time when you mout leave this world. the shinin' uv the sun an' the quarrel uv the jaybird an' yallerhammer wouldn't have no influence ter hold you back frum er everlastin' joy." "hendricks," said old man blue, "you air er sort uv er poet an' kain't understan' the feelin's uv er common man." "i'm not er poet only in feelin'," hendricks replied, "but ef i was i'd know mo' erbout you than i do, fur the poet, erbove all others, understan's the feelin's uv the common man. it is his perfeck understan'in' uv the heart uv the common man that makes him er poet." "have you got any hope in the next world, hendricks?" old man blue asked. "have you?" "yas." "why?" "becaze, i've got er promise." "who made it?" "w'y, the lord, i think." "promised you that you would be perfectly happy in the next world?" "yas," the old man replied. "air you perfeckly happy in this here world?" "no, i ain't." "do you believe that the lord always keeps his promises?" "yas, i do." "then why don't you want ter go ter the next world at once? why don't you pray fur death?" "i don't know, hendricks." "i do." "why, then?" "because you don't believe the lord has made you any promise." "oh, yas, i do." "oh, no, you don't." "wall, i tell you whut it is, hendricks, no sensible man hankers airter dyin'." "he does, if the lord has made him a promise." "yas, but he wants ter wait the lord's own time." "a good excuse," hendricks replied. "you want to wait the lord's own time, an' you hope that the lord's time will be long." "hendricks, you kain't blame er man for wantin' to live." "yes, i can, if he believes that he would be better off in another world." "but he don't know that." "then he ain't got religion, an' don't b'l'eve what god says." "oh, yas, hendricks. you know it would skeer you might'ly ef you knowed you had ter die ter-day." "i'm not religious, but ter know that i had ter die ter-day wouldn't skeer me." "i think it would, hendricks." "but i know it wouldn't; so now, fur the sake uv argyment, let us say that i have got ter die ter-day." "yas," rejoined old blue, "we ken say it fur argyment's sake, an' it won't skeer you, but ef it was sho' 'nuff, it would." "wall, then, say it's sho' 'nuff." "we ken say it, but that won't skeer you, fur you know it ain't true." "but i know it is true." "what, you know that you are goin' ter die ter-day?" "yes, sir." "how do you know it?" "by this fack," hendricks replied. he drew a revolver, placed it against his head, and fired. he fell from the chair, dead. the men looked in horror upon the scene. a breeze through the open doorway stirred hendricks' hair into beautiful curls. wearing out the carpet. among the guests at a small summer hotel were a little boy and his mother. the boy's fullness of life and richness of prankish resource kept the timid, shrinking mother in a constant state of alarm; and the servants, noticing that she was afraid that her son might give offense, took pains to increase her anxiety by telling the child, in those soft but forced tones of kindness which burn worse than harshness, not to make so much noise and not to scatter bread crumbs on the steps. the proprietor's wife, an old woman whom everyone said was motherly, unconsciously took a cue from the servants, and, forgetting that her own sons and daughters were once noisy children, began to oppress the boy. "sh-sh--don't make a fuss," she said, meeting him in the hall. "little boys must be seen and not heard. go and put that ball away. you might break something. never mind that cat. get out of my way. i wonder what your mother can be thinking about." "tommie," his mother called from a neighboring room. "maam." "come here." "i ain't doin' nothin'." "oh, let him alone, i pray you," said the proprietor's wife, inclining her head and smiling at the mother, who had appeared in the doorway. "i was simply afraid that he might break something with his ball, but do let him enjoy himself, i beseech you. children will be children, you know." "i do hope he won't cause you any trouble," the mother replied. "i do the very best i can with him, but--i--i--come here, son." she reached out, took the boy by the hand, and drew him into the room. "what makes you cry, mamma?" "because you are so bad, darling," she replied, taking him into her arms. "i didn't know i was bad." "but you are. you seem to make everybody miserable." "what's miserable?" "unhappy." "what's unhappy?" "go, sit down over there." he climbed up on a trunk, twisted himself around, tore his clothes, got down, killed a fly on the window pane, picked up a feather which he found in a corner, threw it up and blew his breath upon it, turned over a work-basket, climbed upon the bed where his mother had lain down, put his hands on her face, gazed with mischievous tenderness into her eyes, and said: "i love you." she clasped him to her bosom. "you'll be a good boy, won't you?" "yessum, an' when that nigger makes a face at me, i won't say anything." "well, you must not." "an' musn't i grab holt of the calf's tail when he shoves it through the fence?" "no." "why?" "oh, because it will hurt him. let mamma go to sleep now, but don't you go out." "nome." the woman sank to sleep. the boy got off the bed and went to the window. he looked up at a fly that was buzzing at the top, went back to the bed, gently kissed his mother, and stole out into the hall. exuberant with freedom, he began to gallop in imitation of a horse. "sh-sh!" he was confronted by the proprietor's wife. "what are you racing around here like a mule for--say? don't you know you are wearing out the carpet? why don't you go somewhere and sit down and behave like a human being? think i bought this carpet to have it scuffed out this way? stop raking your foot on the floor that way." he held up his hands as if, in begging for forgiveness, he would kiss her. "don't put your greasy hands on me. go on, now, and don't rake your feet on this carpet. i don't know what mothers these days can be thinking about." "tommie," his mother called. "yessum." "come here." "oh, i don't know what to do with you," she said, when she had drawn him into the room. "what makes you so bad?" "i dunno; but it must be the bad man." "yes, and he'll get you, too, if you don't behave yourself." "and will he hurt me?" "yes; he will." "how?" "burn you." "ho! i'd shoot him." "you couldn't." "why couldn't i?" "oh, i don't know." "then how do you know he would burn me?" "oh, i don't know that he would." "then what made you say that he would?" "for gracious sake, give me a little peace." "a little piece of bread?" he asked, while his eyes twinkled with mischief. "hush, sir; hush. not another word out of you. take your dirty hands away from my face." "i want to hug you." "well, hug me, then, and sit down." "you love me, don't you?" "yes, little angel," she said, pressing him to her bosom. "more than all the houses an' railroads an' steamboats put together?" "yes." to the mother the days were dragged over the field of time like the dead body of an animal. in misery lest her son should cause offense, she watched him, and, at table, hushed him. the proprietor's wife scolded him, and at last the little fellow's spirit was cowed. he crept through the hall, and, on tiptoe, to keep from wearing out the carpets, he moved through the house. he would shrink when he saw the proprietor's wife, and in his sleep he muttered apologies and declared that he would be good. one morning he awoke with a burning fever. "i wish you would come in and see my little boy," said the mother, addressing the proprietor's wife. she went in. the little fellow looked at her, and, as a deeply-troubled expression crossed his face, said: "i won't wear out the carpet." "why, no, you won't hurt the carpet. get up and run on it all you want to." "i can't, now." "but you can after awhile." days of suffering; nights of dread. everything had been done and the doctor had gone home. a heart-broken woman buried her face in the bedclothes. the proprietor's wife, with tears streaming down her face, stood looking upon a wasted face which had, only a short time before, beamed with mischief. "little boy," she said, "dear little fellow, you are going to leave us. you are going to heaven." "no," he faintly replied, "i will be in the way, and they won't let me laugh there." a long silence followed, and then the old woman whispered: "he is gone." a man with heavy boots walked on the carpet in the hall. a bridegroom. one hot afternoon a tramp printer entered the office of the franklin (ky.) _patriot_. the regular corps of compositors were sufficient to do all necessary work, but the boys were lazy and wanted to go fishing, so the tramp was given temporary employment. when the boys returned next day they were surprised, and not a little ashamed, to see that the tramp had "set up" the entire paper--work which would have taken the entire force several days to perform. when the proof-sheets were brought in, they were found to be so clean that the editor of the _patriot_ sent for the tramp. "what is your name?" the editor asked. "oscar howell." "where are you from?" mr. howell waived his hand around in a complete circle. "what does that mean?" "means that i am from everywhere." "do you want work?" "that's the reason i came here." "i mean regular work." "yes; but i don't want to throw anybody out of a job." "glad you are so honorable; but those boys out there are my sons and i am thinking of sending them to school." "all right, then, i will take their place." "do you drink?" "i wound up the ball of an extended spree the other day, but i am not going to drink any more." "i hope your resolution may hold out." "i will give it many a half-soling." "well, you may begin regular work to-morrow morning." "all right, sir." within two months from that time mr. howell was one of the best dressed men in the town. people who had commented on his shabby appearance now called him handsome. he joined the good templars' lodge and mingled in the society of the tittering maidens of the village. doctors and lawyers sought his company. he had brought a literary freshness to the town. his jokes were new; his courtesy marked. one year passed away. mr. howell was engaged to marry the handsomest and most intelligent young woman in the town. the girl's father and mother were delighted. howell was envied by all the young men. the day for the wedding drew near. the "popular and enterprising tailor" had made howell's wedding suit. one day another tramp entered the office. howell dropped his "make-up rule" and sprang forward to meet him. "why, shorty, how are you?" "sorter slow," the tramp replied as he placed his elbows on the imposing-stone. "how is it with you?" "oh, i am flying. going to get married to-morrow night." "glad to hear it. when we separated that day with a carefully divided quart, i didn't think your lines would so soon fall in such appreciative places." "neither did i. it is all due, though, shorty, to my sobriety. i tell you there is no hope for the drunkard. i'll never drink any more." "glad. expect to quit pretty soon myself. what sort of wedding-toggery have you got?" "finest you ever saw." "would like to see 'em. where's your room?" "just across the street." "suppose we go over." "all right. you ought to see my girl." they went to howell's room. "by george!" exclaimed shorty. "you will be fixed up in style, won't you?" "i should say so. well, it's time, for i have been a fool long enough." "say, put 'em on. i want to see how you will look as a bridegroom." "i don't want to rumple 'em." "go ahead and put 'em on. you know that in my present plight i can't go to see you step off." "to please you, shorty, i'll put 'em on, but you are the only person that could cause me to yield in this matter." he put on the clothes. "by george, oscar, you look like a french dancing master. well, i'm going to take a little nip." he took a bottle out of his pocket and shook it. "here's some old stuff a fellow gave me at hopkinsville. fifteen years old. remember the time we struck that old negro for a pint of peach brandy? well, here's to you. ah, hah, hah. would you try a little?" "no." "won't hurt you. wouldn't hurt a flea. i tell you that when a fellow feels bilious a little licker is a mighty good thing for him. ever get bilious?" "yes, bilious now. haven't had any appetite for a week." "i was 'way off the other day, but this stuff (again shaking the bottle), has set me all right." "you don't mean to say that you have had that licker for several days?" "yes. tell you what's a fact, a man doesn't want but little of this stuff, and the beauty of it is, it keeps him from drinking bad licker." "let me smell of it." howell held the bottle to his nose. then, with a sudden impulse, his lips closed over the neck. "ah, that is good. what sort of a time have you had since i saw you last?" "tough, i tell you. take another pull and hand it over here. recollect that song old patsy bolivar used to sing--'when this old coat was new?'" "yes," howell replied, "i was thinking about it the other night. let me taste your ware, as simple simon remarked. getting pretty low, too." "yes, too low." "that isn't bad. say, can you sing patsy's song?" "might if i had licker enough." "let's slip down the back stairs into that saloon." "all right, but ain't you going to take off your wedding clothes?" "no; we won't be down there but a few minutes." * * * * * the next day a battered bridegroom and a ragged tramp awoke in a cattle car, seventy-five miles from franklin. "say, oscar!" "well." "give me your vest. you ain't got no use for so much toggery." "all right, here she is." "where shall we strike for?" "reckon we'd better get off at the junction and strike out down the memphis road." dave summers. his own story of a romance and its ending. dar ain't no frolic in whut i'm gwine ter tell. i know dat some folks thinks dat er nigger's life is made up o' laziniss an skylarkin', but dat belief, 'specially in my case, ain't de truf. oh, i had my fun w'en i wuz er youngster. bless you, dar wa'n't er pusson in de neighborhood dat hankered atter mischief mo' den dave summers did, but 'stead o' ole age bringin' dat peace an' rest, which, eben in de libely time o' youth, sensible pussons looks forward ter, dar come trouble o' de blackest sort. w'en i wuz erbout fifty years ole, de notion got inter my head dat i aughter preach. i doan know how it got dar--sholy not becaze i had been thinkin' erbout it--fur de fust thing i know'd erbout it wuz wakin' up one mawnin' wid de idee. i talked wid some o' my frien's an' da said: "dave, dat is er call, an' you better not be projickin' wid it. de speret wants yer ter fling yer voice inter de gospul work an' you better not make er jonah o' yerse'f by tryin' ter run erway." "but how's i gwine ter preach?" i axed. "it's 'bout ez much ez i ken do ter read." "de lawd ain't axed you ter read," one o' my frien's says. "he axes yer ter preach; ef you ken read er little, you ken l'arn how ter read mo'." i went erway, mighty troubled in my mine. my wife had been dead fur sebrel years, an' not habbin' any chillum i libed by myse'f in er cabin on er big plan'ation. i shet myse'f up an' prayed. de naixt mawnin' my load 'peared ter be heavier. dar wa'n't nuthin' left fur me, so i says: "i will preach. i will get somebody ter l'arn me how ter read mo' an' i will preach de gospul de bes' i knows how." den i thought o' my load, but it wuz gone. it wa'n't long till i stood up in de pulpit. dar wuz sebrel smart men in de church, an' it 'peared ter 'muze 'em might'ly ter yere ez ignunt er man ez i wuz talk erbout heaben an' de souls o' men. ah, lawd! ignunce ken fling ez much light on some subjec's ez de greates' 'arthly wisdom ken. i went at my work in earnes', not tryin' ter git up er great 'citement, but 'deavorin' ter show de folks de right way to live in dis worl' so da would be better prepared for de life to come; an' ef dar eber wuz er man dat wuz hones' an' true ter his callin' i b'l'ebes dat i wuz de pusson. 'mong de members o' my flock wuz er mighty likely 'oman named frances. i wuz fust drawed toward her by her singin', an' one time when de sweetness o' her music died away, i looked at her an' 'knowledge ter myse'f dat i loved her. at fust she sung fur my soul an' i worshiped wid her, but atter w'ile she sung ter my heart an' i worshiped her. i tried ter think o' my ole wife lying' in de shade o' de sycamo' trees, an, in my min' i could see de rail pen round her grave an' de trees would be gone an' in dar place would stan' a likely 'oman smilin' at me. i went ter my ole wife's grave an' drapped down on my knees an' prayed. de broad sycamo' leaves waved and specks o' moonlight come siftin' down like de flyin' chaff o' new oats dat ketches de light o' de fresh-born day. er makwin' bird sung in er tree close by, but, way ober on er hill, er night hawk cried. i thought how me an' my ole wife had wucked in the fiel', side by side, an' de bird seemed ter sing sweeter, but den, twixt me an' de grave dar hung er bright smile. i tried ter rub it out wid my han', but dar it hung, an' through its brightness i seed de worm-eat head-boa'd o' de grave. "o, lawd," i prayed, "let dis tem'tation pass erway. let dy sarvent in his ole age hab de strenth ter turn fum de high-strung follies o' de young man." i riz up, wid de damp, dead grass clingin' ter my knees. de lights gunter shine fum de church close by, an' de sad an' swellin' song o' de congregation peared ter lay er tremblin' han' on my heart. why did i on er sudden lean ergin er tree? becaze i heard her voice. i went inter de church an' ez i walked wid bowed head toward de pulpit i heard somebody whisper "he's been in de woods ter pray." i did not look up but i knowed who it wuz dat whispered, for my heart felt de tech o' de tremblin' han'. i preached dat night de best i could, an' it seemed dat i made my hearers feel some o' my own sadness, fur w'en i called fur de stricken in heart ter come up ter de mou'ners' bench, mo' come forward den had eber come befo' under de 'fluence o' my callin'. we stayed late in de church dat night. nearly all de mou'ners, habin' wuck ter do de naixt day, had dun left de house w'en i noticed one po' feller whose heart, it 'peared like, wuz almos' broke. he lay flat on de flo' an' groaned like he suffered great pain. i went ter him, raised him up an' hil' his head on my knee. de congregation thinned out, one by one. i leaned over an' talked ter de po' man. lookin' up i seed dat frances was kneelin' wid us. "lady--sister frances," i said, "it's time dat you wuz goin' home. de can'les is all burned away an' de lamps is goin' out." "i will stay an' he'p you poor de ba'm on dis po' sinner," she replied. i didn' say no mo'; but w'en mo' den er hour afterwards de sinner got up ter go, i says ter her: "sister frances, if you ain't got no 'jections, i'll walk home wid you." she smiled--de same smile dat i had seed twixt me an' de worm-eat head-boa'd o' de grave--an' said dat she would be pleased for me ter 'company her. i doan know what i said ter her ez we walked erlong, but i know dat w'en we got ter de little gate in front o' de cabin w'ar her folks libed, she wuz leanin' on my arm. de moon had gone down, an' de flutterin' in de trees in de yard told me dat de mawnin' birds wuz fixin' ter begin dar twitterin'. "brudder summers," said de lady, ez i wuz erbout ter bid her good-bye, "dar 'pears ter be sunthin' on yo' mine." "not only on my mine, sister frances, but dar is sunthin' on my heart." i was goin' ter turn erway atter dis, but she put her han' on my arm--de same tremblin' han' dat had teched my heart--an' said: "tell me 'bout yo' troubles. tell me whut is lyin' on yo' heart." "er tremblin' han', lady." "does you know dat it is er han'?" "yas, fur i keen see it in de light o' 'er bright smile." "is de han' cold?" "no, lady." "is it ez wa'm ez mine?" she said, ez she put her han' in my own fever-like grasp. de naixt minit my arm wuz around her. de mawnin' birds twittered in de trees, light gunter wink ercross de bottoms, an' dar, ez de gold o' de day wuz chasin' de fleetin' silver o' de dawn, i axed her ter be my wife. chapter ii. we wuz married. i tuck her ter my cabin an' bright light fell on my hearth-stone. she wanted ter he'p me in my work o' 'swadin' folks ter do right. "i know," she said, "dat folks all erround us will be makin' mo' money den we is, but money doan water de flowers o' de heart, nur broaden de 'joyment dat comes ter de soul." i lubbed her deeper atter she said dat, fur i seed dat her natur wa'n't vain nur her heart set upon de flesh-pots o' de world. two years passed erway--two o' de happies' years o' my life. one day dar was some bills stuck up 'nouncin' dat andrew hennifen, er colored politician dat libbed in town, would on de naixt friday make er speech ter de folks. er campaign wuz on han' an' gre't intrus' wuz felt in de outcome. w'en de day come de weather wuz so showery dat da couldn' hol' de meetin' out do's, so some o' de men come ter me an' axed me ef da mout meet in de church. i didn' much think dat it wuz de right sort er meetin' ter be hel' in de house o' de lawd, but seein' dat da wuz all so anxious, i tole em dat da mout. den da axed me ter go ober an' lissen ter de gre't speech wut de generman wuz gwine ter make. i didn' like de idee o' settin' in my own church and lissenin' ter de skussion o' de erfairs o' de worl'. den frances spoke up: "w'y, dave," she said, "if we are gwine ter lib in de worl' we mus' take some intrus' in de erfairs o' de worl'. ef de man had got anything wuth yearin', i doan see w'y we aughtenter go an' lissen ter him. ef we finds dat wut he says ain't fit fer us, w'y den we ken come erway." "wut you says is true, frances," i replied, "an you mus' scuse me ef i is holdin' you back in any way. er ole man loves wid jes' es much wa'mth ez er young man does, an' it is er pity dat he doan lub wid ez much jedgment." "you musn' talk dat way, dave," she said, wid er laugh, "fur in lovin' me yo' jedgment ain't made no mistake." hennifen wuz er tall, yaller man, an' much younger den i 'spected ter fine him. in his speech he used a good deal o' strong talk, an' called er lot o' folks dat wa'n't present, liars an' thieves. i didn' like dis, but er man dat sat naixt ter me tole me dat it wuz all right, an' dat ef de speaker didn' do dater way, de folks would think dat he wuz erfeered ter 'nounce his principles. atter de speakin' wuz over, de speaker come up ter me, hil' out his han' an' said: "mr. summers, i has often hearn o' you, sah, an' i takes dis 'tunity o' shakin' han's wid you." wen i had shuck han's wid him, he said: "is dis yo' daughter wid you?" "my wife, sah," said i. "ah, i's pleased ter meet de lady." we walked on outen de house, an' hennifen wuz so busy talkin' 'bout de gre't principles o' his party dat he didn' seem ter notice dat he wuz walkin' erway fum de crowd wid us. atter w'ile he stopped an' said dat he reckoned he better go back. "won't you walk on home wid us?" my wife said. "i thanks you kindly; i b'l'ebe i will," he answered. "i would like ter see de inside o' my 'stinguished 'quaintance's house," makin' er sideways motion wid his head at me, "an' 'sides dat, i'se got er little bizness ter talk ober wid him." "you will see er lowly household," said i, "fur i ain't been gaged in gederin' de shinin' goods o' de yeth, but at de do' you will see er vine dat is watered wid truf an' dat blooms in contentment." "dar ain't no reason why dar shouldn' be some o' de shinin' goods o' de yeth in yo' house," said he. "de fack dat da is o' de yeth doan meek 'em none de less de lawd's, an' bein' shiny doan meck 'em de property o' satan." i seed my wife look at him wid er quick glance, an' i knowed dat she 'proved o' wut he said. i seed mo' den dat--i seed wut until dat time had 'scaped me--i seed dat de man wuz good lookin'. i felt er pang o' oneasiness, an' i cleared my froat deep, ez ef i would rasp de pang outen my bosom. w'en we got ter de house, he set down in er rockin' cheer an' made hisse'f look freer an' easier den i had eber felt in any house 'cep' my own. frances went inter de little shed kitchin dat j'ined de house an' cooked dinner. it struck me dat she tuk er heep o' pains, specially w'en she fotch out er table clof dat i didn' know she had. atter dinner mr. hennifen said dat he would git down ter bizness. "mr. summers, you is too smart er man ter be wastin' yo' substance," wuz de way he started out. i didn' say nothin'. he went on: "you hab got de 'bility ter make yo'se'f mighty useful ter yo' country. de 'fluence dat you has 'stablished ober yo' fellerman ken be turned ter rich ercount. de bes' people in dis county wants ter 'lect hillson fur sheriff. dis ken only be done by good men puttin' dar shoulders ter de wheel. i is hillson's right han' man, an i's got de 'thority for sayin' dat ef you'll turn in an' make speeches fur him dat he will pay you well." my wife looked at me. "mr. hennifen," said i, "wut you say may be de truf, but i is makin' speeches fur de lawd." "yes, but makin' speeches for de lawd, mr. summers, needn' keep you frum speakin' in fabor o' hillson." "dave," said my wife, "mr. hennifen is sholy right, an', mo'n dat, ef dar's er man in dis neighborhood dat needs money, you is de man. de folks dat lissuns ter you preach neber seems ter know dat we needs things in dis house." "frances," i replied, "mr. hillson ain't er man o' my choice. he has been mixed up in ugly erfairs, an' i kain't make no speeches fur him; so, let de subjeck drap right whar it is." hennifen 'sisted on sayin' mo', but i tole him it wa'n't no use. he didn' stay long atter dis, but sayin' dat he would see me ergin, went erway. "does you allus 'spect ter lib in poverty?" my wife axed. "i doan 'spect ter meck speeches in fabor o' er dishones' man," i answered. hennifen come back inter de neighborhood de naixt week an' called at my house, but i wa'n't at home. when i axed frances wut he had ter say, she said dat he didn' stay but er few minits an' didn' say much o' anythin'. er few days atterwards i hearn dat he wuz in de neighborhood ergin, workin' wid de voters, but he didn' come ter my house, an' i didn' hunt him. nearly er munt must hab passed w'en one day i wuz called on ter preach de funul o' er man ober in ernuder 'munity. i didn' git back till late in de night. de house wuz dark, an' ez i went up ter de do' i tangled my foot in de vine, stumbled an' tore it up by de roots. i went in an' lit de candle. frances wa'n't dar. i called her--stepped to de do' an' called her till de echo o' my voice brought back wid it de cry o' er night bird. i went ober ter er neighbor's house. de women folks 'gun ter cry ez soon ez da seed me. i axed ef da had seen frances. "oh, brudder summers, she's dun gone wid dat yaller raskil. he fotch er buggy an' tuck her erway." i went down ter de sycamo' trees w'ar my ole wife wuz buried, an' got down on my knees. dar wa'n't no bright smile 'twixt me an' de grave. chapter iii. de women folks fotch flowers nearly ever' day an' put 'em in my house, an' de men folks tuck off dar hats w'en da come w'ar i wuz. i kep' on makin' speeches fur de lawd, an' men dat wuz once noisy in church wuz now quiet. de 'leckshun time come on, and i kotch up my old gray hoss an' rid up ter town. i went ter all de votin' places, but didn' see nobody dat i knowed. i heard one man say: "wonder wut dat cuis-lookin' ole man is er pokin' 'roun' yere fur?" den somebody answered: "dar's er yaller man dodgin' 'round yere somewhar dat mout fling some light on dat question." ever' time i hearn o' any p'litical ter-do anywhar, i rid dar, but didn' see nobody dat i knowed. winter time come, de col'est winter dat i eber felt. one sunday dar come er heavy snow, an' dat night it turned so col' dat i couldn' hardly keep wa'm by de fire. de win' blowed hard. suthin flapped ergin de winder. i hil' de candle, an' dar seed de great starin' eyes o' er night bird. i turned erway an' had jes' sot down by de fire w'en i hearn er noise at de do'; i lissened, an' den i hearn er groan. my heart felt de tech o' er col' hand, an' i knowed dat frances had come back. i opened de do'; she lay on de groun' wid her face turned up. i tuck her in my arms an' laid her on de bed. "dave--dave, won't you forgib me?" i stood lookin' at her. "oh, won't you forgib me? de lawd has pardoned me, an' i has come back ter ax you--you--" "yas," i said, "yas, po' child. go ter sleep in peace." she looked at me an' tried ter smile, but de light wuz gone, an' dar wa'n't no smile 'twixt me and de grave. we laid her under de sycamo' trees, but not w'ar my old wife wuz buried. i kep' on goin' ter p'litical meetin's, an' some folks wondered why er ole man dat neber voted tuck such intrus' in sich erfairs. one day i wuz ridin' 'long er road near w'ar er number o' convicts wuz at work. i seed er man dat i knowed 'cross de road in front o' me. i turned toward him. he flung up er gun and cried out: "stop, er i'll kill you. been er huntin' me long ernuff." i didn' stop, an' he fired at me, an' den, flingin' down de gun, he clim de fence an' 'gunter run ercross er fiel'. er mighty yelpin' noise made de a'r ring, an' lookin' erway ter de right, i seed er lot er bloodhounds dat da kep' fur chasin' de convicts. da wuz atter de man. somebody yelled ter 'em ter stop, but da didn'. i got offen my hoss, an', wid seb'ral men, followed de dogs. we heard de man holler--we seed him tryin' ter fight off de dogs. "mussyful god!" i hearn him cry, an' den his voice wuz swallowed up by de howlin' o' de dogs. w'en we come up ter w'ar de dogs wuz, i seed er man tore all ter pieces, an' i seed er dog, atter lookin' at me, bury his teeth in er yaller face. dat night ez i riz up frum my ole wife's grave, de dead, damp grass clung ter my knees. the captain's romance. capt. rilford is known as one of the bravest and most gallant officers of the united states army. he is one of those old bachelors to whom the passing years bring additional installments of romance. i have seen him go into ecstatic spasms over a spout spring in the mountains, and have known him to lie under a tree and shed tears over the misfortunes of a heroine drawn by some fourth-class romancer; but in action he was so fearless that his brother officers excused what they pleased to term his soft qualities. a short time ago the captain was granted a leave of absence. he had long since grown tired of all the fashionable watering-places, and no longer could find anything in the cities to interest him, so the question of how he should spend that time, which was all his own, began to perplex him. "i am acquainted with both the wild and civilized life of our country," said he, addressing a friend. "i know the wild indian and the boston swell; and, to tell you the truth, i don't know what to do." "yes, you are acquainted with the extremes," the friend rejoined, "but do you know much of the intermediate? you have made a study of the indian in his wild state, but do you know anything of him as a citizen? why not go to the indian territory, the cherokee nation, for instance, and amuse yourself by studying the habits of the indian farmer?" the captain was so impressed with the idea that, the next day, he set out for the indian territory. he found the country to be beautiful, with hills of charming contemplation and valleys of enrapturing romance. streams like moving silver thrilled him, and birds, whom it seemed had just found new songs, made the leaves quiver with echoing music. after several days of delightful roaming, the captain rented a small cabin, and, having provided himself with a few cooking utensils, settled down to housekeeping. with the rifle and the fishing rod he provided ample food, and as he soon became acquainted with several farmers he thought, over and over again, that his romantic craving had never before approached so near to (in his own words) sublime satisfaction. his nearest neighbor, four miles distant, was an indian farmer named tom patterson. his family consisted of a wife and one daughter, a rather handsome girl. she had learned to read and write, and, as she seemed to be romantic, the captain soon became much interested in her. patterson was rather a kind-hearted old fellow, accommodating in everything but answering questions concerning his family, but this was not an eccentricity, for nearly all indians are disposed to say as little as possible with regard to themselves. ansy, the girl, was fond of fishing, and as no restraint was placed upon her actions, she and the captain (his words again) had many a delightful stroll. there was, i had forgotten to mention, another member of the patterson household, a negro named alf. he was as dark as the musings of a dyspeptic, but he was good-natured and obliging. "rather odd that a colored man, so fond of political life, should live out here away from the states, isn't it, alf?" the captain one day asked. "wall, no, sah, kain't say dat it is. dar's er right smart sprinklin' o' us genermen out yare, an' dough we's mighty fur erpart we manages ter keep up good 'sciety, sah. yes, sah, an' ef it wa'n't fur de cullud genermen in dis yare 'munity w'y de territory would dun been gone ter rack an' ruin. caze why? i'll tell yo', sah. de ingin is a mighty han' ter furnish meat, but gittin' o' de bread is a different thing. in udder words, sah, he kin kill er deer but he ain't er good han' to raise co'n. yes, sah, de nigger ken plow all roun' de ingin, an' de ingin knowin' dis, ginally gins de niggah er good chance." "you work with mr. patterson on shares, don't you?" "yes, sah; ha'f o' dis crap 'longs ter me. w'y, fo' i come yare dar wa'n't hardly nuthin' raised on dis place but weeds an' grass. i happened to meet patterson in fort smif one time. he hearn me talk erbout farmin' an' den he made a dead set at me ter come home wid him." "are the people throughout this neighborhood very peaceable?" "yas, sah, lessen da gits 'spicious o' er pusson, an' den look out. da looks cuis at ever' stranger, thinkin' dat he's spyin' 'roun' an' tryin' ter talk de injuns in faber o' openin' up this yare territory. dar's er passul o' fellers ober de creek dat calls darselves de glicks. da is allus 'spicious, an' i tells you whut's er fack, i'd ruther hab er team o' mules run ober me an' den be butted by a muley steer--an' i does think way down in my cibilization dat er muley steer ken thump harder den anything on de face o' de yeth--den ter hab dem glicks git atter me. seed 'em hang er pusson once jes' fur nuthin' in de worl', an' da didn' ax him no questions, nuther." as the days passed the girl seemed to be more and more pleased with the captain. one evening they sat on the bank of a stream, fishing. the sun had sunk beyond a distant hill, but continued to pour over his light, like a golden waterfall. "ansy," said the captain, "this is a beautiful and romantic country; but do you not grow tired of living here all the time?" "if we don't know any other life we do not grow tired of this one," she replied. "you are a little philosopher," the captain exclaimed. "i don't know what that is, captain, but if you want me to be one i will try to be." the captain smiled and regarded her with a look of affection. "the great cities would delight you for a time, ansy, and then you could come back here with a heightened appreciation of the sublime surroundings of your own home." "the sun has blown out his candle," she said, pointing. "it is time for us to go." chapter ii. the captain could not sleep. he had extinguished his lamp, but on the wall there was a bright light. it grew brighter, and then he saw that it was the face of ansy. a rap came at the door. "who's there?" "captain, for god's sake run away. the glicks are coming after you." it was the voice of ansy. the captain dressed himself and opened the door. the girl was gone. the moon was shining. the officer was not the man to run away. he closed the door, took up a repeating rifle and opened a small window. he waited. a few moments passed and he saw several men enter the clearing in front of the cabin. "what do you want here?" the captain shouted. "we want you." "what do you want with me?" "ask you some questions." "you may ask questions, but don't come a step nearer." "what did you come here for?" "none of your business." this reply created a commotion. the captain could hear the marauders swearing. "we'll break down the door," one of them said as he stepped forward. the next moment he had fallen to the ground. when the smoke cleared away the captain saw that the rascals were gone, but there soon came from the woods a shower of blazing arrows. it was time to get away. the captain made a hole in the roof, crawled out, sprang to the ground and hurried into the woods. early the next morning he went to patterson's house. the family had heard of the fight. "you neenter be 'larmed now, dough, sah," said alf, the negro, "caze da foun' out dat you wuz er newnited states ossifer, an' it skeered 'em putty nigh ter def. you gin it ter one o' 'em putty hard, i ken tell you. shot him squar through, an' da doan think he gwine ter lib, da doan, but dat ain't no matter, fur he wuz de wust one in de bunch. ef he dies, folks 'roun' yare will hol' er pra'r-meetin' thankin' de lawd." patterson and his wife left the room, but the negro sat in the doorway. "ansy," said the captain, "i owe my life to you." "dat you does, sah," alf replied. the captain gave him a significant glance and again turned to the girl. "yes, you have saved my life, but that is not the cause of my deep--deep (he glanced at the negro)--deep regard for you." the girl made no reply. the captain could have killed the negro. "i will ignore his black presence," the captain mused. he leaned over and took the girl's hand. "ansy," said the negro, "w'en dis yare generman gits through wid yo' han' i wants you ter sew er few buttons on dat ar hickory shirt o' mine." "you scoundrel," exclaimed the captain, springing to his feet, "how dare you speak in such a manner to this young lady?" "why, boss," the negro replied, "what's de use'n makin' sich er great 'miration. dat 'oman has been my wife fur putty nigh two years." the captain's romance was ended. old tildy. in nearly every neighborhood of the south, there comes, in the fall of the year, a sort of religious wave. men, who, during the summer swore at their horses and stopped but little short of blasphemy, in imprecatory remarks addressed to obdurate steers, turn reverently, after fodder-pulling time, to mt. zion, ebeneezer, new hope and round pond, to hear the enthusiastic pleadings of the circuit rider and the begging injunctions of the strolling evangelist. robert's cove, in east tennessee, is a neighborhood typical of this peculiar religious condition. last autumn, when the katydid shivered on the damp oak leaf and the raccoon cracked the shell of the pinching "crawfish," there suddenly appeared at ebeneezer meeting-house a young man of most remarkable presence. he was handsome, tall, graceful, and with hair as bright and waving as the locks of the vision that come to _clarence_ in his awful dream. he said that his name was john mayberry. he had come to preach the gospel in a simple, child-like way, and hoped that his hearers, for the good of their souls, would pay respectful heed to his words. a materialist would have called him a fanatic, but as there were no materialists in that neighborhood, he soon became known as a devout christian and a powerful worker in the harvest-field of faith. he read hallowed books written by men who lived when the ungodly sword and the godly pen were at war against each other, and in his fervor his language bore a power which his rude hearers had never felt before. one night, after a stormy time at the mourners' bench, and while women whose spirits were distressed still stood sobbing about the altar, mayberry approached a well-known member of the church, and said: "who is that peculiar old woman, that wrinkled and strange-eyed dwarf who sits so near the pulpit every night?" "we call her old tildy," brother hendricks replied. "she has been a-livin' in this here neighborhood mighty nigh ever sense i kin ricolleck. she's a mighty strange old woman, but i never hearn no harm uv her." "she may be a good woman," the preacher rejoined, "but she casts a chill over me every time i look at her. goodbye, brother hendricks. think of me to-night when you get down on your knees." the preacher sought his temporary home. he lived about a mile from the church, in an old log cabin with one room. many of the people had offered him a home, but, declining, he declared that he wanted to be alone at night, so that, undisturbed, he could pursue his studies or pray for inspiration. the hour was late. the preacher had taken down "fox's book of martyrs" and was looking at its thrilling illustrations, when a knock at the door startled him. "come in," he called. old tildy stepped into the room, and, quickly closing the door, stood with her back against it. she nodded her head and smiled--a snaggle-tooth grin--and said: "how air yer, brother mayberry?" "i am very well, i thank you." "powerful glad ter know that folks air well." "thank you; but what business can you have with me at this time of night?" "mighty 'portant bizness, brother mayberry, mighty 'portant." "does it concern your soul?" "not ez much ez it do yourn, brother mayberry; not nigh so much ez it do yourn." "i don't understand you!" the evangelist exclaimed. "but i'll see that you do, brother mayberry. i reckon you've noticed me at church, hai'nt you?" "yes." "well, whut you reckon i went thar fur?" "to hear the gospel, i suppose." "not much, brother mayberry; not much. i went thar to see you." "to see me! why on earth, madam, do you care to see me?" "would ruther see you on earth, brother mayberry, than anywhar else. i went to see you, brother mayberry, because i love you." "merciful heavens!" exclaimed the evangelist, throwing up his hands in a gesture of horror. "yes, brother mayberry, i love you, and i want you to be my husband." "oh, god forbid!" the disgusted preacher groaned. "yes, brother mayberry, but the lawd hain't forbid. let me tell you one thing: when old tildy sets her head, w'y suthin' is goin' ter happen. does folks cross old tildy? yes, sometimes. did old patterson cross tildy? yes, patterson crossed po', old, harmless tildy. whut did tildy do? she grabbed patterson's boy an' hil him under the water till he was drounded. did martin cross old tildy? yes, martin crossed old tildy. what did old tildy do? she met old martin in the woods an' killed him, an' folks thought he killed hisse'f. now, air you, in the bloom o' yo' youth and beauty, goin' to cross po', old, harmless tildy?" the cold dew of horror gathered in beads on the preacher's brow. "madam," said he, "i cannot marry you. your request is preposterous; your presence is appalling. go away." "not until i lead my husband with me, brother mayberry." "go, i tell you, or i will throw you out of the house." "throw po', old, harmless tildy out of the house? ha, ha! brother mayberry!" she took a horse-pistol from under her apron. "buckshot in this, brother mayberry; ha, buckshot." the preacher sank down on a chair. he did not care to die. in life there was such a bright promise of the good he could accomplish. he could not marry the hag, but there she stood with her awful weapon. could he not rush upon her? "no, you can't, brother mayberry," she said, lifting the pistol. she was reading his thoughts. could he not pretend that he would marry her, and afterward make his escape? "no, you can't, brother mayberry," she said. "the jestice uv the peace is waitin' outside with the license. oh, no, brother mayberry, i'll not give you a chance ter run away. wouldn't it be awful fur the people ter come here ter-morrer an' find brother mayberry with a hole through his beautiful head? must i call the jestice uv the peace, ur shoot you?" "merciful heavens, what is to become of me? i cannot die this way." "yes you can, brother mayberry." "oh, i cannot marry this hag." "not this hag, but yo' own true love, brother mayberry. come, whut do you say?" the preacher dropped upon his knees. the woman advanced a few steps. the preacher heard some one at the door. was it the justice of the peace whom the woman had under her control? a man stepped into the room. "what does this mean?" he asked "this horrible creature is going to kill me if i don't marry her," the preacher replied. "are you the justice of the peace?" the man laughed. "no, i'm no 'squire. goin' ter kill you, eh? but what with?" "that awful horse-pistol." "that's no pistol. it's simply a stick. w'y this is one of her favorite games. kill you! why she never hurt a thing in her life." "how about patterson's boy?" the preacher asked. "he's all right. i seed him this mawnin'." "yes, but she killed old martin." "did she? i saw him not more than three hours ago. come, tildy, go on away." she put the crooked stick under her apron, and, without saying a word, glided out into the darkness. the preacher lifted his hands and uttered a fervent prayer. note.--riders of monarch bicycles say they are the very "poetry of motion" and a never-ending delight. * * * * * the song of the "no. 9." my dress is of fine polished oak, as rich as the finest fur cloak, and for handsome design you just should see mine- no. 9, no. 9. i'm beloved by the poor and the rich, for both i impartially stitch; in the cabin i shine, in the mansion i'm fine- no. 9, no. 9. i never get surly nor tired, with zeal i always am fired; to hard work i incline, for rest i ne'er pine- no. 9, no. 9. i am easily purchased by all, with installments that monthly do fall, and when i am thine, then life is benign- no. 9, no. 9. to the paris exposition i went, upon getting the grand prize intent; i left all behind, the grand prize was mine- no. 9, no. 9. at the universal exposition of 1889, at paris, france, the best sewing machines of the world, including those of america, were in competition. they were passed upon by a jury composed of the best foreign mechanical experts, two of whom were the leading sewing machine manufacturers of france. this jury, after exhaustive examination and tests, adjudged that the wheeler & wilson machines were the best of all, and awarded that company the highest prize offered--the grand prize--giving other companies only gold, silver, and bronze medals. the french government, as a further recognition of superiority, decorated mr. nathaniel wheeler, president of the company, with the cross of the legion of honor--the most prized honor of france. the no. 9, for family use, and the no. 12, for manufacturing uses, are the best in the world to-day. and now, when you want a sewing machine, if you do not get the best it will be your own fault. ask your sewing machine dealer for the no. 9 wheeler & wilson machine. if he doesn't keep them, write to us for descriptive catalogue and terms. agents wanted in all unoccupied territory. wheeler & wilson mfg. co., chicago, ill. * * * * * _scotch rolled oats_ are good oats [illustration] packed in two-pound packages only. all grocers handle them. * * * * * the latest acknowledged standard manual for presidents, secretaries, directors, chairmen, presiding officers, and everyone in anyway connected with public life or corporate bodies is reed's rules by the hon. thomas b. reed, speaker of the house of representatives. "i commend the book most highly." william mckinley, _president of the united states_. "reasonable, right, and rigid." j. sterling morton, _ex-secretary of agriculture_. cloth, 75 cents, leather, $1.25. rand, mcnally & co., publishers, chicago. * * * * * built like a watch round the world the sterling wins its way sterling cycle works chicago send for catalogue _agencies in all chief cities._ * * * * * ride a monarch and keep in front monarch cycle mfg co chicagoâ·new yorkâ·londonâ· * * * * * _take the_ monon route louisville, new albany & chicago ry. co. _between_ chicago, indianapolis, cincinnati, lafayette, louisville, and all points south. through sleeping cars daily to washington and baltimore pullman sleeping cars. parlor and dining cars. only line to french lick and west baden springs, "the carlsbad of america." w. h. mcdoel, chas. h. rockwell, frank j. reed, vice-pres. and gen'l mgr. traffic mgr. gen'l pass'r agt. * * * * * chew "kis-me" gum [illustration: imported key ring] send us 3 cents and 3 "kis-me" gum wrappers, or 10 cents in stamps or coin, and we will mail you an elegant imported steel key ring as shown by above cut. throw your old ring away and get a fine one. kis-me gum co., louisville, ky. * * * * * read sons and fathers by harry stillwell edwards. the story that won the _$10,000 prize_ in the chicago record's competition. bound in english linen with gold back and side stamps. price $1.25. rand, mcnally & co., publishers, chicago and new york. copyright, 1881, by opie p. read. * * * * * marah ellis ryan's works. a flower of france. a story of old louisiana. the story is well told.--_herald, new york._ a real romance--just the kind of romance one delights in.--_times, boston._ full of stirring incident and picturesque description.--_press, philadelphia._ the interest holds the reader until the closing page.--_inter ocean, chicago._ told with great fascination and brightness. * * * the general impression delightful. * * * many thrilling scenes.--_herald, chicago._ a thrilling story of passion and action.--_commercial, memphis._ a pagan of the alleghanies. a genuine art work.--_chicago tribune._ a remarkable book, original and dramatic in conception, and pure and noble in tone.--_boston literary world._ rev. david swing said:--the books of marah ellis ryan give great pleasure to all the best class of readers. "a pagan of the alleghanies" is one of her best works; but all she writes is high and pure. her words are all true to nature, and, with her, nature is a great theme. robert g. ingersoll says:--your description of scenery and seasons--of the capture of the mountains by spring--of tree and fern, of laurel, cloud and mist, and the woods of the forest, are true, poetic, and beautiful. to say the least, the pagan saw and appreciated many of the difficulties and contradictions that grow out of and belong to creeds. he saw how hard it is to harmonize what we see and know with the idea that over all is infinite power and goodness * * * the divine spark called genius is in your brain. squaw ã�louise. vigorous, natural, entertaining.--_boston times._ a notable performance.--_chicago tribune._ a very strong story, indeed.--_chicago times._ told in the hills. a book that is more than clever. it is healthy, brave, and inspiring.--_st. louis post-dispatch._ the character of stuart is one of the finest which has been drawn by an american woman in many a day, and it is depicted with an appreciation hardly to be expected even from a man.--_boston herald._ in love's domains. there are imagination and poetical expressions in the stories, and readers will find them interesting.--_new york sun._ the longest story. "galeed," is a strong, nervous story, covering a wide range, and dealing in a masterly way with some intricate questions of what might be termed amatory psychology.--_san francisco chronicle._ merze; the story of an actress. we can not doubt that the author is one of the best living orators of her sex. the book will possess a strong attraction for women.--_chicago herald._ this is the story of the life of an actress, told in the graphic style of mrs. ryan. it is very interesting.--_new orleans picayune._ for sale by all booksellers. rand, mcnally & co., publishers, chicago and new york. * * * * * transcriber's note: the inconsistencies in this book are as in the original. the advertisement pages were moved to the end of the book. images provided by the library of congress, manuscript division. [tr: ***] = transcriber note [hw: ***] = handwritten note slave narratives a folk history of slavery in the united states from interviews with former slaves typewritten records prepared by the federal writers' project 1936-1938 assembled by the library of congress project work projects administration for the district of columbia sponsored by the library of congress washington 1941 volume ii arkansas narratives part 7 prepared by the federal writers' project of the works progress administration for the state of arkansas informants vaden, charlie vaden, ellen van buren, nettie vaughn, adelaide j. wadille [tr: waddille], emmeline wadille (waddell), emmeline (emiline) waldon, henry walker, clara walker, henry walker, jake walker, jake wallace, willie warrior, evans washington, anna washington, eliza washington, jennie washington, parrish watson, caroline watson, mary wayne, bart weathers, annie mae weathers, cora webb, ishe wells, alfred wells, douglas wells, john wells, sarah wells, sarah williams wesley, john wesley, robert wesmoland, maggie west, calvin west, mary mays wethington, sylvester whitaker, joe white, julia a. white, lucy whiteman, david whiteside, dolly whitfield, j.w. whitmore, sarah wilborn, dock wilks, bell williams, bell williams, charley williams, charlie williams, columbus williams, frank williams, gus williams, henrietta williams, henry andrew (tip) williams, james williams, john williams, lillie williams, mary williams, mary williams, mary williams, rosena hunt williams, iii, william ball (soldier) williamson, anna williamson, callie halsey willis, charlotte wilson, ella wilson, robert windham, tom wise, alice wise, frank withers, lucy woods, anna woods, cal woods, maggie word, sam worthy, ike wright, alice wright, hannah brooks yates, tom young, annie young, john folklore subjects name of interviewer: irene robertson subject: negro lore story:--information this information given by: charlie vaden place of residence: hazen, green grove, ark. occupation: farming age: 77 [tr: information moved from bottom of first page.] charlie vaden's father ran away and went to the war to fight. he was a slave and left his owner. his mother died when he was five years old but before she died she gave charlie to mrs. frances owens (white lady). she came to des arc and ran the city hotel. he never saw his father till he was grown. he worked for mrs. owens. he never did run with colored folks then. he nursed her grandchildren, guy and ira brown. when he was grown he bought a farm at green grove. it consisted of a house and forty-seven acres of land. he farmed two years. a fortune teller came along and told him he was going to marry but he better be careful that they wouldn't live together or he might "drop out." he went ahead and married like he was "fixing" to do. they just couldn't get along, so they got divorced. they had the wedding at her house and preacher isarel thomas (colored) married them and they went on to his house. he don't remember how she was dressed except in white and he had a "new outfit too." next he married lorine rogers at the green grove church and took her home. she fell off the porch with a tub of clothes and died from it just about a year after they married. he married again at the church and lived with her twenty years. they had four girls and four boys. she died from the change of life. the last wife he didn't live with either. she is still living. had another fortune teller tell his fortune. she said, "uncle, you are pretty good but be careful or you'll be walking around begging for victuals." he said it had nearly come to that now except it hurt him to walk. (he can hardly walk.) he believes some of what the fortune tellers tell comes true. he has been on the same farm since 1887, which is forty-nine years, and did fine till four years ago. he can't work, couldn't pay taxes, and has lost his land. he was paralized five months, helpless as a baby, couldn't dress himself. an herb doctor settled at green grove and used herbs for tea and poultices and cured him. the doctors and the law run him out of there. his name was hopkins from popular bluff, missouri. charlie vaden used to have rheumatism and he carried a buckeye in each pants pocket to make the rheumatism lighter. he thought it did some good. he has a birthmark. said his mother must have craved pig tails. he never had enough pig tails to eat in his life. the butchers give them to him when he comes to hazen or des arc. he said he would "fight a circle saw for a pig tail." he can't remember any old songs or old tales. in fact he was too small when his mother died (five years old). he believes in herb medicine of all kinds but can't remember except garlic poultice is good for neuralgia. sassafras is a good tea, a good blood purifier in the spring of the year. he knows a weather sign that seldom or never falls. "thunder in the morning, rain before noon." "seldom rains at night in july in arkansas." he has seen lots of lucky things but doesn't remember them. "it's bad luck to carry hoes and rakes in the living house." "it's bad luck to spy the new moon through bushes or trees." he doesn't believe in witches, but he believes in spirits that direct your course as long as you are good and do right. he goes to church all the time if they have preaching. green grove is a baptist church. he is not afraid of dead people. "they can't hurt you if they are dead." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: ellen vaden devalls bluff, ark. age: 83 "i am 83 years old. my mother come from georgia. she left all her kin. our owner was dave and luiza johnson. they had two girls and a boy--meely, colly and tobe. my mother's aunt come to memphis in slavery time and come to see us. she cooked and bought herself free. the folks what owned her hired her out till they got paid her worth. she died in memphis. i never heard father say where he come from or who owned him. he lived close by somewhere. "my mother cooked. me and dave johnson's boy nursed together. when they had company, miss luiza was so modest she wouldn't let tobe have 'titty'. he would come lead my mother behind the door and pull at her till she would take him and let him nurse. she said he would lead her behind the door. "i don't remember freedom. i know the ku klux was bad around augusta, arkansas. one time when i was little a crowd of ku klux come at about dusk. they told dave johnson they wanted water. he told them there was a well full but not bother that woman and her children in the kitchen. dave johnson was a ku klux himself. they went on down the road and met a colored woman. she knowed their horses. she called some of them by name and they let her alone. "one time a colored man was settin' by the fire. his wife was sick in bed. he seen the ku klux coming and said 'lord god, here comes the devil.' he run off. they didn't bother her. she told them she was sick. when she got up and well she wouldn't live with that husband no more. "up at bowens ridge they took some colored men out one night and if they said they was republicans they let them go but if they said they was democrats they whooped them so hard they nearly killed some of them. some said they was bushwhackers or carpet baggers and not ku klux. "i am a country-raised woman. i had a light stroke and cain't work in the field. i get $8.00 and commodities. i like to live here very well. i don't meddle with young folks business. seems like they do mighty foolish things to me. times been changing ever since i come in this world. it is the people cause the times to change. i wouldn't know how to start to vote." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: nettie van buren, clarendon, arkansas ex school-teacher age: 62 "my mother was named isabel porter smith. she come from springville. rev. porter brought her to mississippi close to holly springs. then she come to batesville, arkansas. he owned her. he was a circuit rider. i think he was a presbyterian minister. i heard her say they brought her to arkansas when she was a small girl. she nursed and cooked all the time. after freedom she went with reverend porter's relatives to work for them. i know so very little about what she said about slavery. "my father was raised in north carolina. his name was jerry smith and his master he called judge smith. my father made all he ever had farmin'. he knew how to raise cotton. he owned a home. this is his home (a nice home on river street in clarendon) and 80 acres. he sold this farm two miles from here after he had paralysis, to live on. "my parents had two girls and two boys. they all dead but me. my mother's favorite song was "oh how i love jesus because he first loved me." they come here because my mother had a brother down here and she heard it was such fine farmin' land. "when i was a little girl my father was a presbyterian so he sent me to boardin' school in cotton plant and then sent me to jacksonville, illinois. i worked my board out up there. mrs. dr. carroll got me a place to work. my sister learned to sew. she sewed for the public till her death. she sewed for both black and white folks. i stretches curtains now if i can get any to stretch and i irons. it give me rheumatism to wash. i used to wash and iron. "my husband cooks on a government derrick boat. he gets $1.25 and his board. they have the very best things to eat. he likes the work if he can stay well. he can cook pies and fancy cookin'. they like that. say they can't hardly get somebody work long because they want to be in town every night. "we have one child. i used to be a primary teacher here at clarendon. "i never have voted. my husband votes but i don't know what he thinks about it. "i try to look at the present conditions in an encouraging way. the young people are so extravagant. the old folks in need. the thing most discouraging is the strangers come in and get jobs home folks could do and need and they can't get jobs and got no money to leave on nor no place to go. people that able to work don't work hard as they ought and people could and willin' to work can't get jobs. some of the young folks do sure live wild lives. they think only of the present times. a few young folks are buying homes but not half of them got a home. they work where they let 'em have a room or a house. different folks live all kinds of ways." interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: adelaide j. vaughn 1122 cross street, little rock, arkansas age: 69 "i was born in huntsville, alabama. my mother brought me from there when i was five years old. she said she would come to arkansas because she had heard so much talk about it. but when she struck the arkansas line, she didn't like it and she wanted to go back. i have heard her say why but i don't remember now; i done forgot. she thought she wouldn't like it here, but she did after she stayed a while. "my bronchial tubes git all stopped up and make it hard for me to talk. phlegm gits all around. i been bothered with them a good while now. "my mother, she was sold from her father when she was four years old. the rest of the children were grown then. master hickman was the one who bought her. i don't know the one that sold her. hickman had a lot of children her age and he raised her up with them. they were nice to her all the time. "once the pateroles came near capturing her. but she made it home and they didn't catch her. "mr. candle hired her from her master when she was about eighteen years old. he was nice to her but his wife was mean. just because mother wouldn't do everything the other servants said mis' candle wanted to whip her. mother said she knew that mis' candle couldn't whip her alone. but she was 'fraid that she would have sallie, another old negro woman slave, and kitty, a young negro woman slave, to help whip her. "one day when it was freezing cold, she wanted mother to stand out in the hall with sallie and clara and wash the glasses in boiling hot water. she was making her do that because she thought she was uppity and she wanted to punish her. when mother went out, she rattled the dishes 'round in the pan and broke them. they was all glasses. mis' candle heard them breaking and come out to see about it. she wanted to whip mother but she was 'fraid to do it while she was alone; so she waited till her husband come home. when he come she told him. he said she oughtn't to have sent them out in the cold to wash the glasses because nobody could wash dishes outside in that cold weather. "the first morning she was at mis' candle's, they called her to eat and they didn't have nothing but black molasses and corn bread for mother's meal. the other two ate it but mother didn't. she asked for something else. she said she wasn't used to eating that--that she ate what her master and mistress ate at home. "mis' candle didn't like that to begin with. she told my mother that she was a smart nigger. she told mother to do one thing and then before she could do it, she would tell her do something else. mother would just go on doing the first thing till she finished that, and mis' candle would git mad. but it wasn't nobody's fault but her own. "she asked mother to go out and git water from the spring on a rainy day. mother wouldn't go. finally mother got tired and went back home. her mistress heard what she had to tell her about the place she'd been working. then she said mother did right to quit. she had worked there for three or four months. they meant to keep her but she wouldn't stay. mis' hickman went over and collected her money. "when mother worked out, the people that hired her paid her owners. her owners furnished her everything she wanted to eat and clothes to wear, and all the money she earned went to them. "mis' candle begged mr. hickman to let him have mother back. he said he'd talk to his wife and she wouldn't mistreat her any more but mama said that she didn't want to go back and mrs. hickman said, 'no, she doesn't want to go back and i wouldn't make her.' and the girls said, 'no, mama, don't let her go back.' and mis' hickman said, 'no, she was raised with my girls and i am not going to let her go back.' "the hickmans had my mother ever since she was four years old. my grandfather was allowed to go a certain distance with her when she was sold away from him. he walked and carried her in his arms. mama said that when he had gone as far as they would let him go, he put her in the wagon and turned his head away. she said she wondered why he didn't look at her; but later she understood that he hated so bad to 'part from her and couldn't do nothing to prevent it that he couldn't bear to look at her. "since i have been grown i have worked with some people at newport. i stayed with them there and married there, and had all my children there. "i heard the woman i lived with, a woman named diana wagner, tell how her mistress said, 'come on, diana, i want you to go with me down the road a piece.' and she went with her and they got to a place where there was a whole lot of people. they were putting them up on a block and selling them just like cattle. she had a little nursing baby at home and she broke away from her mistress and them and said, 'i can't go off and leave my baby.' and they had to git some men and throw her down and hold her to keep her from goin' back to the house. they sold her away from her baby boy. they didn't let her go back to see him again. but she heard from him after he became a young man. some one of her friends that knowed her and knowed she was sold away from her baby met up with this boy and got to questioning him about his mother. the white folks had told him his mother's name and all. he told them and they said, 'boy, i know your mother. she's down in newport.' and he said, 'gimme her address and i'll write to her and see if i can hear from her.' and he wrote. and the white people said they heard such a hollering and shouting goin' on they said, 'what's the matter with diana?' and they came over to see what was happening. and she said, 'i got a letter from my boy that was sold from me when he was a nursing baby.' she had me write a letter to him. i did all her writing for her and he came to see her. i didn't get to see him. i was away when he come. she said she was willing to die that the lord let her live to see her baby again and had taken care of him through all these years. "my father's name was peter warren and my mother was named adelaide warren. before she was married she went by her owner's name, hickman. my daddy belonged to the phillips but he didn't go in their name. he went in the warren's name. he did that because he liked them. phillips was his real father, but he sold him to the warrens and he took their name and kept it. they treated him nice and he just stayed on in their name. he didn't marry till after both of them were free. he met her somewheres away from the hickman's. they married in alabama. "mama was born and mostly reared in virginia and then come to alabama. that's where i was born, in alabama. and they left there and came here. i was four years old when they come here. "i never did hear what my father did in slavery time. he was a twin. the most he took notice of he said was his brother and him settin' on an old three-legged stool. and his mother had left some soft soap on the fire. his brother saw that the pot was goin' to turn over and he jumped up. my father tried to get up too but the stool turned over and caught him, caught his little dress and held him and the hot soap ran over his dress and on to his bare skin. it left a big burn on his side long as he lived. his mother was there close to the house because she knowed the soap was on and those two little boys were in there. she heard him crying and ran in and carried him to her master. he got the doctor and saved him. my father's mother didn't do nothing after that but 'tend to that baby. her master loved those little boys and kept her and _didn't sell her because of them_. (the underscoring is the interviewer's--ed.) that was his last master--warren. warren loved him more than his real father did. warren said he knew my father would never live after he had such a burn. but he did live. they never did let him do much work after the accident. "i think my father's master, warren--i can't remember his first name--farmed for a living. "my father and mother had five children. i don't know how many brothers my father had. i have heard my mother say she had four sisters. i never heard her say nothin' 'bout no brothers--just sisters. "i had six children. got three living and three dead. they was grown though when they died. i had three boys and three girls. i got two boys living and one girl. the boy in st. louis does pretty well. but the other in little rock doesn't have much luck. if he'd get out of little rock, he would find more to do. the one in st. louis don't make much now because they done cut wages. he's a dining-car waiter. this girl what's here, she does all she can for me. she has a husband and my husband is dead. he's been dead a long time. "i belong to bethel a.m.e. church. you know where that is. rev. campbell is a good man. we had him eight years. then we got brother wilson one year and then they put campbell back. "i don't know what to think of these young people. some of them is running wild. "when i was working for myself, i was generally a maid. but that is been a long time ago. i washed and ironed and done laundry work when i was able a long time ago. but i can't do it now. i can't do it for myself now. i washed for myself a little and i got the flu and got in bad health. that was about four years ago. i reckon it was the flu; i never did have no doctor. when i take the least little cold, it comes back on me." interviewer's comment this old lady appears nearer eighty than sixty-nine, and she speaks with the sureness of an eyewitness. interviewer: mrs. blanche edwards person interviewed: emmeline waddille (deceased) lonoke county, arkansas age: 106 she immigrated with her owner, l.w.c. waddille, to lonoke county in 1851, coming to hickory plains and then to brownsville. they moved from hayburn, georgia in a covered wagon drawn by oxen. she lived with a great-granddaughter, mrs. john high, seven miles north of lonoke, until 1932, when she died. she had nursed six generations of the waddille family. she was born a deaf-mute but her hearing and speech were restored many years ago when lightening struck a tree under which she was standing. emmeline told of how they would stop for the night on the rough journey, and while the men fed the stock, the women and slaves would cook the evening meal of hoecake, fried venison, and coffee. the women slept in the wagons and the men would sleep on the creek watching for wild life. with other pioneers, they suffered all the hardships and dangers incident to the settling of the new country more than three-fourths of a century ago. emmeline always had good care. she worked hard and faithfully and was amply rewarded. [hw: high] circumstances of interview state--arkansas name of worker--blanche edwards address--lonoke, arkansas date--october 20, 1938 subject--an old slave [tr: emiline waddell] [tr: repetitive information deleted from subsequent pages.] 1. name and address of informant--mrs. john g. high, living nine miles north of lonoke, arkansas. 2. date and time of interview--october 20, 1938 3. place of interview--at the home of mrs. john g. high, nine miles north of lonoke. 4. name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant-5. name and address of person, if any, accompanying you-6. description of room, house, surroundings, etc. text of interview emiline waddell, a former slave of the l.w. waddell family, lived to be 106 years old, and was active up to her death. she was born a slave in 1826 at haben county, georgia, a slave of claybourne waddell, who emigrated to brownsville, in 1851, in covered wagons, oxen drawn. her "white folks" were three weeks making the trip from the ferry across the mississippi to old brownsville; after traveling all day through the bad and boggy woods, at the end of their rough journey at eventide, the movers dismounted and began hasty preparations for the night. while the men were feeding the stock and providing temporary quarters, the women assisted the slaves in preparing the evening meal, of hoe-cake, fried venison and coffee. then the women and children would sleep in the wagons while the men kept watch for wild life. mammy emiline was a faithful old black mammy, true to life and traditions, and refused her freedom, at the close of the war, as wanted to stay and raise "old massa's chilluns," which she did, for she was nursing her sixth generation in the waddell family at the time of her death. even to that generation there was a close tie between the southern child and his or her black mammy. a strange almost unbelievable thing happened to emiline; she was born a deaf mute, but her hearing and speech was restored many years before her death, when lightening struck a tree under which she was standing. superstitious beliefs were strong in her and her tales of "hants" were to "her little white chilluns", really true but hair-raising. then she would talk and live again the "days that are no more", telling them of the happy prosperous, sunny land, in her negro dialect, and then tell of the ruin and desolation behind the yankees; the hard times my white folks had in the reconstruction days--negro and carpetbag rule; then give them glimpses of good--much courage, some heart and human feeling; perhaps ending with an outburst of the negro spiritual, her favorite being, "swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home." after a faithful service of 106 years, emiline died in 1932 at the home of mrs. john g. high, a great-granddaughter of l.w.c. waddell living nine miles north of lonoke, and the grown up great-great-grandchildren still miss mammy. interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: henry waldon 816 walnut street. north little rock, arkansas age: 84 "i was plowing when they surrendered. i had just learned to plow, and was putting up some land. my young master come home and was telling me the war was ended and we was all free. "i was born in lauderdale county, mississippi. i think it was about 1854. my father's name [hw: was] ----, my mother's [hw: was] ----, i knew them both. "my mother belonged to sterling and my father belonged to a man named huff--richmond huff. "we lived in lauderdale county. huff wouldn't sell my father and my people wouldn't sell my mother. they lived about a mile or so apart. they didn't marry in them days. the niggers didn't, that is. father would just come every saturday night to see my mother. his cabin was about three miles from her's. we moved from lauderdale county to scott county, mississippi, and that separated mama and papa. they never did meet again. of course, i mean it was the white people that moved, but they carried mama and us with them. papa and mama never did meet again before freedom, and they didn't meet afterwards. "my mother had twelve children--eight girls and four boys. she had one by a man named peter smith. she was away from her husband then. she had four by my father--two boys and two girls; my father's name was peter huff. my mother's name was mary sterling. i never did see my father no more after we moved away from him. "my father made cotton and corn, plowed and hoed in slavery time. his old master had seventy-five or eighty hands. his old master treated him pretty rough. he whipped them about working. he never hired no overseer over them. when he whipped them he took their shirts off and whipped them on their naked backs. he cut the blood out of some of them. he never did rub no salt nor vinegar in their wounds. his youngest son done his overseeing. he would whip them sometime but he wasn't tight on them like some that i knowed. "a fellow by the name of jim holbert was mean to his slaves as a man could be. he would whip them night and day. work them till dark; then they would eat supper. cook their own supper. had nothing to cook but a little meat and bread and molasses. then they would go back and bale up three or four bales of cotton. some nights they work till twelve o'clock then get up before daylight--'round four o'clock--and cook their breakfast and go to work again. that was on jim holbert and lard moore's place. them was two different men and two different places--plantations. they whipped their slaves a good deal--always beating down on somebody. they made their backs sore. their backs would be bleeding just like they cut it with knives. then they would wash it down with water and salt. "on my master's farm, each one cooked in his own cabin. while the hands were working, my master left one child, the largest, stay there and taken care of the little ones. "they had bloodhounds too; they'd run you away in the woods. send for a man that had hounds to track you if you run away. they'd run you and bay you, and a white man would ride up there and say, 'if you hit one of them hounds, i'll blow your brains out.' he'd say 'your damn brains.' them hounds would worry you and bite you and have you bloody as a beef, but you dassent to hit one of them. they would tell you to stand still and put your hands over your privates. i don't guess they'd have killed you but you believed they would. they wouldn't try to keep the hounds off of you; they would set them on you to see them bite you. five or six or seven hounds bitin' you on every side and a man settin' on a horse holding a doubled shotgun on you. "my old miss's sister hired slave women out to old jim holbert once. one of them was in a delicate state, and they dug a hole and put her stomach down in it and whipped her till she could hardly walk. "holbert lived to see the niggers freed. all of his slaves left him pretty well when freedom come. he managed to hold on to his money. he didn't go to the war. he was pretty old. he had two sons in the war--his wife had one in there and he had one. one of them got wounded but he didn't die. "my mistress's oldest son, ed sterling, got shot in the civil war. he got shot right in the side at franklin, tennessee. it tore his whole side off--near about killed him. but he lived to ride paterole. he was mean. catch a man in bed with his wife at night, he'd whip him and make him go home. he was the meanest man in the world. all the other sons were better than he was. his name was ed sterling. "the first thing i remember was work. you weren't allowed to remember nothing but work in slave times and you got whipped about that. you weren't allowed to go nowhere but carry the mules out to the pasture to eat grass. sometimes they jump the fence and go over in the field and eat corn. me and another fellow named sandy used to watch them all day sunday. watching the mules and working in the fields through the week was the first work i remember. me and my sister worked on one row. the two of us made a hand. she is down in texas somewheres now. they taken her from old lady sterling's place. she give them to her son and he carried them down in texas. he had a broken leg and never did go to the war. if he did, i never knowed nothing about it. "none of the masters never give me anything. none of them as i knows of never give anything to any of the slaves when they freed 'em. never give a devilish thing. told them that they was free as they was and that they could stay there and help them make crops if they wanted to. the biggest part of them stayed. the rest went away. their husbands taken them away. "right after the war my mother married an old fellow who used to be old holbert's nigger driver. he stayed on sterling's place one night. he stayed there a year. then he married my mother and went to old holbert's place and of course, we had to go too. i stayed there and worked for him. and my mama too and the two youngest sisters and the youngest brother stayed with me. i run away from him in '86. i went down the railroad about five miles and an old colored fellow give me a job. he used to belong to the railroad boss. "i worked nearly two years on that railroad; then i left and come on down to arkansas. i have been right here on this spot about forty years. i don't know how long it is been since i first come here, but it is been a long time ago. i paid fire insurance on this place for thirty-nine years. i lived over the river before i came to north little rock. i worked for the railroad company thirty-eight years. it's been fifteen years since i was able to work--maybe longer. "i belong to little bethel church (a.m.e.) here in north little rock. i been a member of that church more than thirty-five years. "i have been married twice, and i am the father of three children that are living and two that dead--tommy, jim, ewing, mayzetta, and the baby. he was too young to have a name when he died. "i think things is worse than they ever was. everything we get we have to pay for, and then pay for paying for it. if it wasn't for my wife i could hardly live because i don't get much from the railroad company." interviewer: mary d. hudgins person interviewed: aunt clara walker aged: 111 home: "flatwoods" district, garland county. own property. story by aunt clara walker "you'll have to wait a minute ma'am. dis cornbread can't go down too fas'. yes ma'am, i likes cornbread. i eats it every meal. i wouldn't trade just a little cornbread for all de flour dat is. where-bouts was i born? i was born right here in arkansas. dat is it was between an on de borders of it an dat state to de south--yes ma'am, dat's right, louisiana. my mother was a slave before me. she come over from de old country, she was a-runnin' along one day front of a--a--dat stripedy animal--a tiger? an' a man come along on an elephant and scoop her up an' put her on a ship. yes ma'am. my name's clara walker. i was born clara jones, cause my pappy's name was jones. but lots of folks called me clara cornelius, cause mr. cornelius was de man what owned me. did you ever hear of a child born wid a veil over its face? well i was one of dem! what it mean? why it means dat you can see spirits an' ha'nts, an all de other creatures nobody else can see. yes ma'am, some children is born dat way. you see dat great grandchild of mine lyin' on de floor? he's dat way. he kin see 'em too. is many of 'em around here? lawsey dey's as thick as piss-ants. what does dey look like? some of 'em looks like folks; an' some of 'em looks like hounds. when dey sees you, dey says "howdy!" an' if you don't speak to 'em dey takes you by your shoulders an dey shakes you. maybe dey hits you on de back. an' if you go over to de bed an lies in de bed an' goes to sleep, dey pulls de cover off you. you got to be polite to 'em. what makes 'em walk around? well, i got it figgured out dis way. dey's dissatisfied. dey didn't have time to git dey work done while dey was alive. dat greatgrandchild of mine, he kin see 'em too. now my eight grandchildren an' my three children what's alivin' none of 'em can see de spirits. guess dat greatgrandchild struck way back. i goes way back. my ol' master what had to go to de war, little 'fore it was over told me when he left dat i was 39 years old. somebody figgured it out for me dat i's 111 now. dat makes me pretty old, don't it? there was another fellow on a joinin' plantation. he was a witch doctor. brought him over from africa. he didn't like his master, 'cause he was mean. so he make a little man out of mud. an' he stick thorns in its back. sure 'nuff, his master got down with a misery in his back. an' de witch doctor let de thorn stay in de mud-man until he thought his master had got 'nuff punishment. when he tuck it out, his master got better. did i got to school. no ma'am. not to book school. dey wouldn't let culled folks git no learnin'. when i was a little girl we skip rope an' play high-spy (i spy). all we had to do was to sweep de yard an go after de cows an' de pigs an de sheep. an' dat was fun, cause dey was lots of us children an we all did it together. when i was 13 years old my ol' mistress put me wid a doctor who learned me how to be a midwife. dat was cause so many women on de plantation was catchin' babies. i stayed wid dat doctor, dr. mcgill his name was, for 5 years. i got to be good. got so he'd sit down an' i'd do all de work. when i come home, i made a lot o' money for old miss. lots of times, didn't sleep regular or git my meals on time for three--four days. cause when dey call, i always went. brought as many white as culled children. i's brought most 200, white an' black since i's been in hot springs. brought a little white baby--to de wards it was--dey lived jest down de lane--brought dat baby 'bout 7 year ago. i's brought lots of 'em an' i ain't never lost a case. you know why. it's cause i used my haid. when i'd go in, i'd take a look at de woman, an' if it was beyond me, i'd say, 'dis is a doctor case. dis ain't no case for a midwife. you git a doctor.' an' dey'd have to get one. i'd jes' stan' before de lookin' glass, an' i wouldn't budge. dey couldn't make me. i made a lot of money for ol' miss. but she was good to me. she give me lots of good clothes. those clothes an my mother's clothes burned up in de fire i had a few years ago right on dis farm. lawsey i hated loosin' dose clothes i had when i was a girl more dan anything i lost. an' i didn't have to work in de fields. in between times i cooked an' i would jump in de loom. yes, ma'am i could weave good. did my yards every day. i weave cloth for dresses--fine dresses you would use thread as thin as dat you sews wid today--i weaves cloth for underclothes, an fo handkerchiefs an for towels. den i weaves nits and lice. what's dat--well you see it was kind corse cloth de used for clothes like overalls. it mas sort of speckeldy all over--dat's why dey called it nits and lice. law, i used to be good once, but after i got all burned up i wasn't good for so much. it happened dis way. a salt lick was on a nearby plantation. ever body who wanted salt, dey had to send a hand to help make it. i went over one day--an workin' around i stepped on a live coal. i move quick an' i fall plum over into a salt vat. before dey got me out i was pretty near ruined. what did dey do? dey killed a hog--fresh killed a hog. an' dey fry up de fat--fry it up wid some of de hog hairs an' dey greesed me good. an' it took all de fire out of de burns. dey kept me greezed for a long time. i was sick nearly six months. dey was good to me. an one day, young miss, she married. ol' miss give me to her 'long of 23 others. twenty four was all she could spare an' keep some for herself an save enough for de other children. we went to california. young miss was good, but her husband was mean. he give me de only white folks whippin i ever had. ol' miss never had to whip her slaves. i was tryin' to cook on an earth stove--dat's why it happen. did you ever hear of an earth stove? well, dey make sort of drawers out of dirt. you burn wood in 'em. after you git used to it you kin cook on it good. but dat day i was busy an' i burned de biscuits. an' he whip me. i run off. i knew in general de way home. when i come to de brazos river it looked most a mile across. but i jump in an' i swim it. one day i done found a pearl handled pocket knife. a few days later i meet up wid a white boy. an' he say its his knife, an' i say, 'white boy, i know dat ain't your knife, an' you know it ain't. but if you'll write me out a free pass, i'll give it to you.' an' so he wrote it. after dat, i could walk right up to de front gates an ask for somthin' to eat. cause i had a paper sayin' i was clara jones an' i was goin' home to my ol' mistress mis' cornelius. please paterollers to leave me alone. an' folks along de way, dey'd take me in an' feed me. dey'd give me a place to stay an fix me up a lunch to take along. dey'd say, "clara, you's a good nigger. you's a goin' home to your ol' miss, so we's goin' to do for you." an' i got within five miles of home before dey catch me. an' my ol' miss won't let me go back. she keep me an' send another one in my place. an' de war kept on, an ol' massa had to go. an' word come dat he been killed. yes, 'em, some folks run off, an' some of 'em stayed. finally ol' miss refugeed a lot of us to california. what is it to refugee. well, you see, suppose you was afraid dat somebody go in' to take your property an' you run 'em away off somewhere--how you come to know. when de war was over, young miss she come in an she say, 'clara, you's as free as i am.' 'no, i ain't.' says i. 'yes, you is,' says she. 'what you goin' to do?' 'i's goin' to stay an' work for you.' says i. 'no' says she, 'you ain't cause i can't pay you.' 'well,' says i, 'i'll go home to see my old mother.' 'tell you what,' says she, 'i ain't got nuff money to send you, only part--so you go down to whar' dey is a'pannin' gold. you kin git a job at $2.00 per day.' many's a day i've stood in water up to my waist pannin' gold. in dem days dey worked women jest like men. i worked hard, an' young miss took care of me. when i got ready to come home i bought my stage fare an' i carried $300 on me back to my ol' mother. de trip took six weeks. everywhere de stage would stop young miss had writ a note to somebody and de stage coach men give it to 'em an dey took care of me--good care. when i got home to my mother i found dat ol' miss had give all of 'em somthin' along with settin 'em free. my mother had 12 children so she git de mos'. she git a horse, a milk cow, 8 killin' hogs and 50 bushels of corn. she moved off to a little house on ol' miss's plantation and make a crop on halvers. she stay on dar for three--four years. den she move off into another county where she could go to meetin without havin' to cross de river. an' i stayed on wid her an help her farm--i could plow as good as a man in dem days. finally i hear dat you could make more money in hot springs, so i come to see. my mother was dead by dat time. de first year i made a crop for mr. clay--my granddaughter cooks and tends to children for some of his folks today. when i went to town an i washed at de arlington hotel. it wasn't de fine place it is today. it was jest boards like dis cabin of mine. an i washed at another hotel--what was it--down across de creek from de arlington. yes ma'am, dat's it. de grand central--it was grand too--for dem days. an' i cooked for dr. mcmasters. an' i cooked for colonel rector--de rectors had lots of money in dem days. i could make a weddin' cake good as anybody--with, a 'gagement ring in it. i could make it fine--tho i don't know but two letters in de book an' thoses is a and b. i married mr. walker. he was a hod carrier when dey built de old red brick arlington. i remember lots of things dat happened here. i remember seein' de smoke from de fire--dat big one. we was a livin' near picket springs--you don't know whare dat is. well, does you know where de soldier's breast work was--now i git you on to remembering. den, later on we moved out an' got a farm near hawes. i traded dat place for dis one. yes, ma'am i likes livin' in de country. never did like livin' in town. i don't right know whether culled folks wanted to be free or not. lots of 'em didn't rightly understand, ol' miss was good to hers. some of 'em wasn't. she give 'em things before an she give 'em things after. of course, we went back an' we washed for 'em. but one mortal blessin. ol' miss had made her girls learn how to cook an' wait on themselves. now take de combinders. dey was on de next plantation. dey was mean. many a time you could hear de bull whip, clear over to our place, plop, plop. an' if dey died, dey jest wrapped 'em in cloth an' dig a trench, an' plow right over 'em. an' when de war was over, dey wouldn't turn dey slaves loose. an de federals marched in an' marched 'em off. an' ol' mis' combinder she holler out an she say, 'what my girls goin' to do? dey ain't never dressed deyselves in dey life. we can't cook? what we do?' an' de soldiers didn't pay no attention. dey just marched 'em off. an' ol' man combinder he lay down an' he have a chill an' he die. he die because day take his property away from him. yes, ma'am, thank you for the quarter. i's goin' to buy snuff. i gets along good. my grandson he hauls wood for de paper mill. an' my granddaughters dey works for folks cooks an takes care of children. i had a good crop dis year. i'll have meat, i got lots of corn, an' i got other crops. we're gettin' along nice, mighty nice. thank you ma'am." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: henry walker, hazen, arkansas age: 80 i was born nine miles south of nashville, tennessee. the first i ever knowed or heard of a war, i saw a lot of the funniest wagons coming up to the house from the road. i called the old mistress. she looked out the window and pushed me back up in the corner and shot the door. she was so scared. i thought them things they had on their coats (buttons) was pretty. i found out they was brass buttons. i peeped out a crack it was already closed 'cept a big crack, i seed through. well, the wagons was high in front and high in the back and sunk in the middle. had pens in the wheels instead of axels. wagon had a box instead of a bed. the wagons would hold a crib full of corn. they loaded up everything on the place there was to eat and carried it off. my folks and the other folks was in the field. colored folks didn't like 'em taking all they had to eat and had stored up to live on. they didn't leave a hog nor a chicken, nor anything else they could find. they drove off all the cows and calves they could find. colonel sam williams, the old master, soon did go to war then. the folks had a hard time making a living. old mistress had four girls and her baby ed was one day older than i was. the children of the hands played around in the woods and every place and stayed in the field if they was big enough to do any work. old mistress had all the children pick up scaley barks and hickory nuts and chestnuts and walnuts. she put them in barrels. she sold some of them. she had a heap of sugar maple trees. they put an elder funnel to run the sap in buckets. we carried that and she boiled it down to brown sugar. she had up pick up chips to burn when she simmered it down or made soap. she kept all the children hunting ginsing up in the mountains. she kept it in sacks. a man come by and buy it. we hunted chenqupins down in the swamps. there was lots of walnut trees in the woods. no the slaves didn't leave colonel williams. he left them. he brought me and ed and we went back and moved to the old williams farm on arkansas river close to little rock. then he sent for my folks. they come in wagons. they worked for him a long time and scattered about. i stayed at his house till he said "henry, you are grown; you better look out for yourself now." ed was gone. he sent all the girls off to school and ed too. they taught me if i wanted to learn but i didn't care much about it. i went to the colored school and ed to the white school. he learned pretty well. i never did like to 'sociate or stay 'bout colored folks and i didn't like to mind 'em. old mistress show did brush me out sometimes and they called my mother to tend to me. when i was real little they drove the hands to the block to be sold out along the road. old mistress say: "if you don't be good and mind we'll send yare off and sell you wid 'em." that scared me worse than a whooping. never did see anybody sold. heard them talk a heap about it. when one of them wouldn't work and lay out in the woods, or they wouldn't mind they soon got sold off. they mated a heap of them and sold them for speculation. no mam i didn't like slavery. we had plenty to eat but they worked for all they got. had good fires and good warm houses and good clothes but i did not like the way they give out the provisions. they blowed a horn and measured out the weeks paratta for every family. they cooked at the cabins for their own families. there was several springs and a deep rock walled well at old mistress' house. old mistress always lived in a fine house. i slept at my mother's house nearly all the time. she had a big family. white folks raised me up to play with ed till i thought i was white. they taught me to do right and i ain't forgot it. i never was arrested. i married three times, bought three marriage license all in prairie county. all three wives died. i owns dis house 'cept a mortgage of $50. one of my boys got in a difficulty. i don't know where he is to get him to pay it off. the other boy he's not man enough either to pay it off. i never did know jess when the civil war did close. i kept hearing 'em say we are free. i didn't see much difference only when colonel williams come back times wasn't so hard. then he sold out and come to arkansas. then each family raised his own hogs and chickens and finally got to have cows. i was as scared of the ku klux klan as of rattlesnakes. in tennessee they come up the road and back just after dark. they rode all night and if you wasn't on your master's own land and didn't have a pass from him or the overseer they would set the dogs on you and run you home. sometimes they would whip them. take them home to the old master. i never heard of no uprisings. people loved each other better then than now. they didn't have so much idle time. there was always some work to be doing. when they didn't mind they run them with dogs and whipped them. the overseer and paddyrollers seed about that. the first day of the year everybody went up to hear the rules and see who was to be the overseer. then they knowed what to do for the year. they never did kill nobody. no mam that was too costly. they had work according to their strength and age. the ku klux was to keep order. i been living in hazen forty or fifty years. all i ever have done was farm sometimes one-half-for-the-other and sometimes on share-crop. i have voted but not lately. i votes a republican ticket. i votes that way because it was the republicans that set us free, i always heard it said. i jess belongs to that party. seems lack we gets easier times when the democrats reign. colonel williams was a democrat. the young folks are not as well off as i was at their age. they are restless and won't work unless they gets big pay and they spends the money too easy. the colored people are too idle and orderless. they fight and hate one another and roam around in too much confusion. i gets from $3 to $8 last month from the sociable welfare. my children helps me mighty little. they got their own children to see after and don't make much. colonel williams and ed are both dead. they did give me a lot of fine clothes when i went to see them as long as they lived. i don't know where the girls hab gone. scattered around. i oughter never left my good old home and white folks. they was show always mighty good to me. i never could sing much. i used to give the rebbel yell. colonel yopp give me a dime every time i give it. since he died i ain't yelled it no more. i learned it from colonel williams. i jess took it up hearing him about the place. folklore subjects name of interviewer: irene robertson subject: ex-slave-hunting story:--information this information given by: henry walker place of residence: hazen, arkansas occupation: farmer. age: 78 [tr: information moved from bottom of first page.] henry walker was born nine miles south of nashville, tennessee. remembered the soldiers and ran to the windows to see them pass. one day he saw a lot of soldiers coming to the house. henry ran in ahead and said out loud, "them yankeys are coming up here." the mistress slapped henry, hid him and slammed the doors. the soldiers did not get in but they did other damage that day. they took all the mules out of the lot and drove them away. they filled their "dugout wagons" with corn. a dugout wagon would hold nearly a crib full of corn. they were high in front and back and came down to a point, nearly touched the ground between the wheels. the wheels had pens instead of axles in them. the children ran like pigs every morning. the pigs ran to eat acorns and the children--white and black--to pick up chestnuts, scaly barks and hickory nuts. there were _lots_ of black walnuts. "we had barrels of nuts to eat all winter and the mistress sold some every year at nashville, tennessee. the woods were full of nut trees and we had a few maple and sweet gum trees. we simmered down maple sap for brown sugar and chewed the sweet gum. we picked up chips to simmer the sweet maple sap down. we used elder tree wood to make faucets for syrup barrels. there were chenquipins down in the swamps that the children gathered." henry walker said that they were sent upon the hills to find ginsing and often found long beds of it. they put it in sacks and a man came and bought it from the mistress. the mistress' name was mrs. williams. she kept the money for the ginsing and nuts too when she sold them. henry said he ate at mrs. williams', but the other children ate at the cabin. on saturday evening the horn would sound and every slave would come to get his allowance of provisions. they used a big bell hung up in a tree to call them to meals and to begin work. they could also hear other farm bells and horns. colored folks could have dances if they would get permission. some masters were overseers themselves and some hired overseers. patty rell was a white man and the bush-wackers give us trouble sometimes. on january first every year everybody ate peas and "hog jole" and received the new rules. the masters would say, "don't be running up here telling me on the overseer." they had a bush harbor church and the white preacher came to preach to black and white sometimes. they taught obedience and the golden rules. no schools--henry said since freedom the white men had cheated him out of all he had ever made, with pen-and-ink. he rather be whipped with a stick than a writing pen. he said mr. and mrs. williams were good people. henry learned to knit his socks and gloves at night watching the grown people. they made a certain number of broches every night. he liked that. henry said mr. williams let him carry his gun hunting with him and taught him how to shoot squirrels. they were plentiful. he had a lot of dogs. the master went to the deer stand and henry managed the twelve hounds. he didn't like to fox hunt. about a hundred men and thirty dogs, horns, etc. out for the chase. they came from nashville and in the country. a fox make three rounds from where he is jumped and then widens out. they brought "fine whiskey" out on the chases. when they had corn shuckings one negro would sit on the fence and lead the singing, the others shuck on each side. the master would pour out a tin cup full of whiskey from a big jug for each corn shucker, and mrs. williams would give each a square of gingerbread. mr. williams set aside a certain number of acres of land every year to be cleared, fenced and broke for cultivation by spring. six or eight men worked together. they used tong-hand sticks to carry the logs to the piles where they were burning them. a saw was a side show, they used mall, axe and wedge. after the log rolling there would be a big supper and a good one. the visitors got what they wanted from the table first. "that was manners." "we took turns going to the methodist church at nashville with mr. and mrs. williams. they went in the fine carriage and the maid held the baby but anybody else rode along behind on horseback. the carriage horses were curried every day, kept up and ate corn and fodder. mr. and mrs. williams came to nashville to big weddings and dances often." after henry walker came to hazen, colonel yopp had him feed his dogs and attend him on big fox hunting trips. since colonel yopp died january 1928 henry seldom, or perhaps has never sung the song he sang to colonel for dimes if he needed a little change. he learned the song and whoop back in in slavery days. he said william dorch (colored boy) took it up from hearing him sing for colonel yopp and would write it for me and sing it and give it with the old carolina, georgia and tennessee whoop. interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: jake walker 3002 short w. ninth avenue, pine bluff, arkansas age: 95 "well, i was here--i was born in 1842, august the 4th. that makes me ninety-five in the clear. if i live till next august i'll be ninety-six. "no ma'am, i wasn't born in arkansas, i was born in alabama. i been here in arkansas bout forty or fifty years. i used to live in mississippi when i first left the old country. "oh yes'm, i was bout big enough to go durin' the war, but i wouldn't run off. couldn't a had no better master. that's the reason i'm livin' like i do. always took good care of myself. never had no exposure. "i _did_ work fore the war, i'll say! done anything they said. "john carmichael was my old master and miss nancy was old missis. "oh yes ma'am, i seed the yankees. they stopped there. i wasn't askeered of nobody. i have went to the well and drawed water for em. "i member when the war was gwine on. i didn't know why they was fightin'. if i did i done forgot--i'll be honest with you. i didn't know nothin' only they was fightin'. most of my work was around the house. i never paid no tention to that war. i was livin' too fine them days. i was livin' a hundred days to the week. yes ma'am, i did get along fine. "oh yes ma'am, i had good white folks. i never was sold. no ma'am, i born right on the old home place. "patrollers? had to get a pass from your master to go over there. oh yes, i know all about them. i have seed the ku klux too. yes ma'am, i know all about them things. "i never been to school but half a day. i went to work when i was eight years old and been workin' ever since. "my father died in slave times and my mother died the fourth year after surrender. "after freedom, i worked there bout the course of three or four years. then i emigrated and come on to mississippi. the most i done them times was farmin'. reckon i stayed in mississippi five or six years. "the most work i done here in arkansas is carpenter work. i'm the first colored man ever contracted in pine bluff. "if i wasn't able to work, i don't think i'd stay here long. "used to drive the mule in the gin in slave times. "we didn't have a bit of expense on us. our doctor bills was paid and had clothes give to us and had plenty of something to eat. "yes'm, i used to vote but it's been for years since i voted. voted republican. i don't know why the colored people is republican. you askin' me something now i don't know nothin' about, but i believe in votin' for the man goin' to do good--do the country good. "oh, don't talk about the younger generation--i jist can't accomplish em, i sure can't. they ain't got the 'regenious' and get-up about em they had in my time. they is more wiser, that's about all. the young race these days--i don't know what's gwine come of em. if twasn't for we old fogies, don't know what they'd do. "we ain't never had that world war yet told about in the bible. called this last war the world war but twasn't. "i've always tried to keep my place and i ain't never been in any kind of trouble." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: jake walker, wheatley, arkansas age: 68 "i was born seven or eight miles from hernando, mississippi. my pa was a slave over twenty years. he belong to master will walker, and his white mistress was ann. they brought him from 'round athens, georgia. he was heired through his master. his own mother died at his birth and he was the son of a peddler through the country. he was a furriner but pa never could tell. his young master never told him. his ma was the nurse about the place. the peddler was a white man of some kind. he kept coming about selling goods. the dogs made a bad racket. they never bought nothing much. old master suspicioned him trying to get away with something about the place. he come right out and accused him to being up to something. he denied it. he told the peddler not to come back. he never. after it was over she told her mistress. he wanted her to go on off with him. that made them mad. but he never was seen about there. "when will walker got married he wanted my pa and he was give to him, a horse and buggy, two mules, a lamb, and five young cows. he had some money and he come to mississippi. i reckon he did buy some land. he got to be a slave owner before freedom. pa said he drove the horse to the buggy and his master rode a mule, led a mule and brought his cows, and they kept the lamb in the buggy with them nearly all the way. "i think they was good to him. his young mistress cried so much they all went back once before freedom. they went on christmas time. only time he ever was drunk. he got down and nearly froze to death. the white folks heard he was somewhere down. they went and got him one sunday morning in a two-horse wagon. he was nearly dead. that was his first and last spree. "pa said he nursed three of his young mistress' babies, alfred, tom, and kenneth. "after freedom pa went to texas with alfred walker. he owned a ranch out on the desert and raised texas ponies and big horn cows. they sent a carload of young cattle to st. louis and pa stopped back in mississippi and married ma. she was a walker too, libbie walker. there was fourteen of us children. they nearly all went to louisiana to work in the timber. i come to clarendon. i been married three times. my last wife left me and took my onliest child. only child i ever had. they was at hot springs last account i had of them. she was cooking for a woman over there. my girl is up 'bout grown now. she come to clarendon to see me three years ago. i sent for her but she wouldn't stay. she writes to me, but i have to get somebody to write for me and somebody to read her letters. i can read print real good. i never went to school a day in my whole life. we had to work early and late when i come up. "i farmed, sawmilled, worked in the timber. i do public work, haul wood, cut wood, and work in the field by day labor. "i votes a republican ticket. i haven't voted since mr. taft run. i don't have no way to keep up with elections now. folks used to talk more, now they keeps quiet. "i never heard pa say how he come to know about freedom. ma said she was refugeed to texas and when they brung them back, master will walker met them at the creek on his place and he said, 'you all are free now. you can go on my place or hunt other places.' they went on his place and they lived there a long time. i don't remember ever living on that place. pa wasn't there then. i don't know where be could been. ma and pa was both walkers but no blood kin. ma didn't talk much about old times. she was sold once, she said. bass kelly bought her. i don't know if will walker traded for her. she never did say. bass kelly was mean to her. he beat her and one time she hid and kept hid till she nearly starved, she said. she hid in the corn crib. it was a log house. she didn't enjoy slavery. pa had a very good time, better than us boys had it when we come up. he worked and kept us with him. he and ma died the same week. they had pneumonia in mississippi. "i got one sister. she lives close to shreveport. she keeps up with us all. i go down there every now and then. she's not stove up like i am. she wants me to stay with her all the time. i gets work down there easier but i have the rheumatism bad down there. "i don't know what will become of young folks. i wish i had their chance. they can't wait for nothing. they in too big a hurry for the crop to grow. busy living by the day. when the year gone they ain't no better off. times is good in places. hard in places. times better in louisiana than up here. work easier to get. folks got more living. "i'm chopping cotton on mr. hill's place. i gets ninety cents a day. i can't get over the ground fast." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: willie wallace 40th and georgia streets, pine bluff, arkansas age: 80 "i was born in green county, alabama. elihu steele was my old master. miss julia was old missis. she was elihu's wife. her mother's name was penny hatter. miss penny give my mother to her daughter julia. "i was a twin and they choosed us for the cook and washer and ironer, but surrender come along 'fore we got big enough to do anything. "my father was crippled and couldn't work in the field, and i remember he used to carry the children out to the field to be suckled. "they had a right smart of slaves. my mother had twelve children and i'm the baby. "i remember they'd make up a big pot of corn bread and pot-liquor and they'd say, 'eat, chillun, eat.' "i remember one time the white folks had some stock tied out, and i know my sister's little boy didn't know no better and he showed the yankees where they was. "i remember when they said the people was free, but our folks stayed right on there--i don't know how many years--'cause my mother thought a heap of her old missis, penny. "i went to school after freedom and learned how to read and write and figger. i worked in the field till i got disabled. i never did wash and iron and cook for the white folks. "i was fifteen--somewhere in there--when i married and i'm the mother of twelve children. "i have lived in thomas, west virginia; pittsburg, pennsylvania; cumberland, maryland; milliken, louisiana; and birmingham, alabama. i just lived in all them places following my children around. "i fell through a trestle in birmingham and injured myself comin' from church. "i think the people is gettin' terrible now. you think they're gettin' better? i think they're gettin' wuss. "i got a book here called 'uncle tom' and i hates to read it sometimes 'cause the people suffered so. "i don't think old master had any overseers. miss julia wouldn't 'low any of her people to be beat." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: evans warrior 609 e. 23rd avenue, pine bluff, arkansas age: 80 "i was born here in arkansas in dallas county. i don't know zackly what year but i was bout five when they drove us to texas. stayed there three years till the war ceasted. "old master's name was nat smith. he was good to me. i was big enough to plow same year the war ceasted. "yankees come through texas after peace was 'clared. they'd come by and ask my mother for bread. she was the cook. "we left arkansas 'fore the war got busy. everything was pretty ragged after we got back. white folks was here but colored folks was scattered. my folks come back and went to their native home in dallas county. "never did nothin' but farm work. worked on the shares till i got able to rent. paid five or six dollars a acre. made some money. "i heered of the ku klux. some of em come through the clemmons place and put notice on the doors. say vacate. all the women folks got in one house. then the boss man come down and say there wasn't nothin' to it. boss man didn't want em there. "i went to school a little. kep' me in the field all the tims. didn't get fur enuf to read and write. "yes'm, i voted. voted the republican ticket. that's what they give me to vote. i couldn't read so i'd tell em who i wanted to vote for and they'd put it down. some of my friends was justice of the peace and constables. "i been in pine bluff bout four years--till i got disabled to work. "i been married five times. all dead but two. don't know how many chillun we had--have to go back and study over it. "some of the younger generation is out of reason. ain't strict on chillun now like the old folks was." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: anna washington, clarendon, arkansas (back of mrs. maynard's home in the alley) age: 77 "i've forgot who my mother's owner was. she was born in virginia. she was put on a block and sold. she was fifteen years old and she never seen her mother again after she left her. her master was george birdsong. he bought my papa too. they was onliest two he owned. he wanted them both light so the children would be light for house girls and waiting boys. light colored folks sold for more money on the block. "the boss man over grandpa and grandma in virginia was john glover. but he was not their owner. my grandpa was about white. he said his owners was good to him but now grandma had a pided back where she had been whooped. grandpa come down from the washington slaves so my papa said. that is the reason i holds to his name and my boy holds to it. papa said he had to plough and clean up new ground for master birdsong. he was a young man starting out and papa and mama was young too. (she left and came back with some old scraps of yellow and torn papers dimly written all over: anna washington, born 1860 at hines county at big rock. mother born at capier county. father born at white county, virginia--ed.) "this is what was told to me by my papa: his grandmother was born of george washington's housemaid. that was one hundred forty years ago. his papa was educated under a fine mechanic and he help build the old state-house at washington. major rousy paten was the washington nigger 'ministrator. "i had a sister named martha curtis after his young wife. i had a brother named housy patton. they are both dead now. pa lived to be ninety-eight years old. my mama was as white as you is but she was a nigger woman. pa was lighter than i is now. i'm getting darker 'cause i'm getting old. my pa was named benjamin washington. "i heard my pa talk about nat turner. (she knew who he was o.k.--ed.) he got up a rebellion of black folk back in virginia. i heard my pa sit and tell about him. moses kinnel was a rich white man wouldn't sell nellie 'cause of what his wife said. she was a housemaid. he wrote own free pass book and took her to maryland. father's father wanted to buy nellie but her owner wouldn't sell her. he took her. "my mother had fourteen children. we and archie was the youngest. "moses kinnel was a rich white man and had lots of servants. he promised never to sell nellie and keep her to raise his white children. she was his maid. he promised that her dying bed. but father's father stole her and took her to maryland. "pa run away and was sold twice or more. when he was small chile his mother done fine washing. she seat him to go fetch her some fine laundry soap what they bought in the towns. two white men in a two-wheel open buggy say, 'hey, don't you want to ride?' 'i ain't got time.' 'get in buggy, we'll take you a little piece.' one jumped out and tied his hands together. they sold him. they let him go to nigger traders. they had him at a doctor's examining his fine head see what he could stand. the doctor say, 'he is a fine man. could trust him with silver and gold--his weight in it.' they brung him to mississippi and sold him for a big price. he had these papers the doctor wrote on him to show. "then he sent for my mama after they sat him free. his name was ben washington. "he never spoke much of freedom. he said his master in mississippi told them and had them sign up contracts to finish that year's crop. he took back his old virginia name and i don't recollect that master's name. heard it too. yes ma'am, heap er times. my recollection is purty nigh gone. "i don't get no younger in feelings 'cause i'm getting old." folklore subjects name of interviewer: s.s. taylor subject: slave memories--birth, mother, father, separation house subject: slaves--dwellings, food, clothes subject: corn shucking, dances, quiltings, weddings among slaves subject: slaves--fight with master (junior); slave uprisings subject: confederate army negroes; ex-slave occupations story:--information [tr: topics moved from subsequent pages.] this information given by: eliza washington place of residence: 1517 west seventeenth little rock, arkansas occupation: washing and ironing (when able) age: about 77 [tr: information moved from bottom of first page.] the first thing i remember was living with my mother about six miles from scott's crossing in arkansas, about the year 1866. i know it was 1866 because it was the year after the surrender, and we know the surrender was in 1865. i know the dates after 1866. you don't know nothin' when you don't know dates. if you get up in court and say somethin', the lawyers ask you when it happened and then they ask you where did it happen, and if you can't tell them, they say "witness is excused. you don't know nothin'." mother and father my mother was born in north carolina in mecklinberg in henderson county. i don't know when she came to arkansas, and i don't know when she went to tennessee. my father was born in tennessee. i don't know the county like i did in north carolina. i don't know the town either, but i think it was in the rurals somewhere. the white folks separated my mother and father when i was a little baby in their arms. the people to whom my father belonged stayed in tennessee, but my mother's people came to arkansas. it must have been along in the time of the war that they come to arkansas. dwelling my mother lived in a log house chinked with wood chinks. the chinks looked like gluts. you know what a glut is? no? well a glut looks like the pattern of a shoe. they lay the logs together, and then chink up the cracks with wood blocks made up like the pattern of a shoe. these were chinks, wooden things about a foot long, shaped like a wedge. they were used for chinking. after the logs were laid together, chinks would be needed to stop up the holes between the logs. after the chinking was finished, clay was stuffed in to stop up the cracks and make the house warm. i've seen a many a one built. wide planks were used for the floors. the doors were hung on wooden hinges. the doors were never locked. they didn't have any looks on them. you could bar them on the inside if you wanted to. they didn't have no fear of burglars in them days. people wasn't bad then as they is now. they had just one window and one door in the house. the chimney was built up like a ladder and clay and straw was stuffed in the framework. i have seen such houses built right down here in scott's. my mother was a field hand. she lived in such a house in tennessee. there wasn't no brick about the house, not even in the chimney. in later years, they have covered up all those logs with weather boards and made the houses look like what they call "modern", but theyr'e the same old log houses. food my mother said her white folks fed her well. she had whatever they had. when she came to arkansas, they issued rations, but she never was issued rations before. when they issued rations, they gave them so much food each week--so much corn meal, so much potatoes, so much cabbage, so much molasses, so much meat--mostly rubbish-like food. we went out in the garden and dug the potatoes and got the cabbage. but in tennessee, my mother got what ever she wanted whenever she wanted it. if she wanted salt, she went and got it. if she wanted meat, she went to the smokehouse and got it. whatever she wanted, she went and got it, and they didn't have no times for issuing out. social affairs--corn shuckings, quiltings and dances the biggest time i remember on the plantations was corn shucking time. plenty of corn was brought in from the cribs and strowed along where everybody could get to it freely. then they would all get corn and shuck it until near time to quit. the corn shucking was always at night, and only as much corn as they thought would be shucked was brought from the cribs. just before they got through, they would begin to sing. some of the songs were pitiful and sad. i can't remember any of them, but i can remember that they were sad. one of them began like this: "the speculator bought my wife and child and carried her clear away." when they got through shucking, they would hunt up the boss. he would run away and hide just before. if they found him, two big men would take him up on their shoulders and carry him all around the grounds while they sang. my mother told me that they used to do it that way in slave time. dances they didn't dance then like they do now all hugged up and indecent. in them days, they danced what you call square dances. they don't do those dances now, they're too decent. there were eight on a set. i used to dance those myself. quiltings i heard mother say she went to a lot of quiltings. i suppose they had them much the same as they do now. everybody took a part of the quilt to finish. they talked and sang and had a good time. and they had somethin' to eat at the close just as they did in the corn shucking. i never went to a quilting. worship some of the niggers went to church then just as they do now, and some of them weren't allowed to go. reverend winfield used to preach to the colored people that if they would be good niggers and not steal their master's eggs and chickens and things, that they might go to the kitchen of heaven when they died. an old lady once said to me, "i would give anything if i could have maria in heaven with me to do little things for me." my mother told me that the niggers had to turn the pots down to keep their voices from sounding when they were praying at night. and they couldn't sing at all. weddings i can remember that they used to have weddings when i was a child around the years 1867 and 1868. my mother told me of marriages and weddings. she never saw no paint on anybody's face. they used to have powder, but they never used any paint. girls were better then than they are now. fight with master my mother's first master was named rasly, and her second was named neely. she and her young master, john mcneely, who was raised with her and who was about the same age as she was, got to fighting one day and she whipped him clear as a whistle. after she whipped him that fight went all over the country. she was between sixteen and seventeen years old an he was about the same. she had never been whipped by the white folks. she was in the kitchen. i don't know what the trouble started over. but they had an argument. there were some other white boys in the kitchen with her young master, and they kept pushing the two of them up to fight. he wanted to show off; so he told her what he would do to her if she didn't hush her mouth. she told him to just try it, and the fight was on. so they fought for about an hour, and the other white boys egged them on. she said that her old master never did whip her, and she sure wasn't going to let the young one do it. i never heard that they punished her for whipping her young master. i never heard her say that anybody tried to whip her at any other time. my mother was a strong woman. she could lift one end of a log with any man. slave uprisings my mother used to say that when she was about fourteen years old, (that was about the time that the stars fell, and the stars fell in 1833 [hw:*]. so she must have been born in 1819. in 1833, she was sold for a fourteen year old girl. that was the only time that she ever was sold. that left her about eighty-three years old when she died in 1903.) she used to say that when she was about fourteen years old, and was living in north carolina in mecklinburg co, in henderson county, that the white folks called all the slaves up to the big house and kept them there a few days. there wasn't no trouble on my mother's place, but they had heard that there was an uprising among the slaves, and they called all the niggers up to the house. they didn't do nothin' to them. they just called them up to the house, and kept them there. it all passed over soon. i don't know nothin' else about it. confederate army negroes i've "heered" old brother zachary who used to belong to bethel church tell about the surrender. brother zachary is dead now. he was a soldier in the confederate army. he fought all through the war and he used to tell lots of stories about it. you know, lee was a tall man, fine looking and dignified. grant was a little man and short. those two generals walked up to each other with a white flag in their hands. and they talked and agreed just when they would fight. and then they both went back to their armies, and they fought the awfulest battle you ever "heered" of. the men lay dead in rows and rows and rows. the dead men covered whole fields. and general lee said that there wasn't any use doing any more fighting. general grant let all the rebels keep their guns. he didn't take nothin' away from them. i saw general grant when he came to little rock. there was an old white man who had never been to little rock in his life. he said "i just had to come up here to see this great general that they are talking about." occupations we always worked in the field in slave time. i don't know nothin about share cropping because i always did days work. i used to get four and five dollars a week for washing. but now they wants the young folks and they don't pay them five dollars for everything. i can't get a pension. why you reckon they won't give me one. they don't understand that that little house i own doesn't even keep itself up. my daughter-in-law is good to me but she needs everything she makes. i can't get much to do now, and what little i gets, they don't pay me much for. i don' remember nothin' else. interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: jennie washington, devalls bluff, arkansas age: 80 "my mother was a slave and my father too i recken. they belonged to jack walton when i remembered. i was born at st. charles. my mother died in time of the war at st. louis. this is whut i remembers. my mother was sold twice. the prices owned her and the wakefields owned her before she was owned by old jack walton. i was the youngest child. i had one brother went to war and he drawed a pension long as he lived. we children all got scattered out. mr. walton bout the age of my father and he said some day all these niggers be set free and warnt long fore they sho was. i had one older sister i recollect mighty well. my mother named fannie, my father named abe walton. he had a young master james walton. "when i was nuthin but a chile i remembers james dressed up like ku klux klan and scared me. the old master sho did whoop him bout that. they take care of the little black children and feed em good an don't let em do too hard er work to stunt em so they take em off and sell em for a good price. "i remembers the little old log house my granma and granpa way back over on the place stayed in till they died. we went back after the war and lived ten years on the same place. we lived close to the white folks in a bigger house. "i don't recollect no big change after freedom cept they quit selling and working folks without giving them money. i was too small to notice much change then i speck. times has always been tight wid me. i ain't never had very much. i did work an a livin is all i ever got out of it. never could make enough to get ahead. "the white folks never give the darky nothing when freedom declared. we used to raise tobacco and sell it to smoke and make snuff. and he had em make ax handles to sell on the side for money till the crops gathered. "if you believe in the bible you won't believe in women votin' i never did vote. i ain't goner never vote. "the present condition is fine. mrs. robinson carries a great big truck load to her farm every day to pick cotton. she sent word up here she take anybody whut wanter work. i wish i was able to go. i loves to pick cotton. she pay em seventy-five cents a hundred. she'll pay em too! i don't know what they do this winter. set by the fire i recken. but next spring she'll let hoe that crop. she took em this past year to hoe out that very cotton they pickin now. her husband, he's sick. he keeps their store up town. she takes a few white hands too if they wanter work. i don't think the present generation no worse en they ever been. they drawed up closer together than they used to be. they buys everything now an they don't raise nuthin. it's the bible fulfillin. everything so high they caint save nuthin! "i married twice. first time in the church, other time at home. i had four children. i had two in detroit. i don't know where my son is. he may be there yet. my daughter there got fourteen children her own. i don't know where the others are. nom [hw: long "o" diacritical] they don't help me a bit, do well helpin theirselves. i gets the welfare sistance and i works my garden back here." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: parrish washington 812 spruce street, pine bluff, arkansas age: 86 "i was born in 1852--born in arkansas. sam warren was my old master. "i remember some of the rebel generals--general price and general marmaduke. "we had started to texas but the yankees got in ahead of us in the saline bottoms and we couldn't go no further. "my boss had so much faith in his own folks he wouldn't leave here 'til it was too late. he left home on saturday night and got into the bottoms on sunday and made camp. then the yankees got in ahead of him and he couldn't go no further, so we come back to jefferson county. "the yankees had done took little rock and come down to pine bluff. "my father died in 1860 and my mother in 1865. "i can remember when they whipped the slaves. never whipped me though--they was just trainin' me up. "had an old lady on the place cooked for the children and we just got what we could. "i remember when peace was declared, the people shouted and rejoiced--a heavy load had fell off. "all the old hands stayed on the place. i stayed there with my uncle and aunt. we was treated better then. i was about 25 years old when i left there. "i farmed 'til '87. then i joined the conference and preached nearly forty years when i was superannuated. "i remember when the rebels was camped up there on my boss's place. i used to love to see the soldiers. used to see the horses hitched to the artillery. "two or three of sam warren's hands run off and joined the yankees. they didn't know what it was goin' to be and two of 'em come back--stayed there too. "i used to vote the republican ticket. i was justice of the peace four years--two terms. "i went to school here in pine bluff about two or three terms and i was school director in district number two about six or seven years. "i have great hope for the young people of the future. 'course some of 'em are not worth killin' but the better class--i think there is a bright future for 'em. "but for the world in general, if they don't change they goin' to the devil. but god always goin' to have some good people in reserve 'til the judgment." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: caroline watson 517 e. 21st avenue, pine bluff, arkansas age: 82 "i was born in '55 in march on the 13th on sunday morning in time for breakfast. i was born in mississippi. i never will forget my white folks. oh, i was raised good. i had good white folks. wish i could see some of em now. "well, i specs i do remember when the war started. i member when twas goin' on. oh lord, i member all bout it. old mistress' name was miss ellen shird. "oh the yankees used to come around. i can see us chillun sittin' on the gallery watchin' em. i disremember what color uniform they had on, but i seen a heap of em. "my old master, i can see him now--old joe shird. just as good as they could be. "i should say i do remember when they surrendered. i know everybody was joyous. but they done better fore surrender than they did afterwards--that is them that had to go off to themselves. "i was always so fast tryin' to work i wasn't studyin' bout no books, but i went to school after surrender. my father and mother was smart old folks and made us work. "i just been married once. i did pretty well. i like to been married since he's dead but i seen so many didn't do so well. i has four sons and one daughter. my son made me quit workin'. they gets me anything i want. i got a religion that will do to die with. i done give up everything. "younger generation? what we goin' do with em? they ought to be sent off some place and put to work. they just gone to the dogs. the lord have mercy. my heart just aches and moans and groans for em." circumstances of interview state--arkansas name of worker--samuel s. taylor address--little rock, arkansas date--december, 1938 subject--ex-slave [tr: repetitive information deleted from subsequent pages.] 1. name and address of informant--mary watson, 1500 cross street, little rock. 2. date and time of interview-3. place of interview--1500 cross street, little rock. 4. name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant-5. name and address of person, if any, accompanying you-6. description of room, house, surroundings, etc.-personal history of informant 1. ancestry--father, abram mccoy; mother, louise mccoy. 2. place and date of birth--mississippi. no date. 3. family-4. places lived in, with dates--lived in mississippi until 1891 then moved to arkansas. 5. education, with dates-6. occupations and accomplishments, with dates-7. special skills and interests-8. community and religious activities-9. description of informant-10. other points gained in interview--this person tells very little of life, but tells of her parents. text of interview (unedited) "my mother and father were mccoys. his name was abram and her name was louise. my mother died right here when brewer was pastor of wesley. you ought to remember her. my mother died in 1928. my father died in 1897 when joe sherrill was pastor. joe sherrill went to africa, you know. he was a missionary. "my mother was owned by bill mitchell. he came from alabama. i can't call the name of the town, just now. yes, i can; it was tuscaloosa. my father came from south carolina. mccoy was his owner. but how come him to leave south carolina he was sold after his master died and the property was divided. he was sold away from his family. he had a large family--about nine children. my mother was sold away from her mother too. she was little and couldn't help herself. my grandma didn't want to come. and she managed not to; i don't know how she managed it. "before freedom my father was a farmer. my mother was a farmer too. my mother wasn't so badly treated. she was a slave but she worked right along with the white children. she had two brothers. the other sister stayed with her mother. she was sold--my mother's mother. but i don't know to whom. "my father was a preacher. he could word any hymn. how could he do it, i don't know. on his sunday, when the circuit rider wasn't there, he would have me read the bible to him and then he could get up and tell it to the people. i don't know how he managed it. he didn't know how to read. but he had a wonderful memory. he always had his exhorting license renewed and he exhorted the people both methodists and baptists. after freedom, when i went to school i knew and always helped him. "my father voted on the election days all the time. be was a republican, and he rallied to them all the time. before the war, my father farmed. he commenced in the early fall hauling the cotton from abbeville, south carolina to augusta, georgia. that was his business--teamster, hauling cotton. he never did talk like his owners were so mean to him. of course, they weren't mean. when her master died and the property had to be sold, his master bought her and her babies. "my father met my mother before the war started. colored people were scarce in the locality where she lived. these white people saw my father and liked him. and they encouraged her to marry him. she was only seventeen. my father was much older. he remembered the dark day in may and when the stars fell. "he didn't show his age much though till he came to little rock. he had been used to farming and city life didn't agree with him. he left about seven years after coming here. "my father and mother met and married in mississippi. he came from south carolina and she came from alabama. they had nine children. all of them were born after the war. i am the oldest. lee mccoy is my youngest brother. you know him, i'm sure. he is the president of rust college. i was born right after the war. don't put me down as no ex-slave. i was born right after the war. "right after the war, my father farmed in mississippi. he took a notion to come to arkansas in 1891. he brought his whole family with him. and i have been out here ever since. "i never saw any slave houses. i wasn't a slave. i have been to the place where my mother was raised. i was teaching school near there and just wanted to see. after her master died, sam mccallister, his cousin, took the slave children and was their guardian. years later it come up in court and they took all his land. bill mitchell was her first master. he died during slave time. mccallister was made administrator of the estate. he was made guardian of all the children too. he was made guardian of the white children and of the colored children. he raised them all. there was ma and her auntie and three or four children of her auntie's. later on, way after the war, there was a lawsuit. i was grown then. the courts made him pay the white children their share as far as he was able. of course, the colored children got nothing because they were slaves when he took them. "i don't know nothing about the ku klux klan bothering my family. i don't remember anything except that i hear them talking about the ku klux and the pateroles. i wasn't here. "don't put me down as an ex-slave. i am not an ex-slave. i was born after the war. i don't know nothing about slavery except what i heard others say. i expect i have talked too much anyway." extra comment the constant reiteration of the phrase, "i'm not an ex-slave" roused my curiosity and drove me to a superficial investigation. persons who are acquainted with her and her family estimate that mary watson is nearer eighty than seventy. she started her story pleasantly enough. but when she got the obsession that she would be put down as an ex-slave, she refused to tell more. there is one thing not to be overlooked. mary watson has a mind that is still keen. she tells what she wants to tell, and she doesn't state a thing that she does not want to state. the hidden facts are to be discerned only by subtle inference. this trait interested me, for her younger brother, mentioned in the story, is a distinguished character, president of rust college, holly springs, mississippi, and known to be experienced and efficient in his work. whatever she may have reserved or stated, in reading her story, we are reading at least a sidelight on a family of which some of the members have done some fine work within the race. interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: bart wayne, helena, arkansas age: 72 "i was born at holly springs in 1866. it was in the springtime. ma said i was born two years after the surrender. ma was named mary and pa dan--dan wayne. they never was sold. in 1912 dr. leard was living in a big fine house at sardia, mississippi. he was our last owner. mallard jones owned them too. pa didn't have no name. he was called for his owners. i don't know if he named hisself dan wayne or not. the way i think it was, mr. jones give dr. leard's wife them. he give her a big plantation. i knowed dr. leard my own self all my life. i'd go to see him. "the present times is hard. i get ten dollars a month. i don't know what to say about folks now--none of them." interviewer: pernella anderson person interviewed: annie mae weathers east bone street el dorado, ark. age: ? "i was born bout the second year after surrender right down here at caledonia. now the white folks that ma and pa and me belonged to was named fords. we farmed all the time. the reason we farmed all the time was because that was all for us to do. you see there wasn't nothin' else for us to do. there wasn't no schools in my young days to do no good, and this time of year we was plowin' to beat the band and us always planted corn in february and in april our corn was. "we fixed our ground early and planted early and we had good crops of everything. we went to bed early and rose early. we had a little song that went like this: early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. and the early bird catches the worm. cooked breakfast every morning by a pine torch. "i member hearin' my pa say that when somebody come and hollowed: 'yer niggers is free at last' say he just dropped his hoe and said in a queer voice: 'thank god for that.' it made old miss and old moss so sick till they stopped eating a week. pa said old moss and old miss looked like their stomach and guts had a law suit and their navel was called in for a witness, they was so sorry we was free. "after i got a good big girl i was hired out for my clothes and something to eat. my dresses was made out of cotton stripes and my chemise was made out of flannelette and my under pants was made out of homespun. "our games was 'honey, honey bee,' 'ball i can't yall,' and a nother one of our games was 'old lady hypocrit.'" interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: cora weathers 818 chester street, little rock, arkansas age: 79 "i have been right on this spot for sixty-three years. i married when i was sixteen and he brought me here and put me down and i have been here ever since. no, i don't mean he deserted me; i mean he put me on this spot of ground. of course, i have been away on a visit but i haven't been nowheres else to live. "when i came here, there was only three houses--george winstead lived on chester and eighth street; dave davis lived on ninth and ringo; and george gray lived on chester and eighth. rena lee lived next to where old man paterson stays now, 906 chester. rena thompson lived on chester and tenth. the old people that used to live here is mostly dead or moved up north. "on seventh and ringo there was a little store. it was the only store this side of main street. there was a little old house where coffin's drug store is now. the branch ran across there. old man john peyton had a nursery in a little log house. you couldn't see it for the trees. he kept a nursery for flowers. on the next corner, old man sinclair lived. that is the southeast corner of ninth and broadway. next to him was the hall of the sons of ham. "that was the first place i went to school. lottie stephens, robert lacy, and gus richmond were the teacher. hollins was the principal. that was in the sons of ham's hall. "i was born in dallas county, arkansas. it must have been 'long 'bout in eighty-fifty-nine, 'cause i was sixteen years old when i come here and i been here sixty-three years. "during the war, i was quite small. my mother brought me here after the war and i went to school for a while. mother had a large family. so i never got to go to school but three months at a time and only got one dollar and twenty-five cents a week wages when i was working. my father drove a wagon and hoed cotton. mother kept house. she had--lemme see--one, two, three, four--eight of us, but the youngest brother was born here. "my mother's name was millie stokes. my mother's name before she was married was--i don't know what. my father's name was william stokes. my father said he was born in maryland. i met richard weathers here and married him sixty-three years ago. i had six children, three girls and three boys. children make you smart and industrious--make you think and make you get about. "i've heard talk of the pateroles; they used to whip the slaves that was out without passes, but none of them never bothered us. i don't remember anything myself, because i was too small. i heard of the ku klux too; they never bothered my people none. they scared the niggers at night. i never saw none of them. i can't remember how freedom came. first i knowed, i was free. "people in them days didn't know as much as the young people do now. but they thought more. young people nowadays don't think. some of them will do pretty well, but some of them ain't goin' to do nothin'. they are gittin' worse and worser. i don't know what is goin' to become of them. they been dependin' on the white folks all along, but the white folks ain't sayin' much now. my people don't seem to want nothin'. the majority of them just want to dress and run up and down the streets and play cards and policy and drink and dance. it is nice to have a good time but there is something else to be thought of. but if one tries to do somethin', the rest tries to pull him down. the more education they get, the worse they are--that is, some of them." interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: ishe webb 1610 cross street, little rock, arkansas age: 78, or more "i was born october 14. that was in slavery time. the record is burnt up. i was born in atlanta, georgia. my father's master was a webb. his first name was huel. my father was named after him. i came here in 1874, and i was a boy eleven or twelve years old then. "my father was sold to another man for seventeen hundred dollars. my mother was sold for twenty hundred. i have heard them say that so much that i never will forget it. webb sold my father and bought him back. my mother's folks were calverts. the calverts and the webbs owned adjoining plantations. "my grandmother on my mother's side was a calvert too. her first name was joanna. i think my father's parents got beat to death in slavery. grandfather on my mother's side was tied to a stump and whipped to death. he was double jointed and no two men could whip him. they wanted to whip him because he wouldn't work. that was what they would whip any one for. they would run off before they would work. stay in the woods all night. "my grandma calvert was buried over here in galloway on the rock island road on the john eynes plantation. "my folks' masters were all right. but them nigger drivers were bad, just like the county farm. a man sitting in the house and putting you over a lot of men, you gwinter go up high as you want to. "my father was a blacksmith and my mother was a weaver. there was a lot of those slavery folks 'round the house, and they tell me they didn't work them till they were twenty-one, they put them in the field when they were twenty-two. if you didn't work they would beat you to death. my father killed his overseer and went on off to the war. "the pateroles used to drive and whip them. they would catch the slaves off without a pass and whip them and then make the boss pay for them when they took them back. i never seen the pateroles but i have seen the ku klux and they were the same thing. "the jayhawkers would catch you when the pateroles didn't. they would carry you to the pateroles and get pay for you, and the pateroles would turn you over to the owners. you had to have a pass. if you didn't the pateroles would catch you and wear you out, keep you till the next morning, and then send you home by the jayhawkers. they didn't call them that though, they called them bushwhackers. "the ku klux came after the war. they was the same thing as the pateroles--they come out from them. i know where the ku klux home is over here on eighteenth and broadway. that is where they broke up. it ain't never been open since. (not correct--ed.) "i saw the yankees come in the yard on the webb place. that was in the time of the war. the old man got on his horse and flew. the yankees went in the smokehouse, broke it open, got all the meat they wanted. they didn't pay you nothing in slavery time. but what meat the yankees didn't take for themselves, they give to the niggers. "my folks never got anything for their work that i know of. i heard my mother say that nobody got paid for their work. i don't know whether they had a chance to make anything on the side or not. "the yankees, when they come in the yard that morning, told my father he was free. i remember that myself. they come up riding horses and carryin' long old guns with bayonets on them, and told him. they rode all over the country from one place to another telling the niggers they were free. master didn't get a chance to tell us because he left when he saw them comin'. "when my mother and father were living on the plantation, they lived in an old frame building. a portion of it was log. my father stayed with the calverts--his wife's white folks. at first old man webb sold him to them; then he bought him back and bought my mother too. they were together when freedom came. you know they auctioned you off in slavery time. every year, they would, they put you up on the auction block and buy and sell. that was down in georgia. we was in georgia when we was freed--in atlanta. my father and mother had fourteen children altogether. my mother died the year after we came out here. that would be about 1875. i never had but three children because my wife died early. two of them are dead. "right after freedom, my father plaited baskets and mats. he shucked mops, put handles on rakes and did things like that in addition to his farming. he was a blacksmith all the time too. he used to plait collars for mules. he farmed and got his harvests in season. the other things would be a help to him between times. "my father came here because he thought that there was a better situation here than in georgia. of course, the living was better there because they had plenty of fruit. then he worked on a third and fourth. he got one bale of cotton out of every three he made. the slaves left many a plantation and they would grow up in weeds. when a man would clear up the ground like this and plant it down in something, he would get all he planted on it. that was in addition to the ground that he would contract to plant. he used to plant rice, peas, potatoes, corn, and anything else he wanted too. it was all his'n so long as it was on extra ground he cleared up. "but they said, 'cotton grows as high as a man in arkansas.' then they paid a man two dollars fifty cents for picking cotton here in arkansas while they just paid about forty cents in georgia. so my father came here. times was good when we come here. the old man cleared five bales of cotton for himself his first year, and he raised his own corn. he bought a pony and a cow and a breeding hog out of the first year's money. he died about thirty-five years ago. "when i was coming along i did public work after i became a grown man. first year i made crops with him and cleared two bales for myself at twelve and a half cents a pound. the second year i hired out by the month at forty-five dollars per month and board. i had to buy my clothes of course. after seven years i went to doing work as a millwright here in arkansas. i stayed at that eighteen months. then i steamboated. "we had a captain on that steamboat that never called any man by his name. we rolled cotton down the hill to the boat and loaded it on, and if you weren't a good man, that cotton got wet. i never wetted my cotton. but jus' the same, i heard what the others heard. one day after we had finished loading, i thought i'd tell him something. the men advised me not to. he was a rough man, and he carried a gun in his pocket and a gun in his shirt. i walked up to him and said, 'captain, i don't know what your name is, but i know you's a white man. i'm a nigger, but i got a name jus' like you have. my name's webb. if you call webb, i'll come jus' as quick as i will for any other name and a lot more willing. if you don't want to say webb, you can jus' say "let's go," and you'll find me right there.' he looked at me a moment, and then he said, 'where you from?' i said, 'i'm from georgia, but i came on this boat from little hock.' he put his arm around my shoulder and said, 'come on upstairs.' we had two or three drinks upstairs, and he said, 'you and your pardner are the only two men i have that is worth a damn.' then he said, 'but you are right; you have a name, and you have a right to be called by it.' and from then on, he quit callin' us out of our names. "but i only stayed on the boat six months. it wasn't because of the captain. them niggers was bad. they gambled all the time, and i gambled with them. but they wouldn't stop at that. they would argue and fight and cut and shoot. a man would shoot a man down, and then kick him off into the river. then when there was roll call, nobody would know what became of him. i didn't like that. i knew that i was goin' to kill somebody if i stayed on that boat 'cause i didn't intend for nobody to kill me. so i stopped. "after that, i went back to the man that i worked for the month for and stayed with him till i married. i took care of the stock. i was only married once. my wife died the fourteenth of october. we had three children, and i have one daughter living. "i have voted often. i never had no trouble. i am a colored man and i ain't got nothin' but my character, but i take care of that. i let them know i am in arkansas. i ain't been out of arkansas but to memphis and vicksburg, and i took them trips on the boat i was working on. i was a good man then. "i can't say nothing about these wild-headed young people. they ain't got no sense. take god to handle them. "some parts of politics are all right and some are all wrong. it is like grant. he was straddled the fence part of the time. i believe roosevelt wants eight more years. of course, he did a great deal for the people but the working man isn't getting enough money. prices are so high and wages so low that a man keeps up to the grindstone and never gets ahead. they don't mean for a colored man to prosper by money. senator robinson said a nigger wasn't worth but fifty cents a day. but the nigger is coming anyhow. he is stinching hisself and doing without. the young folks ain't doing it though. these young folks doing every devilishment on earth they can. look at that boy they caught the other day who had robbed twenty houses. this young race ain't goin' to stan' what i stood for. they goin' to school every day but they ain't learning nothin'. what will take us through this tedious journey through the world is his manners, his principle, and his behavior. money ain't goin' to do it. you can't get by without principles, manner, and good behavior. niggers can't do it. and white folks can't either." pine bluff district folklore subjects name of interviewer: martin barker subject: (negro lore)--ex-slave story:--information this information given by: alfred wells place of residence: occupation: age 77 [tr: information moved from bottom of first page.] i has de eye of an eagle. one in my haid, de other in my chest. sometimes us slaves would stay out later at night than ole marster seid we could and they send the patrols out for us. and we started a song; "run nigger run, the petlo' catch you, run nigger run, its almost day." my brother run off and hid in the pasture. i wuz a small boy, dey called me nigger cowboy, cause i drive de cows up at night, and took em to de paster in the mornings. i knowed my brother runned off, but i wouldn't tell on him. he run off to join the yankees. they never found him, although, they used the nigger dogs, who were taken out by men who were looking for runaway nigger slaves. ef i had my choice, i'd ruther be a slave. but we cant always have our ruthers. them times i had good food, plenty to wear, and no more work than was good for me. now i is kinder miliated, when i think of what a high stepper i used to be. having, to hang around with a sack on my back begging de government to keep me fum starving. interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: douglas wells 1419 alabama street, pine bluff, arkansas age: 83 "i'se just a kid 'bout six or seven when the war started and 'bout ten or twelve when it ceasted. "i'se born in mississippi on miss nancy davis' plantation. old jeff davis was some relation. "my brother jeff jined the yankees but i never seen none till peace was declared. "i heered the old folks talkin' and they said they was fightin' to keep the people slaves. "i 'member old mistress, miss nancy. she was old when i was a kid. she had a big, large plantation. she had a lot of hands and big quarter houses. oh, i 'member you could go three miles this way and three miles that way. oh, she had a big plantation. i reckon it was mighty near big as this town. i 'member they used to take the cotton and hide it in the woods. i guess it was to keep the yankees from gettin' it. "i lived in the quarters with my father and mother and we stayed there after the war--long time after the war. i stayed there till i got to be grown. i continued there. i 'member her house and yard. had a big yard. "i can read some. learned it at miss nancy davis' plantation after the war. they had a little place where they had school. i went to church some a long time ago. "abraham lincoln was a white man. he fought in the time of the war, didn't he? oh, yes, he issued freedom. the yankees and the rebels fought. "after the war i worked at farm work. i ain't did no real hard work for over a year." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: john wells, edmondson, arkansas age: 82 "i was born down here at edmondson, arkansas. my owner was a captain in the rebel war (civil war). he run us off to texas close to greenville. he was keeping us from the yankees. in fact my father had planned to go to the yankees. my mother died on the way to texas close to the arkansas line. she was confined and the child died too. we went in a wagon. uncle tom and his wife and uncle granville went too. he left his wife. she lived on another white man's farm. my master was captain r. campbell jones. he took us to texas. he and my father come back in the same wagon we went to texas in. my father (joe jones wells) told captain r. campbell jones if he didn't let him come back here that he would be here when he got here--beat him back. that's what he told him. captain brought him on back with him. "what didn't we do in texas? hooeee! i had five hundred head of sheep belonging to j. gardner, a texan, to herd every day--twice a day. carry 'em off in the morning early and watch 'em and fetch 'em back b'fore dark. i was a shepherd boy is right. i liked the job till the snow cracked my feet open. no, i didn't have no shoes. little round cactuses stuck in my feet. "i had shoes to wear home. captain jones gave leather and everything needed to uncle granville. he was a shoemaker. he made us all shoes jus' before we was to start back. captain jones sent the wagon back for us. my father come back right here at edmondson and farmed cotton and corn. uncle tom and uncle granville raised wheat out in texas. they didn't have no overseer but they said they worked harder 'an ever they done in their lives, 'fore or since. "my father went to war with his master. captain jones served 'bout three years i judge. my father went as his waiter. he got enough of war, he said. "captain r. campbell jones had a wife, miss anne, and no children. i seen mighty near enough war in texas. they fit there. yes ma'am, they did. i seen soldiers in greenville, texas. i seen the cavalry there. they looked so fine. prettiest horses i ever seen. "freedom! master campbell jones come to us and said, 'you free this morning. the war is over.' it been over then but travel was slow. 'you all can go back home, i'll take you, or you can go root hog or die.' we all got to gatherin' up our belongings to come back home. tired of no wood neither, besides that hard work. we all share cropped with captain r. campbell jones two years. i know that. we got plenty wood without going five or six miles like in texas. after freedom folks got to changing 'bout to do better i reckon. i been farmin' right here all my life. we didn't have a lot to eat out in texas neither. mother was a farm woman too. "i never seen a ku klux. bad ku klux sound sorter like good santa claus. i heard 'em say it was real. i never seen neither one. "i did own ten acres of land. i own a home now. "my father drove a grub wagon from memphis to lost swamp bottom--near edmondson--when they built this railroad through here. "father never voted. i have voted several times. "present times is tougher now than before it come on. things not going like it ought somehow. we wants more pension. us old folks needs a good living 'cause we ain't got much more time down here. "present generation--they are slack--i means they slack on their parents, don't see after them. they can get farm work to do. they waste their money more than they ought. some folks purty nigh hungry. that is for a fact the way it is going. edmondson, arkansas "master henry edmondson owned all the land to the chatfield place to lehi, arkansas. he owned four or five thousand acres of land. it was bottoms and not cleared. they had floods then, rode around in boats sometimes. colored folks could get land through andy flemming (colored man). mr. henry edmondson and whole family died with the yellow fever. he had several children--miss emma, henry, and will i knowed. it is probably his father buried at far side of this town. a rattlesnake bit him. lake rest or scantlin was a boat landing and that was where the nearest white folks lived to the edmondsons. i worked for mr. henry edmondson, the one died with yellow fever. he was easy to work for. land wasn't cleared out much. he was here before the civil war. good many people, in fact all over there, died of yellow fever at indian mound. me and my brother waited on white folks all through that yellow fever plague. very few colored folks had it. none of 'em i heered tell of died with it. white folks died in piles. now when the smallpox raged the colored folks had it seem like heap more and harder than white folks. smallpox used to rage every few years. it break out and spread. that is the way so many colored folks come to own land and why it was named edmondson. named for master henry--edmondson, arkansas. "mrs. cynthia ann earle wrote a diary during the civil war. it was partly published in the crittenden county times--west memphis paper--fridays, november 27 and december 4, 1936. she tells interesting things happening. mentions two books she is reading. she tells about a flood, etc. she tells about visiting and spending over a thousand dollars. mrs. l.a. stewart or mrs. h.e. weaver of edmondson owns copies if they cannot be obtained at the printing office at west memphis." interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: sarah wells 1012 w. sixteenth street, little rock, arkansas age: 84 occupation: field hand "i was born in warren county, mississippi, on ben watkins' plantation. that was my master--ben worthington. i don't know nothin' about the year but it was before the war--the civil war. i was born on christmas day. "isaac irby was my father. i don't know how you spell it. i can't read and write. i can tell you this. my mother's dead. she's been dead since i was twelve years old. her name was jane irby. my name is wells because i have been married. willis was my husband's name. i have just been married once. i was married to him fifty years. he has been dead thirteen years the fifteenth of october. i don't know how old i was when i was married. but i know i am eighty-four years old now. i must have been about twenty or twenty-one when i married. slave houses "the slaves lived in log houses, dirt chimneys, plank floors. they had beds made out of wood--that's all i know. i don't know where they kept their food. they kept it in the house when they had any. the slaves didn't have to cook much. mars ben had a slave to cook for them. they all et breakfast together, and lunch in the fiel'. food and cooking "there was a great big shed. they'd all go up there and eat--the slaves would all go up and eat. i don't know what the grown folks had. they used to give us children milk and corn bread for breakfast. they'd give us greens, peas, and all like that for dinner. didn't know nothin' about no lunch. work and runaways; day's work "my mother and father worked in the field hoeing, plowing and all like that--doing whatever they told 'em to do. they raised corn and ground meal. some of the slaves would pick five hundred pounds of cotton in a day; some of them would pick three hundred pounds; and some of them only picked a hundred. if you didn't pick two hundred fifty pounds, they'd punish you, put you in the stocks. if you'd run off, they put the nigger hounds behind you. i never run off, but my mother run off. "she would go in the woods. i don't know where she'd go after she'd get in the woods. she would go in the woods and hide somewheres. she'd take somethin' to eat with her. i couldn't find her myself. she take somethin' to eat with her. she didn't know what flour bread was. i don't remember what she'd take--somethin' she could carry. sometimes she would stay in the woods two months, sometimes three months. they'd pay for the nigger hounds and let them chase her back. she'd try to get away. she never took me with her when she ran away. buying and selling "my mother and her sister were bought in old virginny. ben watkins was the one that bought her. he bought my father too. then he sold my father to the leightons. leighton bought my father from ben watkins for a carriage driver. i was never bought nor sold. i was born on ben watkins' plantation and freed on it. patrollers "i've heered them say the pateroles is out. i don't know who they was. i know they'd whip you. i was a child then. i would just know what i was told mostly. how freedom came "the yankees told my mother she was free. they had on blue clothes. they said them was the yankees. i don't know what they told her. i know they said she was free. that's all i know. "sometimes the soldiers would do right smart damage. they set a lot of houses on fire. they done right smart damage. jeff davis "i have seen jeff davis. i never seen lincoln. they said it was jeff davis i seen. i seen him in vicksburg. that was after the war was over. ku klux klan "i have heered about the ku klux, but i don't know what it was i heered. they never bothered me. right after the war "right after the war, my mother and father hired out to work. they did most any kind of work--whatever they could get to do. mother cooked. father would generally do house cleaning. mother didn't live long after the war. blood poisoning "i lost my finger because of blood poisoning. i had a scratch on my finger. pulled a hangnail out of it. i went around a lady who had a high fever and she asked me to sponge her off and i did it. i got the finger in the water that i sponged with and it got blood poisoned. i like to have died. father's death "i was married and had three children when my father died. i don't know what he died with nor what year. "my mother had had seven children--all girls. i had seven children. but three of mine were boys and four were girls. ain't none of them living now. little rock "my son was living in little rock and he kept after me to come here and i come. after i come, he left and went to kansas city. he died there. i used to do laundry work. i quit that. i commenced to do sellin' for different companies. i sold for mack brady, crawford & reeves, and a lot of 'em. opinions "i don't know what i think about the young people. they ain't nothin' like i was when i was a gal. things have changed since i come along. i better not say what i think." interviewer's comment the interviewee says she is eighty-four, and her story hangs together. her husband died thirteen years ago, and they had been married fifty years when he died. she "recollects" being about twenty years old when she married. she says she was about twelve years old when her mother died, one year after the close of the civil war. this data seems to be rather conclusive on the age of eighty-four. interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: sarah williams wells, biscoe, arkansas age: born 1866 "i jess can't tell much; my memory fails me. my white folks was john and mary williams but i was born two years after the surrender. soon after the surrender they went to lebanon, tennessee. my folks stayed on wha i was born round in murry county. my father was killed after the war but i was little. my mother died same year i married. i heard em say there was john and frank. they may be living over there now. i heard em talking bout war times. they said my father was a blacksmith in the war. i come here wid four little children on a ticket to crocketts bluff. we was sick all that year. made a fine crop. the man let another man have us to work. he was a colored man. his wife she was mean to us. she never come to see or do one thing when we all had fever. the babies nearly starved. took all for doctor bills and medicine. had $12 when all bills settled out of the whole crop. in all i had fifteen children. but two girls and one boy all that livin now. i farmed and washed and ironed all my life. my husband was born a slave. (he recently died.) "the present generation ain't got no religion. they dances and cuts up a heap. they don't care nothing bout settlin down. when they marry now, that man say he got the law on her. she belongs to him. he thinks he can make her do like he wants her all the time and they don't get along. now that's what i hear round. i sho got married and we got along good till he died. we treated one another best we knowed how. the times is what the folks making it. time ain't no different, is like the folks make. this depression is whut the folks is making. some so scared they won't get it all. they leave mighty little for the rest to get. they ain't nothin matter with nothin but the greedy people want it all to split through wid. i don't know what going to come of it all. nothin i tell you bout it ain't no good. young folks done smarter than i is. they don't listen to nobody." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: john wesley, helena, arkansas age: ? "i was full grown when the civil war come on. i was a slave till 'mancipation. i was born close to lexington, kentucky. my master in kentucky was master griter. he was 'fraid er freedom. father belong to averys in tennessee. he was a farm hand. they wouldn't sell him. i was sold to master boone close to moscow. i was sold on a scaffold high as that door (twelve feet). i seen a lot of children sold on that scaffold. i fell in the hands of george coggrith. we come to helena in wagons. we crossed the river out from memphis to hopefield. i lived at wittsburg, arkansas during the war. they smuggled us about from the yankees and took us to texas. before the war come on we had to fight the indians back. they tried to sell us in texas. george coggrith's wife died. mother was the cook for all the hands and the white folks too. she raised two boys and three girls for him. she went on raising his children during the war and after the war. during the war we hid out and raised cotton and corn. we hid in the woods. the yankees couldn't make much out in the woods and canebrakes. we stayed in texas about a year. four years after freedom we didn't know we was free. we was on his farm up at wittsburg. that is near madison, arkansas. mother wouldn't let the children get far off from our house. she was afraid the indians would steal the children. they stole children or i heard they did. the wild animals and snakes was one thing we had to look out for. grown folks and children all kept around home unless you had business and went on a trip. "my wife died three years ago. i stay with a grandchild. i got a boy but i don't know where he is now. "i had a acre and a home. i got in debt and they took my place. "i voted. the last time for president wilson. we got a good president now. i voted both kinds of tickets some. i think they called me a democrat. i quit voting. i'm too old. "i farmed in my young days. i oil milled. i saw milled. i still black smithing (in helena now). i make one or two dollars a week. work is hard to git. times is tight. i don't get help 'ceptin' some friend bring us some work. i stay up here all time nearly. "i don't know about the young generation. "well, we had a gin. during of the war it got burnt and lots of bales of cotton went 'long with it. "the ku klux come about and drink water. they wanted folks to stay at home and work. that what they said. we done that. we didn't know we was free nohow. we wasn't scared." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: robert wesley, holly grove, arkansas age: 74 "i was born in shelby county, alabama. my parents was mary and thomas wesley. their master was mary and john watts. "john watts tried to keep me. i stayed round him all time and rode up behind him on his horse. he was a soldier. "both my parents was sold but i don't know how it was done. there was thirteen children in our family. the white folks had a picnic and took colored long to do round. some heard bout freedom and went home tellin' bout it. we stayed on and worked. "the ku klux sure did run some of em. seem like they didn't know what freedom meant. some of em run off and kept goin'. never did get back. i don't know a thing bout the ku klux. i heard em say they got whoopin's for doin' too much visitin'. i was a baby so i don't know. "i do not vote. i voted for mckinley in mississippi. "i been farmin' all my life. i got one hog and a garden, three little grand babies. my daughter died and their papa went off and left em. course i took em--had to. i pay $1 house rent. i get $12 from the pwa. "the times is mighty fast. i recken the young folks do fair. there has been big changes since i come on." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: maggie wesmoland, brinkley, arkansas age: 85 "i was born in arkansas in slavery time beyond des arc. my parents was sold in mississippi. they was brought to arkansas. i never seed my father after the closing of the war. he had been refugeed to texas and come back here, then he went on back to mississippi. mama had seventeen children. she had six by my stepfather. when my stepfather was mustered out at de valls bluff he come to miss (mrs.) holland's and got mama and took her on wid him. i was give to miss holland's daughter. she married a cargo. the hollands raised me and my sister. i never seen mama after she left. my mother was jane holland and my father was smith woodson. they lived on different places here in arkansas. i had a hard time. i was awfully abused by the old man that married miss betty. she was my young mistress. he was poor and hated negroes. he said they didn't have no feeling. he drunk all the time. he never had been used to negroes and he didn't like em. he was a middle age man but miss betty holland was in her teens. "no, mama didn't have as hard a time as i had. she was miss holland's cook and wash woman. miss betty told her old husband, 'papa don't beat his negroes. he is good to his negroes.' he worked overseers in the field. nothing miss betty ever told him done a bit of good. he didn't have no feeling. i had to go in a trot all the time. i was scared to death of him--he beat me so. i'm scarred up all over now where he lashed me. he would strip me start naked and tie my hands crossed and whoop me till the blood ooze out and drip on the ground when i walked. the flies blowed me time and again. miss betty catch him gone, would grease my places and put turpentine on them to kill the places blowed. he kept a bundle of hickory switches at the house all the time. miss betty was good to me. she would cry and beg him to be good to me. "one time the cow kicked over my milk. i was scared not to take some milk to the house, so i went to the spring and put some water in the milk. he was snooping round (spying) somewhere and seen me. he beat me nearly to death. i never did know what suit him and what wouldn't. didn't nothing please him. he was a poor man, never been used to nothin' and took spite on me everything happened. they didn't have no children while i was there but he did have a boy before he died. he died fore i left dardanelle. when miss betty holland married mr. cargo she lived close to dardanelle. that is where he was so mean to me. he lived in the deer and bear hunting country. "he went to town to buy them some things for christmas good while after freedom--a couple or three years. two men come there deer hunting every year. one time he had beat me before them and on their way home they went to the freemens bureau and told how he beat me and what he done it for--biggetness. he was a biggity acting and braggy talking old man. when he got to town they asked him if he wasn't hiding a little negro girl, ask if he sent me to school. he come home. i slept on a bed made down at the foot of their bed. that night he told his wife what all he said and what all they ask him. he said he would kill whoever come there bothering about me. he been telling that about. he told miss betty they would fix me up and let me go stay a week at my sister's christmas. he went back to town, bought me the first shoes i had had since they took me. they was brogan shoes. they put a pair of his sock on me. miss betty made the calico dress for me and made a body out of some of his pants legs and quilted the skirt part, bound it at the bottom with red flannel. she made my things nice--put my underskirt in a little frame and quilted it so it would be warm. christmas day was a bright warm day. in the morning when miss betty dressed me up i was so proud. he started me off and told me how to go. "i got to the big creek. i got down in the ditch--couldn't get across. i was running up and down it looking for a place to cross. a big old mill was upon the hill. i could see it. i seen three men coming, a white man with a gun and two negro men on horses or mules. i heard one say, 'yonder she is.' another said, 'it don't look like her.' one said, 'call her.' one said, 'margaret.' i answered. they come to me and said, 'go to the mill and cross on a foot log.' i went up there and crossed and got upon a stump behind my brother-in-law on his horse. i didn't know him. the white man was the man he was share croppin' with. they all lived in a big yard like close together. i hadn't seen my sister before in about four years. mr. cargo told me if i wasn't back at his house new years day he would come after me on his horse and run me every step of the way home. it was nearly twenty-five miles. he said he would give me the worst whooping i ever got in my life. i was going back, scared not to be back. had no other place to live. "when new year day come the white man locked me up in a room in his house and i stayed in there two days. they brought me plenty to eat. i slept in there with their children. mr. cargo never come after me till march. he didn't see me when he come. it started in raining and cold and the roads was bad. when he come in march i seen him. i knowed him. i lay down and covered up in leaves. they was deep. i had been in the woods getting sweet-gum when i seen him. he scared me. he never seen me. this white man bound me to his wife's friend for a year to keep mr. cargo from getting me back. the woman at the house and mr. cargo had war nearly about me. i missed my whoopings. i never got none that whole year. it was mrs. brown, twenty miles from dardanelle, they bound me over to. i never got no more than the common run of negro children but they wasn't mean to me. "when i was at cargo's, he wouldn't buy me shoes. miss betty would have but in them days the man was head of his house. miss betty made me moccasins to wear out in the snow--made them out of old rags and pieces of his pants. i had risings on my feet and my feet frostbite till they was solid sores. he would take his knife and stob my risings to see the matter pop way out. the ice cut my feet. he cut my foot on the side with a cowhide nearly to the bone. miss betty catch him outer sight would doctor my feet. seem like she was scared of him. he wasn't none too good to her. "he told his wife the freemens bureau said turn that negro girl loose. she didn't want me to leave her. he despised nasty negroes he said. one of them fellows what come for me had been to cargo's and seen me. he was the negro man come to show patsy's husband and his share cropper where i was at. he whooped me twice before them deer hunters. they visited him every spring and fall hunting deer but they reported him to the freemens bureau. they knowed he was showing off. he overtook me on a horse one day four or five years after i left there. i was on my way from school. i was grown. he wanted me to come back live with them. said miss betty wanted to see me so bad. i was so scared i lied to him and said yes to all he said. he wanted to come get me a certain day. i lied about where i lived. he went to the wrong place to get me i heard. i was afraid to meet him on the road. he died at dardanelle before i come way from there. "after i got grown i hired out cooking at $1.25 a week and then $1.50 a week. when i was a girl i ploughed some. i worked in the field a mighty little but i have done a mountain of washing and ironing in my life. i can't tell you to save my life what a hard time i had when i was growing up. my daughter is a blessing to me. she is so good to me. "i never knowed nor seen the ku klux. the bushwhackers was awful after the war. they went about stealing and they wouldn't work. "conditions is far better for young folks now than when i come on. they can get chances i couldn't get they could do. my daughter is tied down here with me. she could do washings and ironings if she could get them and do it here at home. i think she got one give over to her for awhile. the regular wash woman is sick. it is hard for me to get a living since i been sick. i get commodities. but the diet i am on it is hard to get it. the money is the trouble. i had two strokes and i been sick with high blood pressure three years. we own our house. times is all right if i was able to work and enjoy things. i don't get the old age pension. i reckon because my daughter's husband has a job--i reckon that is it. i can't hardly buy milk, that is the main thing. the doctor told me to eat plenty milk. "i never voted." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: calvin west, widener, arkansas age: 68 "mother belong to parson renfro. he had a son named jim renfro. she was a cook and farm hand too. i never heard her speak much of her owners. pa's owner was dr. west and miss jensie west. he had a son orz west and his daughter was miss lillie west. i never was around their owners. some was dead before i come on. my pa was a cripple man. his leg was drawn around with rheumatism. during slavery he would load up a small cart wid cider and ginger cakes and go sell it out. he sold ginger cakes two for a nickel and i never heard how he sold the cider. i heard him tell close speriences he had with the patrollers. some of the landowners didn't want him trespassing on their places. he got a part of the money he sold out for. i judge from what he said his owner got part for the wagon and horse. he sold some at stores before freedom. he farmed too. his name was phillip west and mother's name was lear west. he was a crack hand at making ginger cakes. he sold wagon loads in town on saturday till he died. i was a boy nearly grown. they had ten children in all. i was born in tate county, mississippi. "mr. miller had land here. i didn't work for him but he wanted me to come here and work his land. he give us tickets. he said this was new land and we could do better. we work a lot and make big crops and don't hardly get a living out of it. we come on the train here. "we come in 1920. the way we got down here now it is bad. we make big crops and don't get much for it. we have no place to raise things to help out and pay big prices for everything. i work. but times is hard. that is the very reason it is hard. we got no place to raise nothing. (hard road and ditch in front and cotton field all around it except a few feet of padded dirt and a wood pile.) times is good and if a fellow could ever get a little ahead i believe he could stay ahead. since my wife been sick we jes' can make it. "we never called for no help. she cooked and i worked. she signed up but it will be a long time, they said, till they could get to her." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: mary mays west, widener, arkansas age: 65 "my parents' names was josie vesey and henry mays. they had ten children and five lived to be full grown. i was born in tate county, mississippi. mother died in childbirth when she was twenty-eight years old. i'm the mother of twelve and got five living. i been cooking out for white people since i was nine years old. i am a good cook they all tell me and i tries to be clean with my cooking. "mother died before i can remember much about her. my father said he had to work before day and all day and till after night in the spring and fall of the year. they ploughed with oxen and mules and horses all. he said how they would rest the teams and feed and still they would go on doing something else. they tromped cotton at night by torchlight. tromped it in the wagons to get off to the gin early next morning. "in the winter they built fences and houses and got up wood and cleared new ground. they made pots of lye hominy and lye soap the same day. they had a ashhopper set all time. in the summer is when they ditched if they had any of that to do. farming has been pretty much the same since i was a child. i have worked in the field all my life. i cook in the morning and go to the field all evening. "we just had a hard time this winter. i had a stroke in october and had to quit cooking. (her eye is closed on her left side--ed.) i love farm life. the flood last year got us behind too. we could do fine if i had my health." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: sylvester wethington holly grove, arkansas age: 77 "i recollect seeing the malish (malitia) pass up and down the road. i can tell you two things happened at our house. the yankee soldiers come took all the stock we had all down to young mistress' mule. they come fer it. young mistress got a gun, went out there, put her side saddle on the mule and climbed up. they let her an' that mule both be. nother thing they had a wall built in betwix er room and let hams and all kinds provisions swing down in thor. it went unnoticed. i recken it muster been 3 ft. wide and long as the room. had to go up in the loft from de front porch. the front porch wasn't ceiled but a place sawed out so you could get up in the loft. they used a ladder and went up there bout once a week. they swung hams and meal, flour and beef. they swung sacks er corn down in that place. that all the place where they could keep us a thing in de world to eat. they come an' got bout all we had. look like starvation ceptin' what we had stored way." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: joe whitaker, madison, arkansas age: 70 plus "i'm a blacksmith; my pa was a fine blacksmith. he was a blacksmith in the old war (civil war). he never got a pension. he said he loss his sheep skin. his owners was george and bill whitaker. mother always said her owners was pretty good. i never heard my pa speak of them in that way. they was both born in tennessee. she was never sold. i was born in murray county, tennessee too. my mother was named fronie whitaker and pa ike whitaker. mother had eleven children. my wife is a full-blood cherokee indian. we have ten children and twenty-three grandchildren. "i don't have a word to say against the times; they are close at present. nor a word to say about the next generation. i think times is progressing and i think the people are advancing some too." [tr: the following is typed, but scratched out by hand:] interviewer's comment some say his wife is a small part african. interviewer: beulah sherwood hagg person interviewed: mrs. julia a. white, 3003 cross st., little rock, ark. age: 79 idiom and dialect are lacking in this recorded interview. mrs. white's conversation was entirely free from either. on being questioned about this she explained that she was reared in a home where fairly correct english was used. my cousin emanuel armstead could read and write, and he kept the records of our family. at one time he was a school director. of course, that was back in the early days, soon after the war closed. my father was named james page jackson because he was born on the old jackson plantation in lancaster county, virginia. he named one of his daughters lancaster for a middle name in memory of his old home. clarice lancaster jackson was her full name. a man named galloway bought my father and brought him to arkansas. some called him by the name of galloway, but my father always had all his children keep the name jackson. there were fourteen of us, but only ten lived to grow up. he belonged to mr. galloway at the time of my birth, but even at that, i did not take the name galloway as it would seem like i should. my father was a good carpenter; he was a fine cook, too; learned that back in virginia. i'll tell you something interesting. the first cook stove ever brought to this town was one my father had his master to bring. he was cook at the anthony house. you know about that, don't you? it was the first real fine hotel in little rock. when father went there to be head cook, all they had to cook on was big fireplaces and the big old dutch ovens. father just kept on telling about the stoves they had in virginia, and at last they sent and got him one; it had to come by boat and took a long time. my father was proud that he was the one who set the first table ever spread in the anthony house. you see, it was different with us, from lots of slave folks. some masters hired their slaves out. i remember a drug store on the corner of main and markham; it was mcalmont's drug store. once my father worked there; the money he earned, it went to mr. galloway, of course. he said it was to pay board for mother and us little children. my mother came from a fine family,--the beebe family. angeline beebe was her name. you've heard of the beebe family, of course. roswell beebe at one time owned all the land that little rock now sets on. i was born in a log cabin where fifth and spring streets meet. the jewish synagogue is on the exact spot. once we lived at third and cumberland, across from that old hundred-year-old-building where they say the legislature once met. what you call it? yes, that's it; the hinterlider building. it was there then, too. my father and mother had the kind of wedding they had for slaves, i guess. yes, ma'am, they did call them "broom-stick weddings". i've heard tell of them. yes, ma'am, the master and mistress, when they find a couple of young slave folks want to get married, they call them before themselves and have them confess they want to marry. then they hold the broom, one at each end, and the young folks told to jump over. sometimes they have a new cabin fixed all for them to start in. after peace, a minister came and married my father and mother according to the law of the church and of the land. the master's family was thoughtful in keeping our records in their own big family bible. all the births and deaths of the children in my father's family was in their bible. after peace, father got a big bible for our family, and--wait, i'll show you.... here they are, all copied down just like out of old master's bible.... here's where my father and mother died, over on this page. right here's my own children. this space is for me and my husband. no ma'am, it don't make me tired to talk. but i need a little time to recall all the things you want to know 'bout. i was so little when freedom came i just can't remember. i'll tell you, directly. i remember that the first thing my father did was to go down to a plantation where the bigger children was working, and bring them all home, to live together as one family. that was a plantation where my mother had been; a man name moore--james moore--owned it. i don't know whether he had bought my mother from beebe or not. i can remember two things plain what happened there. i was little, but can still see them. one of my mother's babies died and master went to little rock on a horse and carried back a little coffin under his arm. the mistress had brought mother a big washing. she was working under the cover of the wellhouse and tears was running down her face. when master came back, he said: "how come you are working today, angeline, when your baby is dead?" she showed him the big pile of clothes she had to wash, as mistress said. he said: "there is plenty of help on this place what can wash. you come on in and sit by your little baby, and don't do no more work till after the funeral." he took up the little dead body and laid it in the coffin with his own hands. i'm telling you this for what happened later on. a long time after peace, one evening mother heard a tapping at the door. when she went, there was her old master, james moore. "angeline," he said, "you remember me, don't you?" course she did. then he told her he was hungry and homeless. a man hiding out. the yankees had taken everything he had. mother took him in and fed him for two or three days till he was rested. the other thing clear to my memory is when my uncle tom was sold. another day when mother was washing at the wellhouse and i was playing around, two white men came with a big, broad-shouldered colored man between them. mother put her arms around him and cried and kissed him goodbye. a long time after, i was watching one of my brothers walk down a path. i told mother that his shoulders and body look like that man she kissed and cried over. "why honey," she says to me, "can you remember that?" then she told me about my uncle tom being sold away. so you see, miss, it's a good thing you are more interested in what i know since slave days. i'll go on now. the first thing after freedom my mother kept boarders and done fine laundry work. she boarded officers of the colored union soldiers; she washed for the officers' families at the arsenal. sometimes they come and ask her to cook them something special good to eat. both my father and mother were fine cooks. that's when we lived at third and cumberland. i stayed home till i was sixteen and helped with the cooking and washing and ironing. i never worked in a cottonfield. the boys did. all us girls were reared about the house. we were trained to be lady's maids and houseworkers. i married when i was sixteen. that husband died four years later, and the next year i married this man, joel randolph white. married him in march, 1879. in those days you could put a house on leased ground. could lease it for five years at a time. my father put up a house on tenth and scott. old man haynie owned the land and let us live in the house for $25.00 a year until father's money was all gone; then we had to move out. the first home my father really owned was at 1220 spring street, what is now. course then, it was away out in the country. a white lawyer from the north--b.f. rice was his name--got my brother jimmie to work in his office. jimmie had been in school most all his life and was right educated for colored boy then. mr. rice finally asked him how would he like to study law. so he did; but all the time he wanted to be a preacher. mr. rice tell jimmie to go on studying law. it is a good education; it would help him to be a preacher. mr. rice tell my father he can own his own home by law. so he make out the papers and take care of everything so some persons can't take it away. all that time my family was working for mr. rice and finally got the home paid for, all but the last payment, and mr. rice said jimmie's services was worth that. so we had a nice home all paid for at last. we lived there till father died in 1879, and about ten years more. then sold it. my father had more money than many ex-slaves because he did what the union soldiers told him. they used to give him "greenbacks" money and tell him to take good care of it. you see, miss, union money was not any good here. everything was confederate money. you couldn't pay for a dime's worth even with a five dollar bill of union money then. the soldiers just keep on telling my father to take all the greenbacks he could get and hide away. there wasn't any need to hide it, nobody wanted it. soldiers said just wait; someday the confederate money wouldn't be any good and greenbacks would be all the money we had. so that's how my father got his money. if you have time to listen, miss, i'd like to tell you about a wonderful thing a young doctor done for my folks. it was when the gun powder explosion wrecked my brother and sister. the soldiers at the arsenal used to get powder in tins called canteens. when there was a little left--a tablespoon full or such like, they would give it to the little boys and show them how to pour it in the palm of their hand, touch a match to it and then blow. the burning powder would fly off their hand without burning. we were living in a double house at eighth and main then; another colored family in one side. they had lots of children, just like us. one canteen had a lot more powder in. my brother was afraid to pour it on his hand. he put a paper down on top of the stove and poured it out. it was a big explosion. my little sister was standing beside her brother and her scalp was plum blowed off and her face burnt terribly. his hand was all gone, and his face and neck and head burnt terribly, too. there was a young doctor live close by name deuell. father ran for him. he tell my mother if she will do just exactly what he say, their faces will come out fine. he told her to make up bread dough real sort of stiff. he made a mask of it. cut holes for their eyes, nose holes and mouths, so you could feed them, you see. he told mother to leave that on till it got hard as a rock. then still leave it on till it crack and come off by itself. nobody what ever saw their faces would believe how bad they had been burnt. only 'round the edges where the dough didn't cover was there any scars. dr. deuell only charged my father $50.00 apiece for that grand work on my sister and brother. _yes ma'am_, i'll tell you how i come to speak what you call good english. first place, my mother and father was brought up in families where they heard good speech. slaves what lived in the family didn't talk like cottonfield hands. my parents sure did believe in education. the first free schools in little rock were opened by the union for colored children. they brought young white ladies for teachers. they had sunday school in the churches on sunday. in a few years they had colored teachers come. one is still living here in little rock. i wish you would go see her. she is 90 years old now. she founded the wesley chapel here. on her fiftieth anniversary my club presented her a gold medal and had "mother wesley" engraved on it. her name is charlotte e. stevens. she has the first school report ever put out in little rock. it was in the class of 1869. two of my sisters were graduated from philander smith college here in little rock and had post graduate work in fisk university in nashville, tennessee. my brothers and sisters all did well in life. allene married a minister and did missionary work. cornelia was a teacher in dallas, texas. mary was a caterer in hot springs. clarice went to colorado springs, colorado and was a nurse in a doctor's office. jimmie was the preacher, as i told you. gus learned the drug business and willie got to be a painter. our adopted sister, molly, could do anything, nurse, teach, manage a hotel. yes, our parents always insisted we had to go to school. it's been a help to me all my life. i'm the only one now living of all my brothers and sisters. well ma'am, about how we lived all since freedom; it's been good till these last years. after i married my present husband in 1879, he worked in the missouri pacific railroad shops. he was boiler maker's helper. they called it iron mountain shops then, though. 52 years, 6 months and 24 days he worked there. in 1922, on big strike, all men got laid off. when they went back, they had to go as new men. don't you see what that done to my man? he was all ready for his pension. yes ma'am, had worked his full time to be pensioned by the railroad. but we have never been able to get any retirement pension. he should have it. urban league is trying to help him get it. he is out on account of disability and old age. he got his eye hurt pretty bad and had to be in the railroad hospital a long time. i have the doctor's papers on that. then he had a bad fall what put him again in the hospital. that was in 1931. he has never really been discharged, but just can't get any compensation. he has put in his claim to the railroad retirement office in washington. i'm hoping they get to it before he dies. we're both mighty old and feeble. he had a stroke in 1933, since he been off the railroad. how we living now? it's mighty poorly, please believe that. in his good years we bought this little home, but taxes so high, road assessments and all make it more than we can keep up. my granddaughter lives with us. she teaches, but only has school about half a year. i was trying to educate her in the university of wisconsin, but poor child had to quit. in summer we try to make a garden. some of the neighbors take in washing and they give me ironing to do. friends bring in fresh bread when they bake. it takes all my granddaughter makes to keep up the mortgage and pay all the rest. she don't have clothes decent to go. i have about sold the last of the antiques. in old days the mistress used to give my mother the dishes left from broken sets, odd vases and such. i had some beautiful things, but one by one have sold them to antique dealers to get something to help out with. my church gives me a donation every fifth sunday of a collection for benefit. sometimes it is as much as $2.50 and that sure helps on the groceries. today i bought four cents worth of beans and one cent worth of onions. i say you have to cut the garment according to the cloth. you ain't even living from hand to mouth, if the hand don't have something in it to put to the mouth. no ma'am, we couldn't get on relief, account of this child teaching. one relief worker did come to see us. she was a case worker, she said. she took down all i told her about our needs and was about ready to go when she saw my seven hens in the yard. "whose chickens out there?" she asked. "i keep a few hens," i told her. "well," she hollered, "anybody that's able to keep chickens don't need to be on relief roll," and she gathered up her gloves and bag and left. yes ma'am, i filed for old age pension, too. it was in april, 1935 i filed. when a year passed without hearing, i took my husband down so they could see just how he is not able to work. they told me not to bring him any more. said i would get $10.00 a month. two years went, and i never got any. i went by myself then, and they said yes, yes, they have my name on file, but there is no money to pay. there must be millions comes in for sales tax. i don't know where it all goes. of course the white folks get first consideration. colored folks always has to bear the brunt. they just do, and that's all there is to it. what do i think of the younger generation? i wouldn't speak for all. there are many types, just like older people. it has always been like that, though. if all young folks were like my granddaughter--i guess there is many, too. she does all the sewing, and gardening. she paints the house, makes the draperies and bed clothing. she can cook and do all our laundry work. she understands raising chickens for market but just don't have time for that. she is honest and clean in her life. yes ma'am, i did vote once, a long time ago. you see, i wasn't old enough at first, after freedom, when all the colored people could vote. then, for many years, women in arkansas couldn't vote, anyhow. i can remember when m.w. gibbs was police judge and asa richards was a colored alderman. no ma'am! the voting law is not fair. it's most unfair! we colored folks have to pay just the same as the white. we pay our sales tax, street improvement, school tax, property tax, personal property tax, dog license, automobile license--they what have cars--; we pay utility tax. and we should be allowed to vote. i can tell you about three years ago a white lady come down here with her car on election day and ask my old husband would he vote how she told him if she carried him to the polls. he said yes and she carried him. when he got there they told him no colored was allowed to vote in that election. poor old man, she didn't offer to get him home, but left him to stumble along best he could. i'm glad if i been able to give you some help. you've been patient with an old woman. i can tell you that every word i have told you is true as the gospel. circumstances of interview state--arkansas name of worker--samuel s. taylor address--little rock, arkansas date--december, 1938 subject--ex-slave [tr: repetitive information deleted from subsequent pages.] 1. name and address of informant--julia white, 3003 cross street, little rock. 2. date and time of interview-3. place of interview--3003 cross street, little rock, arkansas 4. name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant-5. name and address of person, if any, accompanying you-6. description of room, house, surroundings, etc.-personal history of informant 1. ancestry-2. place and date of birth--little rock, arkansas, 1858 3. family--two children 4. places lived in, with dates--little rock all her life. 5. education, with dates-6. occupations and accomplishments, with dates-7. special skills and interests-8. community and religious activities-9. description of informant-10. other points gained in interview--she tells of accomplishments made by the negro race. text of interview (unedited) "i was born right here in little rock, arkansas, eighty years ago on the corner of fifth and broadway. it was in a little log house. that used to be out in the woods. at least, that is where they told me i was born. i was there but i don't remember it. the first place i remember was a house on third and cumberland, the southwest corner. that was before the war. "we were living there when peace was declared. you know, my father hired my mother's time from james moore. he used to belong to dick galloway. i don't know how that was. but i know he put my mother in that house on third and cumberland while she was still a slave. and we smaller children stayed in the house with mother, and the larger children worked on james moore's plantation. "my father was at that time, i guess, you would call it, a porter at mcalmont's drug store. he was a slave at that time but he worked there. he was working there the day this place was taken. i'll never forget that. it was on september 10th. we were going across third street, and there was a union woman told mamma to bring us over there, because the soldiers were about to attack the town and they were going to have a battle. "i had on a pair of these brogans with brass plates on them, and they were flapping open and i tripped up just as the rebel soldiers were running by. one of them said, "there's a like yeller nigger, les take her." mrs. farmer, the union woman ran out and said, "no you won't; that's my nigger." and she took us in her house. and we stayed there while there was danger. then my father came back from the drug store, she said she didn't see how he kept from being killed. "at that time, there were about four houses to the block. on the place where we lived there was the big house, with many rooms, and then there was the barn and a lot of other buildings. my father rented that place and turned the outbuildings into little houses and allowed the freed slaves to live in them till they could find another place. "my husband was an orphan child, and the people he was living with were george phelps and ann phelps. they were freed slaves. that was after the war. they came here and had this little boy with them, that is how i come to meet that gentlemen over there and get acquainted with him. when they moved away from there phelps was caretaker of the oakland cemetery. we married on the twenty-seventh day of march, 1879. i still have the marriage license. i married twice; my first husband was george w. glenn and my maiden name was jackson. i married the first time june 10, 1875. i had two children in my first marriage. both of than are dead. glenn died shortly after the birth of the last child, february 15, 1878. "mr. white is a mighty good man. he is put up with me all these years. and he took mighty good care of my children, them by my first husband as well as his own. when i was a little girl, he used to tell me that he wouldn't have me for a wife. after we were married, i used to say to him, 'you said you wouldn't have me, but i see you're mighty glad to get me.' "i have the marriage license for my second marriage. "there's quite a few of the old ones left. have you seen mrs. gillam, and mrs. stephen, and mrs. weathers? cora weathers? her name is cora not clora. she's about ninety years old. she's at least ninety years old. you say she says that she is seventy-four. that must be her insurance age. i guess she is seventy-four at that; she had to be seventy-four before she was ninety. when i was a girl, she was a grown woman. she was married when my husband went to school. that has been more than sixty years ago, because we've been married nearly sixty years. my sister mary was ten years older than me, and cora weathers was right along with her. she knew my mother. when these people knew my mother they've been here, because she's been dead since '94 and she would have been 110 if she had lived. "my mother used to feed the white prisoners--the federal soldiers who were being held. they paid her and told her to keep the money because it was union money. you know at that time they were using confederate money. my father kept it. he had a little box or chest of gold and silver money. whenever he got any paper money, he would change it into gold or silver. "mother used to make these ginger cakes--they call 'em stage planks. my brother jimmie would sell them. the men used to take pleasure in trying to cheat him. he was so clever they couldn't. they never did catch him napping. "somebody burnt our house; it was on a sunday evening. they tried to say it caught from the chimney. we all like to uv burnt up. "my father was a carpenter, whitewasher, anything. he was a common laborer. we didn't have contractors then like we do now. mother worked out in service too. jimmie was the oldest boy. he taught school too. "my father set the first table that was ever set in the anthony hotel, he was the cause of the first stove being brought here to cook on. "some of the children of the people that raised my mother are still living. they are beebes. roswell beebe was a little one. they had a colored man named peter and he was teaching roswell to ride and the pony ran away. peter stepped out to stop him and roswell said, 'git out of the way peter, and let billie button come'. "i get some commodities from the welfare. but i don't get nothing like a pension. my husband worked at the missouri pacific shops for fifty-two years, and he don't git nothing neither. it was the iron mountain when he first went there on june 8, 1879. he was disabled in 1932 because of injuries received on the job in march, 1931. but they hurried him out of the hospital and never would give him anything. that monday morning, they had had a loving cup given them for not having had accidents in the plant. and at three p.m., he was sent into the hospital. he had a fall that injured his head. they only kept him there for two days and two hours. he was hurt in the head. dr. elkins himself came after him and let him set around in the tool room. he stayed there till he couldn't do nothing at all. "in 1881, he got his eye hurt on the job in the service of the missouri pacific. it was the iron mountain then. he was off about three or four months. they didn't pay his wages while he was off. they told him they would give him a lifetime job, but they didn't. his eye gave him trouble for the balance of his life. sometimes it is worse than others. he had to go to the st. louis hospital quite often for about three or four years. "when the house on third and cumberland was burnt, he rebuilded it, and the owners charged him such rent he had to move. he rebuilt it for five hundred dollars and was to get pay in rent. the owners jumped the rent up to twenty-five dollars a month. that way it soon took up the five hundred dollars. then we moved to eighth and main. my brother jimmie was in an accident there. "he was pouring powder on a fire from an old powder horn and the flames jumped up in the horn and exploded and crippled his hand and burnt his face. dr. duel, a right young doctor, said he could cure them if father would pay him fifty dollars a piece. my sister was burnt at the same time as my brother. he had them make a thin dough, and put it over their faces and he cut pieces out for their eyes, and nose, and mouth. they left that dough on their faces and chest till the dough got hard and peeled off by itself. it left the white skin. gradually the face got back to itself and took its right color again, so you couldn't tell they had ever been burnt. the only medicine the doctor gave them was epsom salts. fifty dollars for each child. i used that remedy on a school boy once and cured him, but i didn't charge him nothing. "i have a program which was given in 1874. they don't give programs like that now. people wouldn't listen that long. we each of us had two and three, and some of us had six and seven parts to learn. we learnt them and recited them and came back the next night to give a christmas eve program. you can make a copy of it if you want. "a.c. richmond is mrs. childress' brother. anna george is bee daniels' mother (bee daniels is mrs. anthony, a colored public school teacher here). corinne jordan is living on gaines between eighth and ninth streets. she is about seventy-five years old now. she was about mollie's age and i was about five years older than molly. mary riley is c.c. riley's sister. c.c. riley is haven riley's father. c.c. is dead now. haven riley was a teacher, at philander smith, for a while. he's a stenographer now. august jackson and j.w. jackson are my brothers. w.o. emory became one of our pastors at wesley. john bush, everybody's heard of him. he had the mosaic temple and got a big fortune together before he died, but his children lost it all. annie richmond is annie childress, the wife of professor e.c. childress, the state supervisor. corinne winfrey turned out to be john bush's wife. willie lane married w.o. emery. scipio jordan became the big man in the tabernacle. h.h. gilkey went to the post office. he married lizzie hull. she's living still too." extra comment the marriage license which mrs. white showed me, was issued march 27, 1879, by a.w. worthen, county clerk, per w.h.w. booker to julia glen and j.r. white. it carries the name of reverend w.h. crawford who was the pastor of wesley chapel church at that time. the license was issued in pulaski county. grand entertainment at wesley chapel wednesday evening, dec'r. 23, 1874 * * * * * programme part i address by the general manager mr. a.c. richmond song--we come today by the school prayer rev. william henry crawford declamation--my mother's bible miss annie george dialogue--three little graves miss m. upshaw and miss m.a. scruggs dialogue--about heaven miss julia jackson and miss alice richardson declamation--mud pie miss amelia rose declamation--ducklins and miss goren jordan ducklins dialogue--the beggar mr. h.h. gilkey and mr. w.a.m. cypers declamation--work while master albert pryor you work dialogue--the miser mr. c.c. riley and mr. charles hurtt, jr. declamation--pretty pictures miss cally sanders declamation--into the sunshine miss mollie jackson song--joy bells by the school dialogue--sharp shooting master asa richmond, scipio jordan, and miss laura a. morgan declamation--what i know master morton hurtt declamation--the side to look on miss dora frierson dialogue--the tattler miss mary alexander, miss m.a. scrugg, miss mary rose declamation--little clara miss rebecca ferguson dialogue--john williams' choice scipio jordan, h.h. gilkey and julia jackson declamation--a good rule miss lilly pryor declamation--complaint of the poor miss riley dialogue--the examination l.h. haney, jackson crawford and john richmond the end. part ii. dialogue--the maniac miss willie lane, a.c. richmond, rafe may, and master a. pryon dialogue--father, dear father; or the fruits of drunkenness john e. bush, w.a.m. cypers, wm. emery, miss coren winfrey, miss maggie green, and others. dialogue--an awakening miss mollie pryor and miss annie richmond dialogue--betsy and i are out alex. scruggs and w.a.m. cypers declamation--lily of the valley miss mary foster dialogue--hasty judgment c.c. riley, a.c. richmond, cypers and haney declamation--the little shooter master august jackson dialogue--practical lesson miss julia jackson, and august jackson declamation--bird and the baby miss julia foster dialogue--scenes in the police court richmond, bush, and emery ballad--yankee doodle dandy j.e. bush part iii dialogue--colloquy in church alice richardson and mollie declamation--lucy gray miss alice moore dialogue--matrimony miss willie lane, m.a. scruggs, mary alexander, mr. c.c. riley dialogue--traveler morton hurtt and scipio jordan declamation--truth in parenthesis alice moore. dialogue--forty years ago ales, scruggs, and j.p. winfrey declamation--the last footfall lizzie hull declamation--gone with a john e. bush, miss maggie green, handsomer man than me and h.g. clay declamation--golden side annie richmond declamation--the union was swan jeffries saved by the colored volunteers dialogue--relief aid saving maggie scruggs, mary ross, society lizzie hull, alice moore, mary alexander, mollie pryor, annie fairchild, lizzie wind, julia jackson, j.e. bush, j.w. jackson song-dutch band a.c. richardson, wm. emery, j.h. haney, w.a.m. cypers, j.o. alexander, j.e. bush, j.w. jackson declamation--number one alice richardson declamation--what to wear, and miss coren winfrey how to wear it dialogue--a desirable j.e. bush, j.w. jackson, a.c. richmond dialogue-the little bill marion henderson, j.e. bush, miss willie lane, miss laura a. morgan, asa richmond, jr. dialogue--country aunt's visit henry jackson, misses allice and julia crawford, maggie howell, julia jackson dialogue--beauty and the beast marion henderson, julia jackson, (six scenes) laura morgan, mary scruggs, mary ross, coren winfrey, willie lane, lizzie wind, alice crawford, j.e. bush, j.p. winfrey dialogue--how not to get m.a. scruggs and mary alexander and answer declamation--the incidents of john richmond travel * * * * * interviewer's comment this program was given on one night, and the participants doubled right back the next night on another lengthy program celebrating christmas eve. interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: julia white (continued) 3003 cross street, little rock, arkansas age: 80 "the commissary was on the northeast corner of third and cumberland. they used to call it the government commissary building. it took up a whole half block. mrs. farmer, the white woman, was living in what you call the old henderliter place, the building on the northwest corner, during the war. she was a union woman, and was the one that took us in when the confederate soldiers were passing and wanted to take us to texas with them. "i was so small i didn't know much about things then. when peace was declared a preacher named hugh brady, a white man, came here and he had my mother and father to marry over again. "mrs. stephens' father was one of the first school-teachers here for colored people. there were a lot of white people who came here from the north to teach. peabody school used to be called the union school. mrs. stephens has the first report of the school dated 1869. it gives the names of the directors and all. j.h. benford was one of the northern teachers. anna ware and louise coffman and miss henley were teachers too. "mrs. stephens is the oldest colored teacher in little rock. the a-b-c children didn't want the old men to teach us. so they would teach 'lottie'--she was only twelve years old then--and she would hear our lessons. then at recess time, we would all get out and play together. she was my play mama. her father, william wallace andrews, the first pastor of wesley chapel m.e. church, was the head teacher and mr. gray was the other. they were teaching in wesley chapel church. it was then on eighth and broadway. this was before benford's time. it was just after peace had been declared. i don't know where andrews come from nor how much learning he had. most of the people then got their learning from white children. but i don't know where he got his. "wesley was his first church as far as i know. before the war all the churches were in with the white people. after freedom, they drew out. whether wesley was his first church or not, he was wesley's first pastor. i got a history of the church." "they had a real sunday-school in those days. my sister when she was a child about twelve years old said three hundred bible verses at one time and received a book as a prize. the book was named 'a wonderful deliverance' and other stories, printed by the american tract society, new york, 150 nassau street. my sister's name was mollie jackson." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: lucy white, marianna, arkansas age: 74 "i was born on jim banks' place close to felton. his wife named miss puss. mama and all of young master's niggers was brought from mississippi. i reckon it was 'fore i was born. old master name mack banks. i never heard mama say but they was good to my daddy. they had a great big place in mississippi and a good big place over here. "i recollect seeing the soldiers prance 'long the road. i thought they looked mighty pretty. their caps and brass buttons and canteens shining in the sun. they rode the prettiest horses. one of 'em come in our house one day. he told miss puss he was goiner steal me. she say, 'don't take her off.' he give me a bundle er bread and i run in the other room and crawled under the bed 'way back in the corner. it was dark up under there. i didn't eat the bread then but i et it after he left. it sure was good. i didn't recollect much but seeing them pass the road. i like to watch 'em. my parents was field folks. i worked in the field. i was raised to work. i keep my clothes clean. i washed 'em. i cooked and washed and ironed and done field work all. when i first recollect marianna, mr. lon tau and mr. free landing (?) had stores here. dr. steven (stephen?) and dr. nunnaly run a drug store here. there was a big road here. folks started building houses here and there. they called the town mary ann fo' de longest time. "well, the white folks told 'am, 'you free.' my folks worked on fer about twenty years. they'd give 'em a little sompin outer dat crap. they worked all sorter ways--that's right--they sure did. they rented and share cropped together i reckon after the war ended. "the ku klux never bothered us. i heard 'bout 'em other places. "i never voted and i never do 'sepect to now. what i know 'bout votin'? "well, i tell you, these young folks is cautions. they don't think so but they is. lazy, no'count, spends every cent they gits in their hands. some works, some work hard. they drink and carouse about all night sometimes. no ma'am, i did not do no sich er way. i woulder been ashamed of myself. i would. times what done run away wid us all now. i don't know what to look fer now but i know times changing all the time. "i gets ten dollars and some little things to eat along. i say it do help out. i got rheumatism and big stiff j'ints (enlarged wrist and knuckles)." interviewer: bernice bowden. person interviewed: david whiteman (c) age: 88 home: 104 n. kansas street, pine bluff, arkansas. "how de do lady. oh yes, i was a pretty good sized boy when the war started. my old marster was sponsible smith. my young marster was his son-in-law. i member 'bout the yankees and the "revels". i member when a great big troop of 'em went to war. some of 'em was cryin' and some was laughin'. i tried to get young marster to let me go with him, but he wouldn't let me. old marster was too old to go and his son dodged around and didn't go either. i member he caught hisself a wild mustang and tied hisself on it and rode off and they never did see him again. "i know when they was fightin' we use to hear the balls when they was goin' over. i used to pick up many a ball. "i wish my recollection was with me like it used to be." (at this point his wife spoke up and said "seems like since he had the flu, his mind is kinda frazzled.") "yes'm, i member the ku klux. they used to have the colored folks dodgin' around tryin' to keep out of their way." interviewer: bernice bowden person interviewed: dolly whiteside (c) age: 81 home: 103 oregon street, pine bluff, ark. "i reckon i did live in slavery times--look at my hair. "i been down sick--i been right low and they didn't speck me to live. "well, i'll tell you. i was old enough to know when they runned us to texas so the yankees couldn't overtaken us. we was in texas when freedom come, i remember i was sittin on the fence when the soldiers in them blue uniforms with gold buttons come. he said, "i come to tell you you is free". i didn't know what it was all about but everybody was sayin' "thank god". i thought it was the judgment day and i was lookin' for god. i said to myself, i'm goin' have some buttons like that some day. "colonel williams was my marster. my mother was a nurse and took care of the colored folks when they was sick. i remember when people wasn't given nothin' but blue mass, calomel, castor oil and gruel, and every body was healthier than they is now. "i'm the only one livin' that my mother birthed in this world. i was born here, but i been travelin', i been to memphis and around. "no mam, i don't remember nothin' else. i done tole you all i know." interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: j.w. whitfield 3100 w. seventeenth street, little rock, arkansas age: about 60 occupation: preacher "my father's name was luke whitfield. he was sixty-three years old when he died in 1902. he was twenty-six years old when the civil war ended. he was a slave. there were three other boys in the family besides him. no girls. "his old mars' name was bill carraway. they lived at nubian [hw: new bern], north carolina. "my father said that his work in slavery time was blacksmithing. he had to fix the wagons and the plow too. he said that was his work during the civil war too. he worked in the confederate army too. "i remember him saying how they whipped him when he ran off. the overseer got after him to whip him and he and one of his friends ran off. as they jumped over the fence to go into the woods the old mars hit my daddy with a cat-o-nine tails. you see, they took a strap of harness leather and cut it into four thongs and then they took another and cut it into five thongs, and they tied them together. when you got one blow you got nine and when you got five blows you got forty-five. as his old mars hit him, he said. 'i got him one, sir; it was a good one too, sir, and a go-boy.'[hw: ?] but it was nine. "my father told me how they married in slavery times. they didn't count marriage like they do now. if one landowner had a girl and another wanted that girl for one of his men, they would give him her to wife. when a boy-child was born out of this marriage they would reserve him for breeding purposes if he was healthy and robust. but if he was puny and sickly they were not bothered about him. many a time if the boy was desirable, he was put on the stump and auctioned off by the time he was thirteen years old. they called that putting him on the block. different ones would come and bid for him and the highest bidder would get him. "my father spoke of a pass. that was when they wanted to see the girls they would have to get a pass from the old mars. my father would speak to his mars and get a pass. if he didn't have a pass, the other mars would give him a whipping and sent him back. i told you about how they whipped them. they used to use those cat-o-nine tails on them when they didn't have a pass. "they lived in a log cabin dobbed with dirt and their clothes were woven on a loom. they got the cotton, spun it on the spinning-wheel, wove it on the loom on rainy days. the women spun the thread and wove the cloth. for the boys from five to fifteen years old, they would make long shirts out of this cloth. the shirts had deep scallops in them. then they would take the same cloth and dye it with indigo and make pants out of it. the boys never wore those pants in the field. no young fellow wore pants until he began to court. "my mother was a girl that was sold in lenoir county, near kenston, [hw: kinston?] north carolina. my father met her in a place called buford, [hw: beaufort? carteret co.] north carolina. my father was sold several times. the owner sold her to his owner and they jumped over a broomstick and were married. my daddy's mars bought my mother for him. her name was penny." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: sarah whitmore, clarendon, arkansas age: 100 _note_--the interviewer found this ex-slave in small quarters. the bed, the room and the negro were filthy. a fire burned in an ironing bucket, mostly papers and trash for fuel. during the visit of the interviewer a white girl brought a tray with a measuring cup of coffee and two slices of bread with butter and fruit spread between. when asked where she got her dinner she said "the best way i can" meaning somebody might bring it to her. her hands are too stiff and shaky to cook. her eye sight is so bad she cannot clean her room. two wpa county visitors, girls, bathe her at intervals. "i was born between jackson and brandon. sure i was born down in mississippi. my mother's name they tole me was rosie. she died when i was a baby. my father named richard chamber. they called him dick. he was killed direckly after the war by a white man. he was a rebel scout. the man named hodge. i seed him. he shot my father. them questions been called over to me so much i most forgot 'em. well some jes' lack 'em. my father's master was hal chambers and his wife virginia. recken i do 'member the ku klux. they scared me to death. i go under the bed every time when i see them about. then was when my father was killed. he went off with a crowd of white men. they said they was rebel scouts. all i know i never seed him no more since that evening. they killed him across the line, not far from mississippi. chambers had two or three farms. i was on the village farm. i had one brother. chambers sent him to the salt works and i never seed him no more. i was a orphant. "chambers make you work. i worked in the field. i come wid a crowd to helena. i come on a boat. i been a midwife to black and white. i used to cook some. i am master hand at ironin'. i have no children as i knows of. i never born none. i help raise some. i come on a fine big steamboat wid a crowd of people. i married in arkansas. my husband died ten or twelve years ago. i forgot which years it was. i been livin' in this bery house seben years. "the government give me $10 a month. i would wash dishes but i can't see 'bout gettin' 'round no more. "don't ax me 'bout the young niggers. they too fast fo me. if i see 'em they talkin' a passel of foolish talk. whut i knows is times is hard wid me shows you born. "you come back to see me. if you don't i wanter meet you all in heaben. by, by, by." interviewer: watt mckinney person interviewed: dock wilborn a mile or so from marvell, arkansas age: 95 dock wilborn was born a slave near huntsville, alabama on january 7, 1843, the property of dan wilborn who with his three brothers, elias, sam, and ike, moved to arkansas and settled near marvell in phillips county about 1855. according to "uncle dock" the four wilborn brothers each owning more than one hundred slaves acquired a large body of wild, undeveloped land, divided this acreage between them and immediately began to erect numerous log structures for housing themselves, their negroes, and their stock, and to deaden the timber and clear the land preparatory to placing their crops the following season. the wilborns arrived in arkansas in the early fall of the year and for several months they camped, living in tents until such time that they were able to complete the erection of their residences. good, substantial, well constructed and warm cabins were built in which to house the slaves, much better buildings "uncle dock" says than those in which the average negro sharecropper lives today on southern cotton plantations. and these negroes were given an abundance of the same wholesome food as that prepared for the master's family in the huge kettles and ovens of the one common kitchen presided over by a well-trained and competent cook and supervised by the wife of the master. during the period of slavery the more apt and intelligent among those of the younger negroes were singled out and given special training for those places in which their talents indicated they would be most useful in the life of the plantation. girls were trained in housework, cooking, and in the care of children while boys were taught blacksmithing, carpentrying, and some were trained for personal servants around the home. some were even taught to read and to write when it was thought that their later positions would require this learning. according to "uncle dock" wilborn, slaves were allowed to enjoy many pleasures and liberties thought by many in this day, especially by the descendants of these slaves, not to have been accorded them, were entirely free of any responsibility aside from the performance of their alloted labors and speaking from his own experience received kind and just treatment at the hands of their masters. the will of the master was the law of the plantation and prompt punishment was administered for any violation of established rules and though a master was kind, he was of necessity invariably firm in the administration of his government and in the execution of his laws. respect and obedience was steadfastly required and sternly demanded, while indolence and disrespect was neither tolerated or permitted. in refutation to often repeated expressions and beliefs that slaves were cruelly treated, provided with insufficient food and apparel and subjected to inhuman punishment, it is pointed out by ex-slaves themselves that they were at that time very valuable property, worth on the market no less than from one thousand to fifteen hundred dollars each for a healthy, grown negro and that it is unreasonable to suppose that these slaveowners did not properly safeguard their investments with the befitting care and attention such valuable property demanded or that these masters would by rule or action bring about any condition adversely effecting the health, efficiency or value of their slaves. the spiritual and religious needs of the slaves received the attention of the same minister who attended the like needs of the master and his family, and services were often conducted on sunday afternoons exclusively for them at which times the minister exhorted his congregation to live lives of righteousness and to be at all times obedient, respectful and dutiful servants in the cause of both their earthly and heavenly masters. in the days of slavery, on occasion of the marriage of a couple in which the participants were members of slave-owning families, it was the custom for the father of each to provide the young couple with several negroes, the number of course depending on the relative wealth or affluence of their respective families. it seems, however, that no less than six or eight grown slaves were given in most instances as well as a like number of children from two to four years of age. this provision on the part of the parents of the newly-wedded pair was for the purpose as "uncle dock" expressed it to give them a "start" of negroes. the children were not considered of much value at such an age and the young master and his wife found themselves possessed with the responsibility attached to their proper care and rearing until such time as they reached the age at which they could perform some useful labor. these responsibilities were bravely accepted and such children received the best of care and attention, being it is said often kept in a room provided for than in the master's own house where their needs could be administered to under the watchful eye and supervision of their owners. the food given these young children according to informants consisted mainly of a sort of gruel composed of whole milk and bread made of whole wheat flour which was set before them in a kind of trough and from which they ate with great relish and grew rapidly. slaveowners, as a rule, arranged for their negroes to have all needed pleasure and enjoyment, and in the late summer after cultivation of the crops was complete it was the custom for a number of them to give a large barbecue for their combined groups of slaves, at which huge quantities of beef and pork were served and the care-free hours given over to dancing and general merry-making. "uncle dock" recalls that his master, dan wilborn, who was a good-natured man of large stature, derived much pleasure in playing his "fiddle" and that often in the early summer evenings he would walk down to the slave quarters with his violin remarking that he would supply the music and that he wished to see his "niggers" dance, and dance they would for hours and as much to the master's own delight and amusement as to theirs. dock wilborn's "pappy" sam was in some respects disobedient, prompted mainly so it seems by his complete dislike for any form of labor and which dan wilborn due to their mutual affection appeared to tolerate for long periods or until such time that his patience was exhausted when he would then apply his lash to sam a few times and often after these periodical punishments sam would escape to the dense forests that surrounded the plantation where he would remain for days or until wilborn would enlist the aid of nat turner and his hounds and chase the negro to bay and return him to his home. "uncle dock" wilborn and his wife "aunt becky" are among the oldest citizens of phillips county and have been married for sixty-seven years. dan wilborn performed their marriage ceremony. the only formality required in uniting them as man and wife was that each jump over a broom that had been placed on the floor between them. this old couple are the parents of four children, the eldest of whom is now sixty-three. they live alone in a small white-washed cabin only a mile or so from marvell being supported only by a small pension they receive each month from the social security board. they have a garden and a few chickens and a hog or two and are happy and content as they dip their snuff and recall those days long past during which they both contend that life was at its best, "aunt becky" is religious and a staunch believer, a long-time member of mount moriah baptist church while "uncle dock" who has never been affiliated with any religious organization is yet as he terms himself "a sinner man" and laughingly remarks that he is going to ride into heaven on "aunt becky's" ticket to which comment she promptly replies that her ticket is good for only one passage and that if he hopes to get there he must arrange for one of his own. interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: bell wilks, holly grove, arkansas age: 80 "i was raised in pulaski, tennessee, giles county. the post office was at one end of the town, bout half mile was the church down at the other end. yes'm, that way pulaski looked when i lived there. my father's master was peter or jerry garn--i don't know which. they brothers? yes'm. "my mother's master was john wilks and miss betty. mama's name was callie wilks and papa's name was freeman. mama had seven children. she was a field hand. she said all on their place could do nearly anything. they took turns cooking. seems like it was a week about they took milkin', doin' house work, field work, and she said sometimes they sewed. "father told my mother one day he was going to the yankees. she didn't want him to go much. he went. they mustered out drilling one day. he had to squat right smart. he saw some cattle in the distance looked like army way off. he fell dead. they said it was heart disease. they brought him home and some of dem stood close to him drillin' told her that was way it happened. "the man what owned my mother was sorter of a yankee hisself. we all stayed till he wound up the crop. he sold his place and went to collyoka on the l. and n. railway. he give us two and one-half bushels corn, three bushels wheat, and some meat at the very first of freedom. when it played out we went and he give us more long as he stayed there. "when mama left she went to a new sorter mill town and cooked there till 1869. she carried me to a young woman to nurse for her what she nursed at mostor wilks befo freedom. i stayed wid her till 1876. i sure does remember dem dates. (laughed) "yes'm, i was nursin' for dr. rothrock when that ku klux scare was all bout. they coma to our house huntin' a boy. they didn't find him. i cover up my head when they come bout our house. some folks they scared nearly to death. i bein' in a strange place don't know much bout what all i heard they done. "i don't vote. i don't know who to vote for, let people vote know how. "i get bout $8 and some commodities. it sure do help me out too. i tell you it sure do." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: bell williams, forrest city, arkansas age: 85 "we was owned by master rucker. it seems i was about ten years old when the civil war started. it seems like a dream to me now. mother was a weaver. they said she was a fine weaver. she wove for all on the place and some special pieces of cloth for outsiders. she wove woolen cloth too. i don't know whether they paid for the extra weaving or not. people didn't look on money like they do now. they was free with one another about eating and visiting and work too when a man got behind with the work. the fields get gone in the grass. sometimes they would be sick or it rained too much. the neighbor would send all his slaves to work till they caught up and never charge a cent. i don't hear about people doing that way now. "my parents was named clinton and billy bell. there was nine of us children. "i never seen nobody sold. mother was darker. papa was light--half white. they didn't talk in front of children about things and i never did know. i've wondered. "after freedom my folks stayed on at master rucker's. i got to be a midwife. i nursed and was a house girl after the war. then the doctors got to sending for me to nurse and i got to be a midwife. "my father was a good bible scholar. he preached all around murfreesboro, tennessee. he was a methodist. he died when he was seventy-seven years old. he had read the bible through seventy-seven times--one time for every year old he was." mrs. mildred thompson mrs. carol graham el dorado district federal writers project union county, arkansas charley williams, ex-slave. "mawnin' missy. yo say wha aint fanny whoolah live? she live right down de road dar in dat fust house. yas'm. dat wha she live. yo say whut mah name? mah name is charley. yas'm, charley williams. did ah live in slavery time? yas'm sho' did. mah marster wuz dr. reed williams and he live at kew london (se part of union county) or ah speck ah bettuh say near new london caise he live on de mere-saline road, de way de soldiers went and come. marster died befo' de civil wah. does ah membah hit? yas'm ah say ah does. ah wuz bo'n in 1856. mah ole mutha died befo' de wah too. huh name wuz charity. mah young marster went tuh de wah an come back. he fit at vicksburg an his name wuz bennie williams. but he daid now tho. dere was a hep uv dem white william chillun. dere wuz miss narcissi an she am a livin now at stong. den dere's mr. charley. ah wuz named fuh him. he am a livin now too. den dere is mr. race williams. he am a livin at strong too. dere wuz miss annie, miss martha jane and miss madie. dey is all daid. when young marster would come by home or any uv de udder soldiers us little niggers would steal de many balls (bullets or shot) fum dey saddul bags and play wid em. ah nevah did see so many soldiers in mah life. hit looked tuh me like dey wuz enough uv em to reach clear cross de united states. an ah nevah saw de like uv cows as they had. dey wuz nuff uv em to rech clar to camden. is ah evah been mahried and does ah have any chillun? yes'm. yas'm. ah's been mahried three times. me an mah fust wife had seven chillun. when we had six chillun me and mah wife moved tuh kansas. we had only been der 23 days when mah wife birthed a chile and her an de chile both died. dat left me wid carey dee, lizzie, arthur, richmond, ollie and lillie to bring back home. ah mahried agin an me an dat wife had one chile name robert. me an mah third wife has three: joe verna, lula mae an johnnie b. is dey hents? ah've hearn tell uv em but nevah have seed no hants. one uv mah friens whut lived on the hommonds place at hillsboro could see em. his name wuz elliott. one time me an elliott wuz drivin along an elliott said: "charley, somebody got hole uv mah horse!" sho nuff dat horse led right off inter de woods an comminced to buckin so elliott and his hoss both saw de haint but ah couldn' see hit. yo know some people jes caint see em. yas'm right up dere is wha aint fannie live. yas'm. goodday missy." folk customs we found fannie wheeler at home but not an ex-slave. she was making a bedspread of tobacco sacks. "yas'm chillun ah'm piecing mahsef a bedspraid from dese heah backy sacks. yas'm dey sho does make er nice spraid. see dat'n on mah baid. aint hit purty. hit wuz made fum backy sacks. don yo all think dat yaller bodah (border) set hit off purty? ah'm aimin to bodah dis'n wid pink er blue. what am dat up dar in dat picture frame? why dat am plaits of har (hair). hits uv mah kin and frien's. when we would move way off dey would cut off a plait and give hit tuh us tuh membah dem by. mos' uv dem is daid now but ah still membahs dem and ah kin name evah plait now." we were told that sallie sims was an old negress and went to see her she was not an ex-slave either but she told us an interesting little story about haints and body marks "no'm, ah'm purty ole but ah wuz bo'n aftuh surrender. is ah evah seen a hant? now ah nevah did but once and mah ma said dat wuz a hant. ah wuz out in de woods waukin (walking) an ah saw sumpin dat looked lak a squirrel start up a tree and de fudder up hit got the bigger hit got an hit wuz big as a bear when hit got to de top and ma said dat hit was a haint. dat is de only time ah evah seed one. now mah granchillun can all see hants and mah little great gran' chile too. an evah one uv dem wuz bo'n wid a veil ovah dey face. now when a chile is bo'n wid a veil ovah his face--if de veil is lifted up de sho can see hants and see evah thing but if'n de veil is pulled down stid up bein lifted up de won't see em. after de veil is pulled down an taken off, wrap hit up in a tissue paper and put hit in de trunk and let hit stay dar till hit disappear and de chile won't nevah see hants. mah grandaughter what lives up north in missouri come down heah to visit mah son's fambly an me ah an brang huh li'l boy wid huh. dat chile is bout seben years ole an dat chile could see hants all in de house an he wouldn' go tuh baid till his gran'pappy come home an went tuh baid wid him." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: charlie williams brassfield; ark. age: 73 "i was born four miles from holly springs, mississippi. my parents was named patsy and tom williams. they had twenty children. nat williams and miss carrie williams owned them both. they had four children. "at freedom he was nice as could be--wanted em to stay on with him and they did. he didn't whip em. they liked that in him. his wife was dead and he come out to arkansas with us. he died at lonoke--mr. tom williams at lonoke. "i farmed nearly all my life. i worked on a steamboat on white river five or six years--_the ralph_. "i never saw a ku klux. mr. williams kept us well protected. "my mother's mother couldn't talk plain. my mother talked tolerably plain. she was a 'molly glaspy' woman. my father had a loud heavy voice; you could hear him a long ways off. "i have no home. i am a widower. i have no land. i get a small check and commodities. "i vote. i haven't voted in a long time. i'm not educated to know how that would serve us best." interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: columbus williams temporary: 2422 howard street, little rock, arkansas permanent: box 12, route 2, ouachita county, stevens, arkansas age: 98 "i was born in union county, arkansas, in 1841, in mount holly. "my mother was named clora tookes. my father's name is jordan tookes. bishop tookes is supposed to be a distant relative of ours. i don't know my mother and father's folks. my mother and father were both born in georgia. they had eight children. all of them are dead now but me. i am the only one left. "old ben heard was my master. he come from mississippi, and brought my mother and father with him. they were in mississippi as well as in georgia, but they were born in georgia. ben heard was a right mean man. they was all mean 'long about then. heard whipped his slaves a lot. sometimes he would say they wouldn't obey. sometimes he would say they sassed him. sometimes he would say they wouldn't work. he would tie them and stake them out and whip them with a leather whip of some kind. he would put five hundred licks on them before he would quit. he would buy the whip he whipped them with out of the store. after he whipped them, they would put their rags on and go on about their business. there wouldn't be no such thing as medical attention. what did he care. he would whip the women the same as he would the men. "strip 'em to their waist and let their rags hang down from their hips and tie them down and lash them till the blood ran all down over their clothes. yes sir, he'd whip the women the same as he would the men. "some of the slaves ran away, but they would catch them and bring them back, you know. put the dogs after them. the dogs would just run them up and bay them just like a coon or 'possum. sometimes the white people would make the dogs bite them. you see, when the dogs would run up on them, they would sometimes fight them, till the white people got there and then the white folks would make the dogs bite them and make them quit fighting the dogs. "one man run off and stayed twelve months once. he come back then, and they didn't do nothin' to him. 'fraid he'd run off again, i guess. "we didn't have no church nor nothing. no sunday-schools, no nothin'. worked from monday morning till saturday night. on sunday we didn't do nothin' but set right down there on that big plantation. couldn't go nowhere. wouldn't let us go nowhere without a pass. they had the paterollers out all the time. if they caught you out without a pass, they would give you twenty-five licks. if you outrun them and got home, on your master's plantation, you saved yourself the whipping. "the black people never had no amusement. they would have an old fiddle--something like that. that was all the music i ever seen. sometimes they would ring up and play 'round in the yard. i don't remember the games. sing some kind of old reel song. i don't hardly remember the words of any of them songs. "wouldn't allow none of them to have no books nor read nor nothin'. nothin' like that. they had corn huskin's in mississippi and georgia, but not in arkansas. didn't have no quiltin's. women might quilt some at night. didn't have nothin' to make no quilts out of. "the very first work i did was to nurse babies. after that when i got a little bigger they carried me to the field--choppin' cotton. then i went to picking cotton. next thing--pullin' fodder. then they took me from that and put me to plowin', clearin' land, splittin' rails. i believe that is about all i did. you worked from the time you could see till the time you couldn't see. you worked from before sunrise till after dark. when that horn blows, you better git out of that house, 'cause the overseer is comin' down the line, and he ain't comin' with nothin' in his hand. "they weighed the rations out to the slaves. they would give you so many pounds of meat to each working person in the family. the children didn't count; they didn't git none. that would have to last till next sunday. they would give them three pounds of meat to each workin' person, i think. they would give 'em a little meal too. that is all they'd give 'em. the slaves had to cook for theirselves after they come home from the field. they didn't get no flour nor no sugar nor no coffee, nothin' like that. "they would give the babies a little milk and corn bread or a little molasses and bread when they didn't have the milk. some old person who didn't have to go to the field would give them somethin' to eat so that they would be out of the way when the folks come out of the field. "the slaves lived in old log houses--one room, one door, _one window_, one everything. there were _plenty windows_ though. there were windows all [hw: ?] around the house. they had cracks that let in more air than the windows would. they had plank floors. didn't have no furniture. the bed would have two legs and would have a hole bored in the side of the house where the side rail would run through and the two legs would be out from the wall. didn't have no springs and they made out with anything they could git for a mattress. master wouldn't furnish them nothin' of that kind. "the jayhawkers were white folks. they didn't bother we all much. that was after the surrender. they go 'round here and there and git after white folks what they thought had some money and jerk them 'round. they were jus' common men and soldiers. "i was not in the army in the war. i was right down here in union county then. i don't know just when they freed me but it was after the war was over. the old white man call us up to the house and told us now we was free as he was; that if we wanted to stay with him it was all right, if we didn't and wanted to go away anywheres, we could have the privilege to do it. "marriage wasn't like now. you would court a woman and jus' go on and marry. no license, no nothing. sometimes you would take up with a woman and go on with her. didn't have no ceremony at all. i have heard of them stepping over a broom but i never saw it. far as i saw there was no ceremony at all. "when the slaves were freed they expected to get forty acres and a mule. i never did hear of anybody gettin' it. "right after the war, i worked on a farm with ben heard. i stayed with him about three years, then i moved off with some other white folks. i worked on shares. first i worked for half and he furnished a team. then i worked on third and fourth and furnished my own team. i gave the owner a third of the corn and a fourth of the cotton and kept the rest. i kept that up several years. they cheated us out of our part. if they furnished anything, they would sure git it back. had everything so high you know. i have farmed all my life. farmed till i got so old i couldn't. i never did own my own farm. i just continued to rent. "i never had any trouble about voting. i voted whenever i wanted to. i reckon it was about three years after the war when i began to vote. "i never went to school. one of the white boys slipped and learned me a little about readin' in slave time. right after freedom come, i was a grown man; so i had to work. i married about four or five years after the war. i was just married once. my wife is not living now. she's gone. she's been dead for about twelve years. "i belong to the a.m.e. church and my membership is in the new home church out in the country in ouachita county." interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: frank williams county hospital, ward eleven, little rock, arkansas age: 100, or more "i'm a hundred years old. i know i'm a hundred. i know from where they told me. i don't know when i was born. "i been took down and whipped many a time because i didn't do my work good. they took my pants down and whipped me just the same as if i'd been a dog. sometimes they would whip the people from saturday night till monday morning. "i run off with the yankees. i was young then. i was in the civil war. i don't know how long i stayed in the army. i ain't never been back home since. i wish i was. i wouldn't be in this condition if i was back home. "mississippi was my home. i come up here with the yankees and i ain't never been back since. laconia, mississippi was the place i used to be down there. i been wanting to go home, but i couldn't git off. i want to git you to write there for me. i belong to the baptist church. write to the elders of the church. i belong to the mission baptist church on the other side of rock creek here. "they just lived in log houses in slave time. "i want to go back home. they made me leave laconia. "pateroles!! oh, my god!!! i know 'nough 'bout them. child, i've heard 'em holler, 'run, nigger, run! the pateroles will catch you.' "the jayhawkers would catch people and whip them. "i would be back home yet if they hadn't made me come away. "they didn't have no church in slavery time. they jus' had to hide around and worship god any way they could. "i used to live in laconia. i ain't been back there since the war. i want to go back to my folks." interviewer's comment frank williams is like a man suffering from amnesia. he is the first old man that i have interviewed whose memory is so far gone. he remembers practically nothing. he can't tell you where he was born. he can't tell you where he lived before he came to little rock. only when his associates mention some of the things he formerly told them can he remember that little of his past that he does state in any remote approach to detail. there is a strong emotional set which relates to his slave time experiences. the emotion surges up in his mind at any mention of slave time matters. but only the emotion remains. the details are gone forever. names, times, places, happenings are gone forever. he does not even recall the name of his father, the name of his mother, or the name of any of his relatives or masters, or old-time friends. no single definite thing rises above the horizon of his mind and defines itself clearly to him. and always after every sentence he utters, there rises the old refrain: "i want to go back home. i wouldn't be in this condition if i was back home. i live in laconia. they made me come away." and that is the substance of the story he remembers. interviewer: thomas elmore lucy person interviewed: gus williams, russellville, arkansas age: 80 "was you lookin' for me t'oder day? sure, my name's williams--gus williams--not wilson. dey gits me mixed up wid dat young guy, wilson. "yes, i remembers you--sure--talks to yo' brother sometimes. "i was born in chatham county, georgia--savannah is de county seat. my marster's name was jim williams. never seen my daddy cause de yankees carried him away durin' de war, took him away to de north. old marster was good to his slaves, i was told, but don't ricollect anything about em. of course i was too young. was born on christmas day, 1857--but i don't see anything specially interestin' in bein' a christmas present; never got me nothin', and never will. "was workin' on wpa--this big tech. buildin'--but got laid off t'other day. "my mamma brought us to arkansas in 1885, but we stopped and lived for several years in tennessee. worked for twelve years out of memphis on the old anchor line steamboats on de mississippi, runnin' from st. louis to n'orleans. plenty work in dem days. "no, i ain't voted in a long time; can't afford to vote because i never have the dollar. no dollar--no vote. depression done fixed my votin'. "jest me and my wife, but it takes pluggin' away to get along. we belongs to the c.m.e. church since 1915. i was janitor at the west ward school for seven years, and sure liked dat job. "don't ask me anything about dese boys and gals livin' today. much difference in dem and de young folks livin' in my time as between me and you. no dependence to be put in em. my _estimony_ is dat de black servants today workin' for de whites learns things from dem white girls dat dey never knowed before, and den goes home and does things dey never done before. "don't ricollect many of de old-time songs, but one was somep'n like--"am i born to die?" and--oh, yes,--lots of times we sung 'amazin' grace, how sweet de soun' dat saves a _race_ like me.' "no suh, i ain't got no education--never had a chance to git one." note: the underscored words are actual quotations. "estimony" for "opinion" was a characteristic in gus' vocabulary; "race" for the original "wretch" in the song may have been a general error in some local congregations. interviewer: pernella m. anderson person interviewed: henrietta williams b. avenue, el dorado, arkansas age: about 82 "i am about 82 years old. i was born in georgia down in the cotton patch. i did not know much about slavery, for i was raised in the white folks' house, and my old mistress called me her little nigger, and she didn't allow me to be whipped and drove around. i remember my old master whipped me one time and old mistress fussed with him so much he never did whip me any more. "i never had to get out and do any real hard work until i was nearly grown. my mother did not have but one child. my father was sold from my mother when i was about two years old and he was carried to texas and i did not see him any more until i was 35 years old. so my mother married again when she was set free. i didn't stay with my mother very much. she stayed off in a little log house with a dirt floor, and she cooked on the fireplace with a skillet and lid, and the house had one window with a shutter. she had to cut logs and roll them like a man and split rails and plow. i would sometimes ask old mistress to let me go out where my mother was working to see her plow and when i got to be a big girl about nine years she began learning me how to plow. "i often told the niggers the white folks raised me. the niggers tell me, 'yes, the white folks raise you but the niggers is going to kill you.' "after freedom my mistress and master moved to louisiana. they farmed. they owned a big plantation. i did the housework. "the biggest snow i remember was the big centennial snow. oh, that's been years ago. the snow was so deep you couldn't get out of the house. the boys had to take the shovel and the hoe and keep the snow raked away from around the door. "there was a big old oak tree that stood in the corner of the yard. people say that tree was a hundred years old. we could not get no wood, so master had the boys to cut the big old oak tree for wood. "rabbits had a scant time. the boys would go out and track six or eight rabbits at a time. we had rabbits of all descriptions. we had rabbits for breakfast, rabbits for dinner, rabbits for supper time. we had fried rabbits, baked rabbits, stewed rabbits, boiled rabbits. had rabbits, rabbits, rabbits the whole six or eight weeks the snow stayed on the ground. "i remember when i was about twelve years old a woman had two small children. she went away from home and for fear that the children would get hurt on the outside she put them in the house and locked the door. in some way they got a match and struck it and the house caught fire. all the neighbors were a long ways off and by the time they reched the house it had fallen in. finally the mother came and looked for her children and asked the neighbors did they save them. they said no, they did not know they were in the house. in fact they were too late anyway. so the fire was still hot and they had to wait for the ashes to cool and when the ashes got cool they went looking for the children and found the burned buttons that were on their little clothes, so they began raking around in the ashes and at last found each of their little hearts that had not burned, but the little hearts were still jumping and the man who found the hearts picked them up in his hand and stood speechless. he became so nervous he could not move. their little hearts just quivered. they let their hearts lay out for a couple of days and when they buried their hearts they was still jumpin'. that was a sad time. from that day to this day i never lock no one up in the house." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: henry andrew (tip) williams biscoe, arkansas age: born in 1854, 86 "i was born three and one-half miles from jackson, north carolina. i was born a slave. i was put to work at six years old. they started me to cleaning off new ground. i thinned corn on my knees with my hands. we planted six or seven acres of cotton and got four or five cents a pound. balance we planted was something to live on. my master was jason and betsy williams. he had a small plantation; the smaller the plantation the better they was to their slaves. "jim johnson's farm joined. he had nine hundred ninety-nine niggers. it was funny but every time a nigger was born one died. when he bought one another one would die. he was noted as having nine hundred ninety-nine niggers. it happened that way. he was rough on his place. he had a jail on his place. it was wood but close built. couldn't get out of there. put them in there and lock them up with a big padlock. he kept a male hog in the jail to tramp and walk over them. they said they kept them tied down in that place. five hundred lashes and shot 'em up in jail was light punishment. they said it was light brushing. i lived up in the piney woods. it was big rich bottom plantations from weldon bridge to halifax down on the river. they was rough on 'em, killed some. no, i never seen jim johnson to know him. he lived at edenton, north carolina. i recollect mighty well the day he died we had a big storm, blowed down big trees. that jail was standing when i come to arkansas forty-seven years ago. it was a 'bill brew' (stocks) they put men in when they put them in jail. turned male hog in there for a blind. "part of jim johnson's overseers was black and part white. hatterway was white and nat was black. they was the head overseers and both bad men. i could hear them crying way to our place early in the morning and at night. "lansing kahart owned grandma when i was a little boy. "they took hands in droves one hundred fifty miles to richmond to sell them. richmond and new orleans was the two big selling blocks. my uncle was sold at richmond and when i come to arkansas he was living at helena. i never did get to see him but i seen his two boys. they live down there now. i don't know how my uncle got to helena but he was turned loose down in this country at 'mancipation. they told me that. "when a man wanted a woman he went and axed the master for her and took her on. that is about all there was to it. no use to want one of the women on jim johnson's, debrose, tillery farms. they kept them on their own and didn't want visitors. they was big farms. kershy had a big farm. "the yankees never went to my master's house a time. the black folks knowd the yankees was after freedom. they had a song no niggers ever made up, 'i wanter be free.' "my master was too old to go to war but bill went. i think it was better times in slavery than now but i'm not in favor of bringing it back on account of the cruelty and dividing up families. my master was good to us. he was proud of us. we fared fine. he had a five or six horse farm. his land wasn't strong but we worked and had plenty. mother cooked for white and colored. we had what they et 'cepting when company come. when they left we got scraps. then when christmas come we had cakes and pies stacked up setting about for us to cut. they cut down through a whole stack of pies. cut them in halves and pass them among us. we got hunks of cake a piece. we had plain eating er plenty all the time. you see i'm a big man. i wasn't starved out till i was about grown, after the war was over. times really was hard. hard, hard times come on us all. "mama got one whooping in her life. i seen that. jason williams whipped only two grown folks in my life, mama and my brother. mama sassed her mistress or that what they called it then. since then i've heard worse jawing not called sassing, call it arguing now. sassing was a bad trait in them days. brother was whooped in the field. he was seven years older than me. i didn't see none of that. they talked a right smart about it. "the williams was good to us all. master's wife heired two women and a girl. mama cooked, ironed, and worked in the field in time of a push (when necessary). "i was hauling for the rebel soldiers one rainy evening. it was dark and lightning every now and then. general ransom was at the hotel porch when sherman turned the bend one mile to come in the town. it was about four o'clock in the evening i judge. general ransom's company was washing at boom's mill three miles. about one thousand men was out there cooking and in washing, resting. general ransom went hollering, 'yankees!' went to his men. they got away i reckon. sherman killed sixty men in that town i know. general ransom went on his horse hollering, 'yankees coming!' he went to his home eight miles from there. they went on through rough as could be. "i hauled when it was so dark the team had to take me in home at night. my circuit was ten miles a day. "my young master bill williams come in april soon as he got home and told us we was free but didn't have to leave. we stayed on and worked. he said he had nothing but the land and we had nothing. at the end of the year he paid off in corn and a little money. us boys left then and mother followed us about. we ain't done no better since then. we didn't go far off. "forty-seven years ago i went to weldon, north carolina in a wagon, took the train to gettysburg and from there come to biscoe, arkansas. i been about here ever since. mr. biscoe paid our way. we worked three years to pay him back. i cleared good money since i cone out here. i had cattle i owned and three head of horses all my own. age crept up on me. i can't work to do much good now. i gets six dollars--welfare money. "times is a puzzle to me. i don't know what to think. things is got all wrong some way but i don't know whether it will get straightened out or not. folks is making the times. it's the folks cause of all this good or bad. people not as good as they was forty years ago. they getting greedy." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: james williams, brinkley, arkansas age: 72 "i come from close to montgomery, alabama. man named john g. elliott sent and got a number famlees to work his land. he was the richest man in them parts round fryers point, mississippi. i was born after the civil war. they used to say we what was raisin' up havin' so much easier time an what they had in slavery times. that all old folks could talk about. said the onlies time the slaves had to comb their hair was on sunday. they would comb and roll each others hair and the men cut each others hair. that all the time they got. they would roll the childerns hair or keep it cut short one. saturday mornin' was the time the men had to curry and trim up the horses and mules. clean out the lot and stalls. the women would sweep and scour the floors for sunday. "i haven't voted for a long time. it used to be some fun votin'. din in mississippi the whites vote one way and us the other. my father was a republican. i was too. "i have cataracts growing on my eyes. that hinders my work now. i got a little garden. it help out. i ain't got no propety no kind. "the young folks seem happy. i guess they gettin' long fine. some folks jes' lucky bout gettin' ahead and stayin' ahead. i can't tell no moren nothin' how times goiner serve this next generation they changein' all time seems lack. if the white folks don't know what goiner become of the next generation, they need not be asking a fellow lack me. i wish i did know. "i ain't been on the pwa. i don't git no help ceptin' when i can work a little for myself." interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: john williams county hospital, ward 11, little rock, arkansas age: 75 "i was born in 1863 in texas right in the city of dallas right in the heart of the town. after the war our owners brought us back to little rock. that is where they left from. they left here on account of the war. they run off their slaves to keep the yankees from freeing them. all the old masters were dead. but the young ones were louis fletcher, john fletcher, dick fletcher, jeff fletcher, and len fletcher. five brothers of them. their home was here in little rock. the war was going on. it went on four years and prior to the end of it i was born. "my mother's name was mary williams. my father's name was john williams. i was named after him. "it is funny how they changed their names. now, his name was john scott before he went into the army. but after he went in, they changed his name into john williams. "his master's name was scott but i don't know the other part of it. all five of the brothers was named for their mother's masters. she raised them. she always called all of them master. 'cordin' to what i hear from the old folks, when one of them come 'round, you better call him master. "in slave time, my father was a field hand, i know that. but i know more about my mother. i heard her say she was always a cook. "i heard her speak about having cruel treatment from her first masters; i don't know who they were. but after the fletchers bought them, they had a good time. they come all the way out of louisiana up here. my mother was sold from her mother and sister-sold some two or three times. she never did get no trace of her sister, but she found her grandmother in baton rouge, louisiana and brought her here. her sister's name was fannie and her grandmother's name was crecie lander. that is an indian name. i couldn't understand nothing she would say hardly. she was bright. all my folks were bright but me. my mother had hair way down her shoulders and you couldn't tell my uncle from a dago. my grandmother was a regular indian color. she spoke indian too. you couldn't understand nothing she said. "when i woke up, they had these homemade beds. i couldn't hardly describe them, but they put the sides into the posts with legs. they were stout things too what i am talkin' 'bout. they made cribs for us little children and put them under the bed. they would pull the cribs out at night and run them under the bed during the day. they called them cribs trundles. they called them trundles because they run them under the bed. for chairs and tables accordin' to what i heard my mother say, she was cook and they had everything in the big house and et pretty much what the white folks et. but we just had boxes in the cabins. "them that was in the white folks' house had pretty good meals, but them that was in the field they would feed just about like they would the hogs. they had little wooden trays and they would put little fat meat and pot-liquor and corn bread in the tray, and hominy and such as that. biscuits came just on sunday. "they had old ladies to cook for the slave children and old ladies to cook for the hands. what was in the big house stayed in the big house. all the slave men ate in one place and all the slave women ate in one place. they weren't supposed to have any food in their homes unless they would go out foraging. sometimes they would get it that way. they'd go out and steal ol' master's sweet potatoes and roast them in the fire. they'd go out and steal a hog and kill it. all of it was theirn; they raised it. they wasn't to say stealin' it; they just went out and got it. if old master caught them, he'd give 'em a little brushin' if he thought they wouldn't run off. lots of times they would run off, and if he thought they'd run off because they got a whippin', he was kinda slow to catch 'em. if one run off, he'd tell the res', 'if you see so and so, tell 'im to come on back. i ain't goin' to whip 'im.' if he couldn't do nothin' with 'em, he'd sell 'em. i guess he would say to hisself, 'i can't do nothin' with this nigger. if i can't do nothing with 'im, i'll sell him and git my money outa him.' "i have heard my mother say that some of the slaves that ran away would get destroyed by the wild animals and some of them would even be glad to come back home. right smart of them got clean away and went to free states. "after the war was over, they all was brought back here and the owners let them know they was free. they had to let them know they were free. i never heard my mother tell the details. i never heard her say just who brought her word or how it was told to her when they was freed. "i never heard her say much about the church because she was a sinner. after they was freed, i would go many a night and set down in a corner where they was having a big dance. "the pateroles and jayhawkers were bad. many of them got hurt too. they tried to hurt the niggers and sometimes the niggers hurt them. "right after the war, my folks farmed for a living. they farmed on shares. they didn't have nothing of their own. they never did get nothing out of their work. i know they didn't get a thing. they farmed at first about seven miles out from little rock, below fourche dam on the fletcher place. there ain't but one of the fletchers living now, and that is molly daniels. she is old louis fletcher's daughter. all their brothers is dead. she's owning all the land now we used to till. it's over a thousand acres. she [hw: mother] stayed down there for about twenty or thirty years. then she moved here to town. here she cooked for white folks. my mother died about forty years ago--forty-two or three years; she's been dead sometime. my wife has been dead now for twelve years. "i didn't get but a little schooling, for my father used to send me after the mules. one day the wheelbarrow had a load of bricks on it. it was upset. they had histed the bricks up on a high platform. it turned over as i was passing underneath, and one fell on me and struck my head. it was a long time after that before they would let me go to school again. after that i never got used to studying any more. "my first teacher was lottie andrews (charlotte stephens). i had some more teachers too. lemme see--professor fish was a white man. we had colored teachers under him. then we had r.b. white. he was reuben white's brother. r.b. white's wife was a teacher. professor fish was the superintendent. there ain't no truth to the tale that reuben white was put in a coffin before he was dead. reuben white built the first baptist church here and milton white built a big church in helena. they were brothers. them was two sharp darkies. "when i first started working, i drove teams. i raised crops a while and farmed. then i left the country and come to town and got up to be a quarry man for years. then i quit that and went to driving teams for the merchant transfer company for years. then i quit that and run on the road--the mountain--for four years. then i taken a coal chute on the rock island and run it for four years. then i quit and went to working as an all-'round man in the shop. i stayed with them about nine years. then i taken down in the shape that i am now. "i have been out here to this hospital for twenty-four years going on twenty-five. been down so that i couldn't hit a lick of work for twenty-five years. i have been in this building for eleven years. i get along tolerable fair. as the old man says, we can just live. "i think the young people are going wild and if something isn't done to head them off pretty soon, they'll go too far. they ain't looking at what's going on up the road; they just call theirselves having a good time. they ain't looking to have nothing. they ain't looking to be nothing. they ain't looking to get nothing for the future. don't know what they would do if they had to work part of the time for nothing like we did. i see men working now for ten dollars a month. i could take a fishing line and go fishing and beat that when i was young. times is getting back almost as hard as they used to be. "i am a christian. i belong to shiloh baptist church in north little rock. i helped build that church. brother hawkins was the pastor." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: lillie williams, madison, arkansas age: 69 "i was born some place down in mississippi. my papa's papa come from georgia. he had a tar kiln; he cut splinters put them on it. it would smoke blackest smoke and drip for a week. he used it to grease the hubs of the wagons. we drunk pine tar tea for coughs. he split rails, made boards and shingles all winter. he had a draw-knife, a mall and wedges to use in his work. he learned that where he come from in georgia. he sold boards, pailings when i can recollects. grandma made tallow candles for everybody on our place in the fall when they killed the first yearling. they cooked up beeswax when they robbed bees. when i was a child i picked up pine knots for torches to quilt and knit by. we raised everything we lived on. i pulled sage grass to cure for brooms. grandpa planted some broom corn and we swept the yards and lots with brooms made out of brush. "grandma kept a barrel to make locust and persimmon beer in. we dried apples and peaches all summer and put chinaberry seed 'mongst them to keep out worms. "if we rode to church, it was in a steer wagon (ox wagon). our oxen named buck, brandy barley. "grandma raised me, two more girls, and a boy. mama worked out. our pa died. mama worked 'mongst the white folks. grandma was old-timey. she made our dresses to pick cotton in every summer. they was hot and stubby. they looked pretty. we was proud of them. mama washed and ironed. she kept us clean, too. grandma made us card and spin. i never could learn to spin but i was a good knitter. i could reel. i did love to hear it crack. that was a cut. we had a winding blade. we would fill the quills for our grandma to weave. grandma was mighty quiet and particular. she come from kenturkey. we all ploughed. i've ploughed and ploughed. "i had three little children to raise and now i have nine grandchildren. i got five here now to look after when their mother is out at work. i have worked. we farmed in 1923 up till 1931 and got this house paid out. (fairly good square-boxed, unpainted house--ed.) "my mother-in-law was sold in aberdeen, mississippi on a tall stump. she clem up a ladder. her ma was at the sale and said she was awful uneasy. but she was sold to folks close by. she could go to see her. "freedom come on. the colored folks slip about from place to place and whisper, 'we goiner be set free.' i think my mama left at freedom and come to twenty or twenty-two miles from oxford, mississippi. i don't know where i was born. but in mississippi somewheres. "there is something wrong about the way we are doing somehow. it is from hand to mouth. we buys too many paper sacks. they say work is hard to get. one thing now didn't used to be, you have to show the money before you can buy a thing. seem like we all gone money crazy. automobiles and silk stockings done ruined us all. white folks ought to straighten this out." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: mary williams, clarendon, arkansas age: born 1872 light color "my father was a slavery man two and one-half miles from somerville, tennessee. colonel rivers owned him. argile rivers was papa's name. "he went to war. his job was hauling food to the soldiers. he lay out in the woods getting to his soldiers with provisions. he'd run hide under the feed wagon from the shot. him and old master would be together sometimes. his master died, or was hurt and died after the war a long while. "he said his master was good to him all time. they had to work hard. he raised one boy and me." [hw: ex-slave] name of interviewer: irene robertson subject: ex-slave--herbs "hant" experiences story:--information this information given by: mary williams place of residence: hazen, arkansas occupation: field worker age: 69 [tr: information moved from bottom of first page.] mary williams mother's name was mariah and before she married her master forced her to go wrong and she had a son by him. they all called him jim rob. he was a mulatta. then mariah married williams on general garretts farm. the rob roy farm and the garrett farm joined. mary was born at rob roy, arkansas near humphrey. mary said the master married her mother and father after her mother was stood up on a stump and auctioned off. her mother was a house girl. soon there were rumors of freedom but their family lived on where they were. her father said when he was a boy he attended the draw bars and met the old master to get a ride up behind him. once when her father was real small he was eating biscuit with a hole in it made by a grown person sticking finger down in it, then fill the hole with molasses. that was a rarity they had just cooked molasses. he was sitting in front of the fire place. big white bobby stuck his nose and mouth to take a bite of his bread. he picked the cat up and threw it in the fire. the cat ran out, smutty, just flying. the old mistress came in there and got after him about throwing the cat in the fire. one time when my father was going to see my mother. before they got married, across the field. he had a bag of potatoes. he felt something, felt like some one had caught his bag and was pulling him back. he was much off a man and thought he could whip nearly every body around but he was too scared to run and couldn't hardly get away. * * * * * mary's mother, mariah two children had been gone off. they were coming in on the boat some time in the night. the master sent two of the big boys down to build a fire and wait at the landing till they came. they went in the wagon. there was an old empty house up on the hill. so they went up there and built a fire and put their quilts down for pallets by the fire place. they heard hants outside, they peeped out the log cracks. they saw something white out there all the doors were buttoned and propped. when the boat came it blew and blew. the master wondered what in the world was the matter down there. the captian said he hated to put them out and nobody to meet them. it was after midnight. so some of the boat crew built them a fire and next morning when they got up on the hill they noticed somebody asleep as they peeped through the cracks and called them. saw their wagon and knew it too. they said they was afraid of them hants around the house, too afraid to go down to the boat landing if they did hear the boat. hants can't be seen in daytime only by people "what born with veils over their faces." her father was going to mill to have corn ground. it was before day light. he was driving an ox wagon. in front of him he saw a sweet maple limb moving up and down over the road in front of him. he went on and the ox butted and kicked at it and it followed them nearly to the mill. it sounded like somebody crying. it turned and went back still crying. her father said there were hants up in the tree and cut the limb off and followed him carrying it between themselves so he couldn't see what they looked like. * * * * * it is a sign of death for a hoot owl to come hollow in your yard. * * * * * interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: mary williams 409 north hickory, pine bluff, arkansas age: 82 "yes mam, i sure would be glad to talk to you 'bout slavery times. i can sure tell about it--i certainly can, lady. "i am so proud 'bout my white folks 'cause they learned me how to work and tell the truth. i had a good master and mistress. yes'm, i sure did. "i was borned in middle georgia and i just love the name of georgia. i was the second born of 'leven children and they is all dead 'cept me--i'm the only one left to tell the tale. "when the ginnin' started i was always glad 'cause i could ride the crank they had the mules hitched to. and then after the cotton was ginned they took it to the press and you could hear that screw go z-m-m-m and dreckly that 'block and tickle' come down. yes mam, i sure did have good times. "you ain't never seen a spinnin' wheel has you? well, i used to card and spin. i never did weave but i hope dye the hanks. they weaved it into cloth and called it muslin. "i can 'member all i want to 'bout the war. i 'member when the yankees come through georgia. i walked out in the yard with 'em and my white people just as scared of 'em as they could be. i heered the horses feet, then the drums, and then 'bout twenty-five or thirty bugles. i was so amazed when the yankees come. i heered their songs but i couldn't 'member 'em. "one thing i 'member jest as well as if 'twas this mornin'. that was the day young master henry lee went off to war. elisha pearman hired him to go and told him that when the war ceasted he would give him two or three darkies and let him marry his daughter. young master henry (he was just eighteen) he say he goin' to take old lincoln the first thing and swing him to a limb and let him play around awhile and then shoot his head off. but i 'member the morning old mistress got a letter that told how young master henry was in a pit with the soldiers and they begged him not to stick his head up but he did anyway and they shot it off. old mistress jest cry so. "one thing i know, the yankees took a lot of things. i 'member they took mrs. fuller to the well and said they goin' hang her by the thumbs--but they just done it for mischievous you know. they didn't take nothin' from my white people 'cept some chickens and a hog, and cut down the hams. they put the old rooster in the sack and he went to squawkin' so they took him out and wrung his neck. "my white people used to carry me with 'em anywhere they go. that's how come i learn so much. i sure did learn a heap when i was small. i 'member the first time my old mistress and my young mistress carried me to church. when the preacher got through preachin' (he was a big fine lookin' man with white gray hair) he come down from the pulpit and say 'come to me, you sinners, poor and needy.' and he told what jesus said to nicodemus how he must be born again. i wanted to go to the mourners' bench so bad, but old mistress wouldn't let me. when i got home i told my mother to borned me again. you see i was jest little and didn't know no better. "i never seen no ku klux but i could have. they never bothered us but they whipped the shirttails off some of 'em. some darkies is the meanest things god ever put breath in. "most generally the white folks was good to their darkies. my young master used to sneak out his blue back speller and learned my father how to read, and after the war he taught school. he started me off and then a teacher from the north come down and taught us. "i've done pitty near every kind a work there is to do. there is some few white people here can identify me. i most always work for 'ristocratic people. it seems that was just my luck. "i don't think nothin' of this here younger generation. they ain't nothin' to 'em. they say to me 'why don't you have your hair straightened' but i say 'i've got along this far without painted jaws and straight hair.' and i ain't goin' wear my dresses up to my knees or trail 'em in the mud, either. "i been married four times and every one of 'em is dead and buried. my las' husband was in the spanish-american war and now i gets a pension. yes'm it sure does help. "i only had two children is all i is had. they is both dead and when god took my last one, i thought he wasn't jest but i see now god knows what's best cause if i had my grandchildren now i'd sure beat 'em. i'd love 'em, but i sure wouldn't let 'em run around. "the biggest part of these niggers puts their mistakes on the white folks. it's easier to do right than wrong cause right whips wrong every time into a frazzle. "i don't read much now since my eyes ain't so good but tell me whatever become of teddy roosevelt? "i'm sorry i can't offer you no dinner but i'm just cookin' myself some peas. "well, lady, i sure am glad you come. i jest knew the lord was goin' send somebody for me to talk to. i loves to talk so well. good bye and come back again sometime." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: mary williams 409 hickory, pine bluff, arkansas age: 84 [tr: apparently a second interview with same person despite age discrepancy.] "yes ma'am, i know all about slavery. i'll be eighty-four the twenty-fifth of this month. i was born in 1855. "my mother had eleven children and they all said i could remember the best of all. i'm the second oldest. and they all dead but me. "i used to spin and on friday i'd set aside my wheel and on saturday morning we'd sweep yards. and saturday evening was our holiday. "i belonged to the lees and my white folks was good to me. i was the aptest one among 'em, so they'd give me a basket and a ginger cake and i'd go to the presly's after squabs. they'd be just nine days old 'cause they said if they was any older they'd be tough. "now, when the yankees come through ever'body was up in the house 'cept me. i was out in the yard with the yankees. no, i wasn't scared of 'em--i had better sense. "this is all the 'joyment i have now is to think back in slavery times. "in slavery times white folks used to carry me to church. they'd carry me to church in preference to anybody else. when they'd sing i'd be so happy i'd hop and skip. i'm one of the stewardess sisters of st. john's methodist church. we takes care of the sacrament table. "i believe in visions. i'm a great revisionist. i don't have to be asleep either. now if i see a vision of a black snake, it's a sign i got a black enemy. and if it's a light colored snake, it's a sign i got a white enemy. and if it's a kinda of a yellow snake, i got a enemy is a yellow nigger. "now, here's a true sign of death. if you dream of seen' nakedness, somebody sure goin' to die in your family or maybe your neighbors'. "in slavery times they mostly wove their own dresses. wove goods called muslin. "and they wore bonnets in slavery times made out of bull rush grass. called 'em bull rush bonnets. i knowed how to weave but they had me spinnin' all the time. "i've always worked for the 'ristocrat white people--lawyers, doctors, and bankers. mr. frank head was cashier of that old merchant and planters bank. he was a northern man. oh, from away up north. "when i cooked, the greatest trouble i had was gettin' away. nobody wanted me to leave. and i tell you those northern ladies wanted to call me mrs. williams. i'd say, 'don't do that. you know these southern people don't like that--don't believe in that.' but you know she would call me miss mary. but i said, 'don't do that.' "i'm just an old darky and can't 'spress myself but i try to do what's right and i think that's the reason the lord has let me live so long." interviewer's comment husband was a soldier in the spanish-american war and she receives a pension. interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: rosena hunt williams r.f.d., brinkley, arkansas age: 56 "my mother was amanda mcvey. she was born two years, six months after freedom in corinth, mississippi. my father was born in slavery. grandma lived with us at her death. her name was emily mcvey. she was sold in her girlhood days. uncle george was sold to a man in the settlement named lee. his name was joe lee (lea?). another of my uncles was sold to a man named washington. his name was george washington. they were sold at different times. being sold was their biggest dread. some of them wanted to be sold trusting to be treated better. "mother and grandma didn't have a hard time like my father said he come up under. he said he was brought up hard. he was raised (reared) at jackson, tennessee. he was never sold. master alf hunt owned him and his young master, willie hunt, inherited him. he said they never put him in the field till he was twelve years old. he started ploughing a third part of a day. a girl about grown and another boy a little older took turns to do a 'buck's' (a grown man) work. they was lotted of a certain tract and if it stay clear a certain time to get it all done. he said they got whooped and half fed. when the war was on, his white folks had to half feed their own selves. he talked like if the war had lasted much longer it would been a famine in the land. he hit this world in time to have a hard time of it. after freedom was worse time in his life. "in august when the crops was laid by master hunt called them to the house at one o'clock by so many taps of the farm bell. it hung in a great big tree. he read a paper from his side porch telling them they free. they been free several months then and didn't a one of them know it." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: "soldier" williams, forrest city, arkansas age: 98 "my name is william ball williams iii. i was born in greensburg. my owners was robert and mary ball. they had four children i knowd. old man ball bought ma and two children for one thousand five hundred dollars. i never was sold. i want to live to be a hundred years old. i'm ninety-eight years old now. "ma was margarett ball. pa was william anderson. ma was a cook and pa a field hand. they whooped a plenty on the place where i come up. some of 'em run off. some they tied to a tree. bob ball didn't use no dogs. when they got starved out they'd come outen the woods. of course they would. bob ball raised fine tobacco, fine negroes, fine horses. he made us go to church. four or five of us would walk to the white folks' baptist church. the master and his family rode. it was a good piece. we had dances in the cabins every once in a while. we dance more in winter time so we could turn a pot down in the door to drown out the noise. we had plenty plain grub to eat. "i run away to louisville to j'ine the yankees one day. i was scared to death all the time. they put us in front to shield themselves. they said they was fighting for us--for our freedom. piles of them was killed. i got a flesh wound. i'm scarred up some. we got plenty to eat. i was in two or three hot battles. i wanted to quit but they would catch them and shoot them if they left. i didn't know how to get out and get away. i mustered out at jacksonville, florida and walked every step of the way back. when i got back it was fall of the year. my folks still at my master's. i was on picket guard at jacksonville, florida. we fought a little at pensacola, florida. "at the end of the war provisions got mighty scarce. if we didn't have enough to eat we took it. they hadn't raised nothing to eat the last two years. before i got back to kentucky the ku klux was about and it was hard to get enough to eat to keep traveling on. i was scared nearly to death all the time. i'm not in favor of war. i didn't stay on with the master but my folks lived on. they didn't want to hire negro soldiers. i traveled about hunting a good place and got to osceola, arkansas. i been here in forrest city twenty ard years. the best people in the world live in arkansas. "i'm going to try to go to the yankee reunion. they sent me a big letter (invitation). they going to send me a ticket and pay all my expenses. it is at gettysburg. it is from june 29th to july 6th. my grandson is going to take care of me. "i get one hundred dollars a month pension. it keeps us mighty well. i want to live to be a hundred years old." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: anna williamson, holly grove, arkansas age: between 75 and 80 "grandma come from north carolina. her master was rodes herndon, then cager booker. he owned my mama. my name is anna booker. i married wes williamson. "my papa's master was calvin winfree. he come from virginia. me and bert winfree (white) raised together close to somerville, tennessee. "grandma and grandpa was named maria and allen. her master was rodes herndon. i was fourth to the oldest of mama's children. she give me to grandma. that who raised me. mama took to the field after freedom. mama had seven or eight children. "mama muster been a pretty big sorter woman when she young. a ridin' boss went to whoopin' her once and she tore every rag clothes he had on offen him. i heard em say he went home strip start naked. i think they said he got turned off or quit, one. "when mama was in slavery she had three girl babies and long wid them she nursed some of the white babies. she cooked some but wasn't the regular white folks' cook. another black woman was the regular cook. i heard her say she was a field hand mostly durin' slavery. "folks was free two or three years fore they knowed it. nobody told em. "i used to have to go up the road to get milk for the old mistress. she boxed my ears. that when i was a child reckly after the war. "they had a latch and a hart bar cross the door. i never was out but once after dark. i never seen no ku klux. my folks didn't know they was free. "dr. washington lived in somerville, tennessee and brought us to arkansas to farm. he owned acres and acres of land here. i was grown and had a house full of children. i got five living now. "i don't vote. i don't know who to vote for. i would vote for the worst kinder officers maybe and i wouldn't wanter make times harder on us all 'an they is. "i been cookin' and farmin' all my life. now i get $10 a month from the sociable welfare. "i used to pick up chips at mrs. willforms--pick up a big cotton basket piled up fore i quit. i seen the yankees, they camped at the fair grounds. i thought they wore the prettiest clothes and the brass buttons so pretty on the blue suits. i hear em beat the drum. i go peep out when they come by. "my old mistress slapped me till my eye was red cause one day i says 'ain't them men pretty?' they camped at what is now the fair grounds at somerville, tennessee, at sorter right of town. my papa was a ox driver. that is all he done bout. seem like there was haulin' to be done all the time. "the folks used to be heap better than they is now. some of the masters was mean to the slaves but they mortally had plenty to eat and wear and a house to live in. some of the houses was sorry and the snow come in the cracks but we had big fire places and plenty wood to cook and keep warm by. the children all wore flannel clothes then to keep em warm. they raised sheep. "it is a shame what folks do now. these young darky girls marries a boy and they get tired each other. they quit. they ain't got no sign of divorce! course they ain't never been married! they jes' take up and live together, then they both go on livin' with some other man an' woman. it ain't right! folks ain't good like they used to be. we old folks ain't got no use for such doin's. they done too smart to be told by us old folks. i do best i can an' be good as i knows how to be. "the times is fine as i ever seen in my life. i wish i was young and strong. i wouldn't ask nobody for sistance. tey ain't nuthin' wrong wid this year's crop as i sees. times is fine." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: callie halsey williamson, biscoe, arkansas age: 60? "mother was born in alabama during slavery. her name was levisa halsey. neither of my parents were sold. mother was tranferred (transferred) to her young mistress. she had no children and still lived in the home with her people. her mother, emaline, was the cook. master bradford owned grandmother and grandfather both and my own father all. mother was the oldest and only child. "i don't know whether they was mean to all the slaves or not. seems they were not to my folks. the old man died sometime before freedom. the young master went to get a overseer. he brought a new man to take his own place. he whooped grandma and auntie and cut grandma's long hair off with his pocket-knife. "during that time grandpa slip up on the house top and take some boards off. grandma would sit up in her bed and knit by moonlight through the hole. he had to put the boards back. she had to work in the field in daytime. "during the war they were scared nearly to death of the soldiers and would run down in their master's big orchard and hide in the tall broom sage. they rode her young master on a rail and killed him. a drove of soldiers come by and stopped. they said, 'young man, can you ride a young horse?' they gathered him and took him out and brought him in the yard. he died. they hurt him and scared him to death. "another train come and loaded up all the slaves and somehow when freedom come on, my folks was here at arkadelphia. they said they lived in fear of the soldiers all the time. "mother said a woman come first and stuck a flag out a upstairs window and the yankees shot the guns off and some of them made talks on freedom to the negroes and white folks. they seen that at arkadelphia. "mama, grandma, and grandpa started on their way back home following soldier camps. they never got back to their homes. they never did like the yankees and grieved about the way they done their young master. he was like one of my father's own children. they seen hard times after freedom. it was hard to live and they was used to work but they had a good living. they had to die in arkansas. how come i'm here now." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: charlotte willis, madison, arkansas age: 63 "grandpa said he walked every step of the way from old virginia to mississippi. they camped at night, cooked and fed them. they didn't eat no more till they camped next night. they was walked in a peart pace and the guards and traders rode. they stop every now and then for to be cried off and some more be took on. "grandpa said he didn't wanter be sold but they never ax 'em no diffurence. sold 'em and took 'em right along. they better keep their feelings hid, for them traders was same kind er stock these cattle men is today judging from the way he say it was then. grandpa loved virginia long as he have breath in him. "we used to sing 'old virginia nigger say he love hot mush; alabama nigger say, good god, nigger, hush.' (she sang it very fast and in a fashion negroes only can do--ed.) he wore a big straw hat and he'd get up and fan us out the way. "grandma was brought from south carolina by the willises to mississippi. i heard her say her and him was made to jump over the broom. called that getting 'em married. grandpa said that was the way white folks had of showing off the couples. then it would be 'nounced from the big house steps they was man and wife. sometimes more than two be 'nounced at the gatherin'. "they had good times sometimes. they talked 'bout corn shuckings, corn shellings, cotton traumpin's, (packing cotton in wagon beds by walking on it over and over, she said--ed.) and dances. "mother said she never was sold. she b'long to the willises in mississippi. "i reckon i sure do 'members my grandpa and grandma bof. seventeen of us all lived at grandpa wash hollivy's home. he was paying on it and died. the house have three rooms in it. in the fall of the year grandma took all the rancid grease and skins and get the drippings from the ash hopper and make soap 'nough to do 'er till sometime next year. she made it in the iron washpot. he raised meat to do us till sometime next year. we never run short on nothing to eat. "we never had but 'bout two dresses at the same time. when i come on, dresses was scarce. if we tore our dresses, we wore patches. we was sorter 'shamed to have our dresses patched up. "i heard 'em say grandpa's house was guarded to keep off the ku kluck one night. they come all right 'nough but went to another house. they started whooping. the guards left grandpa's house and went down there and shot into them. some of them was killed and the horses run off. some run off quick and got out the way. i never caught on to what they guarded grandpa for. "i had one girl baby what died. i been married once in my life. we rents our house. i never 'plied to the welfare yit. we been farming my enduring life. still farming; i says we is. "old folks give out and can't run on wid the work. young folks no 'count and works to sorter git by their own selfs. way i see it. we got so far off the track and can't git back. starve 'fore we git back like we used to be. we used to git credit. now there ain't no place to git it. we down and can't git up. way i sees it. young generation is so uneasy, ain't still a minute. they wanter be going all the time. they don't marry; they goes lives together. then they quits and take up wid somebody else. i don't know what make 'em do thater way. that the way the right young ones doing now. "my pa looked on me when i was three days old and left us. i ain't never seen him since." interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: ella wilson 1611 mcgowan street, little rock, arkansas age: claims 100 "i was born in atlanta, georgia. i don't remember the month. but when the civil war ceased i was here then and sixteen years old. i'm a hundred years old. some folks tries to make out like it ain't so. but i reckon i oughter know. "the white folks moved out from georgia and went to louisiana. i was raised in louisiana, but i was born in georgia. i have had several people countin' up my age and they all say i is a hundred years old. i had eight children. all of them are free born. four of them died when they were babies. i lost one just a few days ago. "i had such a hard time in slavery. them white folks was slashing me and whipping me and putting me in the buck, till i don't want to hear nothin' about it. "an old man named dr. polk got a dime from me and said it was for the old age pension. he lived in magnolia, arkansas. they ran him out of magnolia for ruining a colored girl and i don't know where he is now. i know he got ten cents from me. "the first work i ever did was nursing the white children. my old mis' called me in the house and told me that she wanted me to take care of her children and from then till freedom came, i stayed in the house nursing. i had to get up every morning at five when the cook got up and make the coffee and then i had to go in the dining-room and set the table. then i served breakfast. then i went into the house and cleaned it up. then i 'tended to the white children and served the other meals during the day. i never did work in the fields much. my old mars said i was too damned slow. "they carried me out to the field one evening. he never did show me nor tell me how to handle it and when i found myself, he had knocked me down. when i got up, he didn't tell me what to do, but when i picked up my things and started droppin' the seeds ag'in, he picked up a pine root and killed me off with it. when i come to, he took me up to the house and told his wife he didn't want me into the fields because i was too damned slow. "my mars used to throw me in a buck and whip me. he would put my hands together and tie them. then he would strip me naked. then he would make me squat down. then he would run a stick through behind my knees and in front of my elbows. my knees was up against my chest. my hands was tied together just in front of my shins. the stick between my arms and my knees held me in a squat. that's what they called a buck. you could [tr: sic: couldn't] stand up an' you couldn't git your feet out. you couldn't do nothin' but just squat there and take what he put on you. you couldn't move no way at all. just try to. you jus' fall over on one side and have to stay there till you turned over by him. "he would whip me on one side till that was sore and full of blood and then he would whip me on the other side till that was all tore up. i got a scar big as the place my old mis' hit me. she took a bull whip once--the bull whip had a piece of iron in the handle of it--and she got mad. she was so mad she took the whip and hit me over the head with the butt end of it, and the blood flew. it ran all down my back and dripped off my heels. but i wasn't dassent to stop to do nothin' about it. old ugly thing! the devil's got her right now!! they never rubbed no salt nor nothin' in your back. they didn't need to. "when the war come, they made him serve. he would go there and run away and come back home. one day after he had been took away and had come back, he was settin' down talkin' to old mis', and i was huddled up in the corner listenin', and i heered him tell her, 'tain't no use to do all them things. the niggers'll soon be free.' and she said, 'i'll be dead before that happens, i hope.' and she died just one year before the slaves was freed. they was a mean couple. "old mars used to strip my sister naked and make her lay down, and he would lift up a fence rail and lay it down on her neck. then he'd whip her till she was bloody. she wouldn't get away because the rail held her head down. if she squirmed and tried to git loose, the rail would choke her. her hands was tied behind her. and there wasn't nothin' to do but jus' lay there and take it. "i am almost a stranger here in little rock. my father was named lewis hogan and i had one sister named tina and one named harriet. his white folks what he lived with was mrs. thomas. he was a carriage driver for her. pleas collier bought him from her and took him to louisiana. all the people on my mother's side was left in georgia. my grandmother's name was rachel. her white folks she lived with was named dardens. they all lived in atlanta, georgia. i remember the train we got on when we left georgia. grandma rachel had one daughter named siney. siney had a son named billie and a sister named louise. and my grandmother was free when i first got big enough to know myself. i don't know how come she was free. that was a long time before the war. the part of georgia we lived in was where chestnuts grow, but they wasn't no chinkapins. all my grandmother's people stayed in atlanta, and they were living at the time i left there. "my mother's name was dinah hogans and my father's name was lewis hogans. i don't know where they were borned. but when i knowed him, they was in georgia. my mother's mars bought my father 'cause my mother heard that collier was goin' to break up and go to louisiana. my father told his mars that if he (collier) broke up and left, he never would be no more good to him. then my mother found out what he said to collier, so she told her old mis' if collier left, she never would do her no more good. you see, my mother was give to mrs. collier when old darden who was mrs. collier's father died. so collier bought my father. collier kept us all till we all got free. white folks come to me sometimes about all that. "you jus' oughter hear me answer them. i tells them about it just like i would colored folks. "'them your teeth in your mouth?' "'whose you think they is? suttinly they're my teeth.' "'ain't you sorry you free?' "'what i'm goin' to be sorry for? i ain't no fool.' "'how old is you?' "i tells them. some of 'em want to argue with me and say i ain't that old. some of 'em say, 'well, the lawd sure has blessed you.' sure he's blessed me. don't i know that? "i've seen 'em run away from slavery. there was a white man that lived close to us who had just one slave and he couldn't keep him out the woods to save his soul. the white man was named jim sales and the colored boy was named--shucks, i can't remember his name. but i know jim sales couldn't keep that nigger out the woods nohow. "i was freed endurin' the civil war. we was in at dinner and my old mars had been to town. old man pleas collier, our mean mars, called my daddy out and then he said, 'all you come out here.' i said to myself, 'i wonder what he's a goin' to do to my daddy,' and i slipped into the front room and listened. and he said, 'all of you come.' then i went out too. and he unrolled the government paper he had in his hand and read it and told us it meant that all of us was free. didn't tell us we was free as he was. then he said the government's going to send you some money to live on. but the government never did do it. i never did see nobody that got it. did you? they didn't give me nothin' and they didn't give my father nothin'. they just sot us free and turned us loose naked. "right after they got through reading the papers and told us we was free, my daddy took me to the field and put me to work. i'd been workin' in the house before that. "then they wasn't payin' nobody nothin'. they just hired people to work on halves. that was the first year. but we didn't get no half. we didn't git nothin'. just time we got our crop laid by, the white man run us off and we didn't get nothin'. we had a fine crop too. we hadn't done nothin' to him. he just wanted all the crop for hisself and he run us off. that's all. "well, after that my daddy took and hired me out up here in arkansas. he hired me out with some old poor white trash. we was livin' then in louisiana with a old white man named mr. smith. i couldn't tell what part of louisiana it was no more than it was down there close to homer, about a mile from homer. my mother died and my father come and got me and took me home to take care of the chillen. "i have been married twice. i married first time down there within four miles of homer. i was married to my first husband a number of years. his name was wesley wilson. we had eight children. my second husband was named lee somepin or other. i married him on thursday night and he left on monday morning. i guess he must have been taking the white folks' things and had to clear out. his name was lee hardy. that is what his name was. i didn't figure he stayed with me long enough for me to take his name. that nigger didn't look right to me nohow. he just married me 'cause he thought i was a working woman and would give him money. he asked me for money once but i didn't give 'im none. what i'm goin' to give 'im money for? that's what i'd like to know. "after my first husband died, i cooked and went on for them white folks. that was the only thing i could do. i was cooking before he died. i can't do no work now. i ain't worked for more than twenty years. i ain't done no work since i left magnolia. "i belong to the collins street baptist church--nichols' church. "i don't git no pension. i don't git nothin'. i been down to see if i could git it but they ain't give me nothin' yit. i'm goin' down ag'in when i can git somebody to carry me." interviewer's comment ella wilson insists that she is one hundred years old and that she was born sixteen years before freedom. the two statements conflict. from her appearance and manner, either might be true. interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: robert wilson 811 west pullen street, pine bluff, arkansas age: 101 "my name is robert wilson. i was born in halifax county, virginia. how old am i? accordin' to my recollection i was twenty-three years old befo' the war started. old master tole me how old i was. i'm a hundred and one now. yes'm i _knows_ i am. "yes'm i been sold. they put us up on the auction block jest like we was a hoss. they put me up and white man ax 'who want to buy this boy?' one man say 'ten dollars' and then they run it up to a hundred. and they buy a girl to match you and raise you up together. when you want to get married you jump over the broomstick. i used to weigh one hundred and fifty-six pounds and a half, standin' weight. i could pick four and five hundred pounds of cotton in a day. "when the yankees come, old master make us boys take the sack of money and hide it in the big pond. yes'm, we drove the buggy right in the water. "durin' the time of the war i used to ride 'long side of the yankees. they give me a blue coat with brass buttons and a blue cap and brass-toed boots. i used to saddle and curry the bosses. i member company fifth and sixth. "they tole us the war was to make things better. we didn't know we was free till 'bout six months after the war was over. i didn't care whether i was free or not. "'bout slavery--well, i thinks like this. i think they fared better then. they didn't have to worry 'bout spenses. we had plenty chicken and everything. nowdays when you pay the rent you ain't got nothin' left to buy somethin' to eat. "yes'm, i been to school. i'se a preacher (showing me his certificate of ordination). i lives close to the lord. the lord done left me here for a purpose. "when we used to pray we put our heads under the wash pot to keep old master from hearin' us. old master make us put the chillun to bed fo' dark. i 'member one song he make us sing- 'down in mobile, down in mobile how i love dat pretty yellow gal, she rock to suit me- down in mobile, down in mobile.' "you 'member when grant took the fort at vicksburg? i 'member he and that general on the white hoss--yes'm, general lee, they eat dinner together and then after dinner they go to fightin'. "oh lord! don't talk about them ku klux. "cose i believes in spirits. don't you? well you ain't never been skeered. "after freedom my folks refugeed from virginia to tennessee so i went to memphis. we got things from the bureau. yes, lord! i had everything i wanted. i wouldn't care if that time would come back now. "'did you ever vote?' me? yes'm i voted. never had no trouble 'tall. i voted for garfield. i 'member when garfield was shot. i was settln' out in the yard. the moon was in the 'clipse. i'll never forget it. "i think the colored folks should have a legal right to vote, cause if ever they come another war--now listen--them darkies ain't never goin' to france again. the nigger ain't got no country--this is white man's town. "what i been doin' since the war? well, i'm a good cook. when i puts on the white apron, i knows what to do. then i preaches. the lord done revealed things to me. "i'll tell you 'bout this younger generation. they is goin' to destruction. they is not envelopin (developing) their education. "well i done tole you all i know. guess i tole you 'bout a book, ain't i?" interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: tom windham, 723 missouri, pine bluff, arkansas age: 98 "i was twenty-one years old when the war was settled. my mother and my grandmother kep' my age up and after the death of them i knowed how to handle it myself. "my old master's name was butler and he was pretty fair to his darkies. he give em plenty to eat and wear. "i was born and raised in indian territory and emigrated from there to atlanta, georgia when i was about twelve or thirteen. we lived right in atlanta. i cleaned up round the house. yes ma'm, that's what i followed. when the yankees come to atlanta they just forced us into the army. after i got into the army and got used to it, it was fun--just like meat and bread. yankees treated me good. i was sorry when it broke up. when the bugle blowed we knowed our business. sometimes, the age i is now, i wish i was in it. father abraham lincoln was our president. i knowed the war was to free the colored folks. i run away from my white folks is how come i was in the yankee army. i was in the artillery. that deefened me a whole lot and i lost these two fingers on my left hand--that's all of my joints that got broke. "before the war my white folks was good to us. i had a better time than i got now. "my father and mother was sold away from me, but old mistress couldn't rest without em and went and got em back. they stayed right there till they died. us folks was treated well. i think we should have our liberty cause us ain't hogs or horses--us is human flesh. "when i was with the yankees, i done some livin'. "i went to school two months in my life. i should a gone longer but i found where i could get next to a dollar so i quit. if i had education now it might a done me some good. "i used to be in a brass band. i like a brass band, don't make no difference where i hear it. "there was one song we played when i was in the army. it was: 'rasslin jacob, don't weep weepin' mary, don't weep. before i'd be a slave i'd be buried in my grave, go home to my father and be saved.' the rebels was hot after us then. another one we used to sing was: 'my old mistress promised me when she die, she'd set me free.' "after the war i continued to work around the white folks and yes ma'm, i seen the ku klux many a time. they bothered me sometimes but they soon let me alone. they was a few yankees about and they come together and made the ku klux stay in their place. "one time after the war i went to ohio and stayed three months but it was too cold for me. man i worked for was named harper and as good a man as ever broke a piece of bread. "i come back south and learned how to farm. i been here in this country of arkansas a long time. i hoped clean up this place (pine bluff) and make a town of it. "i got a daughter and two sisters alive in africa today--in liberia. i went there after we was free. i liked it. just the thoughts of bein' where christ traveled--that's the good part of it. they furnished us transportation to go to africa after the war and a lot of the colored folks went. i come back cause i had a lot of kin here, but i sent my daughter and two sisters there and they're alive there today." folklore subjects interviewer: bernice bowden subject: apparitions this information given by: tom windham place of residence: 723 missouri st. pine bluff, ark. occupation: none (age 92) [tr: information moved from bottom of first page.] "yes ma'm, i believe in spirits--you got two spirits--one bad and one good, and when you die your bad spirit here on this earth. now my mother comes to see me once in awhile at night. she been dead till her bones is bleached, but she comes and tells me to be a good boy. i always been obedient to old and young. she tell me to be good and she banish from me. my grandmother been to see me once. old father abraham lincoln, i've seen him since he been dead too. i got a gun old father abraham give me right out o' his own hand at vicksburg. i'm goin' to keep it till i die too. yes ma'm, i know they is spirits." pine bluff district folklore subjects name of interviewer: martin barker subject: ex-slave story. information by: tom windham place of residence: 1221 georgia st. age: 87 [tr: information moved from bottom of second page.] my master was an indian. lewis butler of oklahoma. i was born and raised in muskogee, okla. all of marse butler's people were creek indians. they owned a large plantation and raised vegetables. they lived in tepees, had floors and were set on a lot and a wall boarded up around them. this was done so that they could hide the slaves they had stolen. i was twelve or thirteen years old, when the indians had a small war. they wouldn't allow us to fight. if we did, we were punished. they had a place and made us work. i went to school two months also a little at night. cant read nor write. i am all alone now here in america. i have a daughter in ethiopia, teaching school, also two sisters. i served in several wars and i have been to ethiopia. we left monroe, la., took water, then went back by gun-boat to galveston. the government took us over and brought us back. after the civil war was over the indians let the slaves go. i had an indian wife and wore indian dress and when i went to milford, tenn., i had to send the outfit home to okla. i had long hair until 1931. my indians believed in our god. they held their meetings in a large tent. they believed in salvation and damnation, and in heaven and hell. my idea of heaven is that it is a holy place with god. we will walk in heaven just as on earth. as in him we believe, so shall we see. the earth shall burn, and the old earth shall pass away and the new earth will be created. the saints will return and live on, that is the ones who go away now. the new earth is when jesus will cone to earth and reign. every one has two spirits. one that god kills and the other an evil spirit. i have had communication with my dead wife twice since i been in pine bluff. her spirit come to me at night, calling me, asking whar wuz baby? that meant our daughter whut is across the water. my first wifes name was arla windham. my second wife was just part indian. i have seen spirits of friends just as they were put away. i shore believe in ghosts. their language is different from ours. i knew my wife's voice cause she called me "tommy". interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: alice wise 1112 indiana street, pine bluff, arkansas age: 79 "i was born in south carolina, and i sent and got my age and the man sent me my age. he said he remembered me. he said, 'you married marcus wise. i know you is seventy-nine 'cause i'm seventy-four and you're older'n me. why, i got a boy fifty-three years old. "we belonged to daniel draft. his wife was named maud. and my father's people was named wesley caughman and his wife was catherine caughman. "i can recollect hearin' the folks hollerin' when the yankees come through and singin' this old cornfield song 'i'm a goin' away tomorrow hoodle do, hoodle do.' that's all i can recollect. "i can recollect when we moved from the white folks. my father driv' a wagon and hauled lumber to columbia from lexington. "i don't know how old i was when i come here. my age got away from me, that's how come i had to write home for it, but i had three chillun when i come to this country; i know that. "i went to school a little, but chillun in them days had to work. i was always apt about washin' and ironin' and sewin' and so if anybody was stopped from school i was stopped. i used to set pockets in pants for mama. in them days they weaved and made their own. "they'd do better if they had a factory here now. things wouldn't be so high. "oh lord, yes, i could knit. i'd sit up some nights and knit a half a sock and spin and card. "my mother's boys would card and spin a broach when they wasn't doin' nothin' else, but nowadays you can't get 'em to bring you a bucket of water. "they say they is weaker and wiser, but i say they is weaker and foolisher. that's what i think. you know they ain't like the old folks was. folks works nowadays and keeps their chillun in school till they're grown, and it don't do 'em much good-some of 'em." interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: frank wise, 1006 victory street, little rock, arkansas age: 81 to 85 birth and parents "i was born in burch county, georgia, in 1854. i came to this state in 1871; i think i was about sixteen years old then. "my father was named jim wise and my mother was named harriet wise. my father belonged to the wises, and my mother to the crawfords. they didn't live on the same plantation. when they married, she was a crawford. her old master was named jim crawford. i don't know how she and my father happened to meet up. wise and crawford had adjoining plantations. both of them was in burch county. my father's father was named jacob wise and his mother was named martha. i don't remember the names of their master. i don't remember the names of my mother's people. war memories "i remember the year the war ended. i remember when the yankees came on the place that day the war ended. we children was all settin' out in the yard. some of them ran under the house when they saw the soldiers. they were shooting the chickens and everything, taking the horses, and anything else they thought they could use. they said to the old lady, 'lemme kill them little niggers.' old miss said, 'no, wait till you set them free.' he said, 'no, when we set them free, we ain't goin' to kill them.' they got around in the house, under the house, and in the yard. they asked the old lady, 'where is the horses?' she said, 'i don't know.' they said, 'go down in the woods and get them.' somebody went down and brought back a mare and a mule and a colt. they knocked the colt in the head and shot him. they took the mare and the mule. they took all the meat out of the smokehouse. they didn't set us free, and they didn't tell us anything about freedom. not then. how freedom came "i don't remember how we got the news of freedom. i don't remember what the slaves expected to get. i don't know what they got, if they got anything. i don't remember nothin' about that. schooling "i went to school about eight days. that's all the schooling i ever got. i had a brother and sister who went to school, but i never went much. i went to school what little i did right here in lonoke county, arkansas. my teacher was tom fuller. he was a colored man. he came from down in texas. i learned everything i know by watching people and listenin' to them. occupational experiences "the first thing i ever did was farming. i farmed all up till 1879. i worked on steamboat till 1881, and then i went out railroading. i worked at that a long time. i married in 1883. i was about twenty-seven years old then, and a few months over. "while i was farming, i did some sharecropping, but i never got cheated out of anything. ku klux "i remember the folks had been off to see their people and the ku klux taken the stock while they were gone. i don't remember the ku klux klan interfering with the negroes much. i never saw them. voting "i never voted till cleveland began his campaign for president. i voted for eight presidents. nobody ever bothered me about it. family "there were six children in my mother's family. my father had six brothers. he made the seventh. i had nine children in all. four of them are living now. one is here; one, in st. louis; and two, in chicago. my boy is in chicago. opinions "the majority of the young people are just growing up. lots of them are not getting any raising at all." interviewer's comment wise is between eighty-one and eighty-five years old. the data he gives conflict, some of it indicating the earlier and some of it later years. he doesn't talk much and has to be pumped. he doesn't lose the thread of the discourse. his failure to talk on details of his early life seem to the interviewer due to unwillingness rather than lack of memory. while his age is advanced, his mind is sharp for one who has had such limited training. he has no definite means of support, but states that he has been promised a pension in september--he means old age assistance. interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: lucy withers, brinkley, arkansas age: 86 i was born 5-1/2 miles from abbeville, south carolina, in sight of little mountain. i do remember the civil war. i never seen them fight. they come to about twenty or thirty miles from where i lived. they didn't bother much in the parts where i lived. all the white men folks went to war. my mama's master was edward roach and his wife was miss sarah roach. my papa's master was peter radcliff and miss nancy radcliff. they give me to her niece, miss jennie shelitoe. when she married she wanted me. after freedom i married. in 1866 we come to a big farm close to pine bluff. then we lived close to memphis and i been living here in brinkley a long time. the ku klux put down a governor in south carolina right after the war. they rode everywhere night and day scaring everybody. they wouldn't let no colored people hold office. that governor was a colored man. the ku klux whipped both black and white folks. they run the yankees plumb out er that country. no sir ree i never voted and i ain't never goner vote! women is tearing dis world up. the ex-slaves was told that they would got things, different things. i don't know what all. i know they didn't got nothing and when freedom came they took their clothes and left. they scattered out and went to different places. it was hard to get work and there was no money cept what the yankees give em. when they all got run off there was no money. my husband was a yankee soldier and he decided he wanter come to this country. we come on the train and on the boat to pine bluff. we farmed. i got three children but just two living. one boy lives at fargo and the girl lives at chicago. my husband died. me and my sister lives here. i bought a place with my pension money. that since my husband died. the present times is hard. i don't know nithin about these young folks. i tends to my own business. i ain't got nothing to do with the young folks. i don't know what causes the times to be so hard. folks used to wear more clothes than they do and let colored folks have more ironing and bigger washings too. the washings bout played out. some few folks hire cooks. i farmed and washed and ironed and i have cooked along some here in brinkley. i am supported by my pension my husband left me. it ain't much but i make out with it. it is union soldiers pension. [hw: hot springs] interviewer: mary d. hudgins person interviewed: anna woods, 426 grand avenue "yes ma'am. come on in. is you taking lists of folks for old age pensions? can you tell us what we going to get and when it's going to come? no? then--oh, i see you is writing us up. well maybe that will help us to get attention. cause we sure does need the pension. to be sure i remembers slave days. my grandmother--she was give away in the trading yard. she was aflicted. what was the matter with her? was she lame? no ma'am, she had the scrofula. so her mother was sold away from her, but she was give away. she was give away to a woman named glover. mrs. glover was a old woman when i knowed her. she was an old, old woman. she sort of studied before she'd say anything. she was a pretty good old woman though, mrs. glover was. she wouldn't let her colored folks be whipped. she wouldn't let me work in the field. old donovan wanted me to work in the field--but she wouldn't let him make me. donovan was mary's husband. mary was mrs. glover's girl's girl. mrs. glover's girl was named kate. mrs. glover had a whole flock of slaves. my mother and another woman named sallie cooked and did the washing. fannie, she was my sister, was old mrs. glover's maid. robert and sally and lucy--they was my brother and sisters--all of them worked in the field. they had to begin early and work late. they got them out way fore day. they worked them til dark. i remembers that sally and lucy used to wear boots and roll their skirts up nearly to their waistses. why--well you see sometimes it was muddy. did we raise rice--no, ma'am. we mostly raised corn and cotton, like everybody else. we lived near natchez. no ma'am, i never see but one colored person whipped. his name was robert. they laid him down on his stomach to whip him. never did hear what he had done. maybe he run off. they usually whipped them for that. no ma'am. i was right. mrs. glover didn't let her colored folks be whipped. robert, you see, was donovan's man. he didn't belong to mrs. glover. her folks never got whipped. maybe robert run off. i don't know. the folks did one thing special to keep them from running. they fastened a sort of yoke around they necks. from it there run up a sort of piece and there was a bell on the top of that. it was so high the folks who wore it couldn't reach the bell. but if they run it would tinkle and folks could find them. i don't quite know how it worked--i just slightly remembers. no, ma'am, i was just sort of a little girl before the war. you might say i was never a slave. cause i didn't have to work. mrs. glover wouldn't let me work in the field and i didn't have much work to do in the house either. mrs. glover was an old widow woman, but she was shore good. miss kate was her onliest child. kate's daughter was named mary. was i afraid of the soldiers? no ma'am. i wasn't. lots of them that came through were colored soldiers. i remember that they wore long tailed coats. they had brass buttons on they coats. but we had to move from natchez. first the soldiers run us off to tennisaw parish--an island there." (a check on maps in the atlas of encyclopedia britannica reveals a tenses parish, louisiana--across the river and a few miles north of natchez.) "we couldn't even stay there. they drove us along, and finally we wound up in texas. we wasn't there in texas long when the soldiers marched in to tell us that we was free. seems to me like it was on a monday morning when they come in. yes, it was a monday. they went out to the field and told them they was free. marched them out of the fields. they come a'shouting. i remembers one woman, she jumped up on a barrell and she shouted. she jumped off and she shouted. she jumped back on again and shouted some more. she kept that up for a long time, just jumping on a barrell and back off again. yes ma'am, we children played. i remembers that the grown folks used to have church--out behind an old shed. they'd shout and they'd sing. we children didn't know what it all meant. but every monday morning we'd get up and make a play house in an old wagon bed--and we'd shout and sing too. we didn't know what it meant, or what we was supposed to be doing. we just aped our elders. when the war was over my brother, he drove the carriage, he drove the white folks back to natchez. but we didn't go--my family. we stopped part way to natchez. never did see miss kate or mrs. glover again. never did see them again. lots later my brother learned where we was. he came back for us and took us to natchez. but we never did see mrs. glover again. i lived on in natchez. i worked for white folks--cooked for them. i did a lot of traveling. even went up into virginia. traveled most of the time. i'd go with one family and when we'd get back, there'd be another one who wanted me to go and take care of their children. been in hot springs since 1905. worked for dr. ---first. stayed right in the house. never did see such fine folks as dr. ----" (prominent local surgeon) "and his wife. then i worked for mr. ----" (prominent realtor) "yes, and i's worked at the army and navy hospital too. mighty nice up there. worked in the officer's mess--finest place up there. i's worked for the officers too. then i's worked for the levi hospital. worked for lots of folks. i's worked for lots of folks and in lots of places. but i haven't got anything now. how soon do you think they will begin paying us? i get just $10 from the county every month. $5 of that goes for my house. folks gives me clothes, but if they'd only give me groceries too, i could get along. when do you think they will begin to pay us?" interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: cal woods; r.f.d., biscoe, arkansas age: 85? "i don't know zactly how old i is. i was good size boy when the war come on. we all belonged to a man named john woods. we lived in south carolina during slavery. slavery was prutty bad itself but the bad time come after the war. the land was hilly some red and some pore and sandy. had to plough a mule or horse. hard to make a living. some folks was rich, had heap of slaves and some bout one family. small farmer have 160 acres and one family of slaves. when a man had one or two slave families he treated em better an if he had a great big acreage and fifteen or twenty families. the white folks trained the black man and woman. if he have so many they didn't learn how to do but one or two things. mas generally they all worked in the fields in the busy seasons and sometimes the white folks have to work out there too. sometimes they get in debt and have to sell off some slave to pay the debt. "things seemed heap mo plentiful. before the war folks wore fine clothes. they go to their nearest tradin point and sell cotton. they had fine silk clothes and fine knives and forks. they would buy a whole case o cheese at one time and a barrel of molasses. folks eat more and worked harder than they do now. "some folks was mean to their slaves and some slaves mean. it is lack it is now, some folks good no matter what dey color, other folks bad. black folks never knowed there was freedom till they was fighting and going to war. some say they was fightin to save their slaves, some say the union broke. the slave never been free since he come to dis world, didn't know nuthin bout freedom till they tole em bout it. "i recollect bout the ku klux after the war. some folks come over the country and tell you you free and equal now. they tell you what to do an how to run the country and then if you listen to them come the ku klux all dressed half mile down the road. that ku klux sprung up after the war bout votin an offis-holdin mong the white folks. the white folks ain't then nor now havin no black man rulin over him. them ku klux walked bout on high sticks and drink all the water you have from the spring. seem lack they meddled a whole heap. course the black folks knowed they was white men. they hung some slaves and white yankees too if they be very mean. they beat em. hear em hollowing and they hollow too. they shoot all directions round and up an down the road. that's how you know they comin close to yo house. if you go to any gatherins they come break it up an run you home fast as you could run and set the dogs on you. course the dogs bite you. they say they was not goiner have equalization if they have to kill all the yankees and niggers in the country. the masters sometime give em a home. my mother left john woods then. the family went back. he give her an my papa twenty acres their lifetime. where dey stayed on the old folks had a little at some places. they didn't divide up no plantations i ever heard of. they never give em no mules. if some tole em they would i know they sho didn't. didn't give em nuthin i tell you. my mother's name was sylvia and papa's name was hack woods. "i come to arkansas so my little boys would have a home. i had a little home an sold it to come out here. agents come round showin pictures how big the cotton grow. they say it grow like trees out here. the children climb the stalks an set on the limb lack birds to pick it. they show pictures like that. cotton basket way down under it on the ground. see droves of wild hogs coming up, look big as mules. men ridin em. no i didn't know they said it was so fine. we come in freight cars wid our furniture and everything we brought. we had our provision in baskets and big buckets. it lasted till we passed atlanta. we nearly starved the rest of the way. when we did stop you never hear such a hollein. we come two days and nights hard as we could come. we stayed up and eat, cooked meat an eggs on the stove in the store till daybreak. then they showed us wha to go to our places the next day. i been here ever since. "i hab voted. i done quit lettin votin bother me up. all i see it do is give one fellow out of two or three a job both of them maybe ought to have. the meanest man often gets lected. it the money they all after not the work in it. i heard em say what all they do and when they got lected they forgot to do all they say they would do. "i never knowed bout no slave uprisins. thed had to uprose wid rocks an red clods. the black man couldn't shoot. he had no guns. they had so much work they didn't know how to have a uprisin. the better you be to your master the better he treat you. the white preachers teach that in the church." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: maggie woods, brassfield, ark. deaner farm. age: 70 "my parents was fannie and alfred douglas. they had three children, then he died and my mother married a man name thompson. my parents belong to the douglasses at summerville, tennessee. they had six children in their family. "i was born the second year of the surrender that make me seventy years old. my folks was all field hands. they was all pure african stock. all black folks like me. grandma liney douglass said she was sold and grandpa was sold too. my own parents never was sold. the douglass men-folks whooped the slaves but they was good masters outside of that. "they would steal off and have preachin' at night. had preachin' nearly all night sometimes. they'd hurry and get in home fore the day be breakin'. from the way they talked they done more prayin' than preachin'. "whenever they be sick they would send to the douglasses to know what to do. they would take them up to their house and doctor them or come down to the quarters and wait on whoever be sick. they had some white doctors about but not near enough. they trained black women to be midwives. "i think my folks had enough to eat and clothes too i recken. they eat meat to give them strength to work. my old stepdaddy always make us eat piece of meat if we eat garden stuff. he say the meat have strength in it. cornbread, meat, peas and potatoes used to be the biggest part of folks livin' in olden days. they had plenty milk. "children when i come on didn't have no use for money. we eat molasses. had a little candy once in a while. that be the best thing santa claus would bring me. we get ginger cakes in our new stockings too. santa claus been comin' ever since i been in the world. seem like christmas never would come round agin. it don't seem near so long now. "i was too young to know about freedom. we was livin' on douglas farm when george flenol (white) come and brought us to indian bay. we worked on dick mayo's place. i don't know what they expected from freedom but i'm pretty sure they never got nothing. "when the black folks come free then the ku klux took it up and made 'em work and stay at home. i heard that some folks wanted to stay in the road all the time. the ku klux nearly scared me to death to see pass by. they never did bother us. "i don't vote. don't know nothing about it. i don't like the way that is fixed for us to live now. we pay house rent and works as day laborers. it makes the work too heavy at some times and no work to do nearly all the time. it is making times hard. cotton and corn choppin' time and cotton pickin' time is all the times a woman like me can work. i raised a shoat. i got no room for garden and chickens. "i got one girl, she way from here, she sent me $2.00 for my christmas. "the young generation is weaker in body than us old folks has been. they ain't been raised to hard work and they don't hold out. "that is salve i'm making. what do it smell like? it smell like chitlings. in that sack is the inside of the chitlings (hog manure). i boil it down and strain it, then boll it down, put camphor gum and fresh lard in it, boil it down low and pour it up. it is a green salve. it is fine for piles, rub your back for lumbago, and swab out your throat for sore throat. it is a good salve. i had a sore throat and a black woman told me how to make it. it cures the sore throat right now. "i live on what i am able to work and make. i never have got no help from the government." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: sam word, 1122 missouri street, pine bluff, arkansas age: 79 "i'm a sure enough arkansas man, born in arkansas county near de witt. born february 14, 1859, and belonged to bill word. i know marmaduke come down through arkansas county and pressed bill word's son tom into the service. "i 'member one song they used to sing called the 'bonnie blue flag.' 'jeff davis is our president and lincoln is a fool; jeff davis rides a fine white horse while lincoln rides a mule.' 'hurrah! hurrah! for southern rights, hurrah! hurrah for the bonnie blue flag that bears a single star!'" (the above verse was sung to the tune of "the bonnie blue flag." from the library of southern literature i find the following notation about the original song and its author, harry mccarthy: "like dixie, this famous song originated in the theater and first became popular in new orleans. the tune was borrowed from 'the irish jaunting car', a popular hibernian air. harry mccarthy was an irishman who enlisted in the confederate army from arkansas. the song was written in 1861. it was published by a.e. blackmar who declared general ben butler 'made it very profitable by fining every man, woman, or child who sang, whistled or played it on any instrument twenty-five dollars.' blackmar was arrested, his music destroyed, and a fine of five hundred dollars imposed upon him.") "i stayed in arkansas county till 1866. i was about seven years old and we moved here to jefferson county. then my mother married again and we went to conway county and lived a few years, and then i come back to jefferson county, so i've lived in jefferson county sixty-eight years. "in conway county when i was a small boy livin' on the milton powell place, i 'member they sent me out in the field to get some peaches about a half mile from the slave quarters. it was about three o'clock, late summer, and i saw something in the tree--a black lookin' concern. seem like it got bigger the closer i got, and then just disappeared all of a sudden and i didn't see it go. i know i went back without any peaches. "and another thing i can tell you. in the spring of the year we was hoein' and when they quit at night they'd leave the hoes in the field, stickin' down in the ground. and next morning they wouldn't be where you left 'em. you'd have to look for 'em and they'd be lyin' on top of the ground and crossed just like sticks. "i'll tell you what i do know. when we was livin' in conway county old man powell had about ten colored families he had emigrated from jefferson county. our folks was the only colored people in that neighborhood. and he had a white man that was a tenant on the place and he died. now my mother and his wife used to visit one another. in them days the white folks wasn't like they are now. and so mother went there to sit up with his wife. and while she was sittin' up the house was full of people--white and colored. they begin to hear a noise about the coffin. so they begin to investigate the worse it got and moved around the room and it lasted till he was took out of the house. now i've heard white and colored say that was true. they never did see it but they heard it. "i don't think there is any ghosts now but they was in the past generation. "i know many times me and my stepfather would be pickin' cotton and my dog would be up at the far end of the row and just before dark he'd start barkin' and come towards us a barkin' and we never could see anything. he'd do that every day. it was a dog named natch--an english bull terrier. he was give to me a puppy. he was a sure enough bulldog and he could whip any dog i ever saw. he was an imported dog. "i remember a house up in conway county made out of logs--a two-story one just this side of cadron creek on the military road. then they called it the wire road because the telegraph wire run along it. the house was vacant after the people that owned it had died, and people comin' along late at night would stop to spend the night, and in the middle of the night they'd have to get out. now i've heard that with my own ears. there was a spring not far from the house. it had been a fine house and was a beautiful place to stop. but in the night they'd hear chairs rattlin' and fall down. it's my belief they had spooks in them old days. "now i'll tell you another incident. this was in slave times. my mother was a great hand for nice quilts. there was a white lady had died and they were goin' to have a sale. now this is true stuff. they had the sale and mother went and bought two quilts. and let me tell you, we couldn't sleep under 'em. what happened? well, they'd pinch your toes till you couldn't stand it. i was just a boy and i was sleepin' with my mother when it happened. now that's straight stuff. what do i think was the cause? well, i think that white lady didn't want no nigger to have them quilts. i don't know what mother did with 'em, but that white lady just wouldn't let her have 'em. "now i'm puttin' the oil out of the can--i mean that what i say is true. people now will say they ain't nothin' to that story. at that time the races wasn't 'malgamated. but people are different now--ain't like they was seventy-five years ago. "visions? well, now i'm glad you asked me that. i'll take pleasure in tellin' you. two years before i moved to this place i had a vision and i think i saw every colored person that was ever born in america, i believe. i was on the east side of my house and this multitude of people was about four feet from me and they was as thick as sardines in a box and they was from little tots up. some had on derby hats and some was bareheaded. i talked with one woman--a brown skinned woman. they was sitting on seats just like circus seats just as far as my eyes could behold. looked like they reached clear up in the sky. that was when i fust went blind. you've read about how john saw the multitude a hundred forty and four thousand and i think that was about one-fourth of what i saw. they was happy and talkin' and nothin' but colored people--no white people. "another vision i had. i dreamed that the day that i lived to be sixty-five, that day i would surely die. i thought the man that told me that was a little old dried-up white man up in the air and he had scales like the monkey and the cat weighed the cheese. i thought he said, 'that day you will surely die,' and one side of the scales tipped just a little and then i woke up. you know i believed this strong. that was in 1919 and i went out and bought a lot in bellwood cemetery. but i'm still livin'. "old major crawley who owned what they called the reader place on this side of the river, four miles east of dexter, he was supposed to have money buried on his place. he owned it during slavery and after he died his relatives from mississippi come here and hired a carriage driver named jackson jones. he married my second cousin. and he took 'em up there to dig for the money, but i don't know if they ever found it. some people said the place was ha'nted." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: sam word 1122 missouri, pine bluff, arkansas age: 78 "i was born february 14, 1859. my birthplace was arkansas county. born in arkansas and lived in arkansas seventy-eight years. i've kept up with my age--didn't raise it none, didn't lower it none. "i can remember all about the war, my memory's been good. old man bill word, that was my old master, had a son named tom word and long about in '63 a general come and pressed him into the civil war. i saw the blue and the gray and the gray clothes had buttons that said c.s., that meant secessioners. yankees had u.s. on their buttons. some of em come there so regular they got familiar with me. yankees come and wanted to hang old master cause he wouldn't tell where the money was. they tied his hands behind him and had a rope around his neck. now this is the straight goods. i was just a boy and i was cryin' cause i didn't want em to hang old master. a yankee lieutenant comes up and made em quit--they was just the privates you know. "my old master drove a ox wagon to the gold fields in california in '49. that's what they told me--that was fore i was born. "good? ben word good? my god amighty, i wish i had one-hundredth part of what i got then. i didn't exist--i lived. "ben word bought my mother from phil ford up in kentucky. she was the housekeeper after old mistress died. i'll tell you something that may be amusing. mother had lots of nice things, quilts and things, and kept em in a chest in her little old shack. one day a yankee soldier climbed in the back window and took some of the quilts. he rolled em up and was walking out of the yard when mother saw him and said, 'why you nasty, stinkin' rascal. you may you come down here to fight for the niggers, and now you're stealin' from em.' he said, 'you're a g-d--liar, i'm fightin' for $14 a month and the union.' "i member there was a young man named dan brown and they called him red fox. he'd slip up on the yankees and shoot em, so the yankees was always lookin' for him. he used to go over to dr. allen's to get a shave and his wife would sit on the front porch and watch for the yankees. one day the yankees slipped up in the back and his wife said, 'lord, dan, there's the yankees.' course he run and they shot him. one of the yankees was tryin' to help him up and he said, 'don't you touch me, call dr. allen.' yes ma'm, that was in arkansas county. "i never been anywhere 'cept arkansas, jefferson, and conway counties. i was in conway county when they went to the precinct to vote for or against the fort smith & little rock railroad. the precinct where they went to vote was springfield. it used to be the county seat of conway county. "while the war was goin' on and when young tom word would come home from school, he learned me and when the war ended, i could read in mcguffy's third reader. after that i went to school three months for about four years. "directly after emancipation, the white men in the south had to take the oath of allegiance. old master took it but he hated to do it. now these are stubborn facts i'm givin' you but they's true. "after freedom mother brought me here to pine bluff and put me in the field. i picked up corn stalks and brush and carried water to the hands. children in them days worked. after they come from school, even the white children had work to do. trouble with the colored folks now, to my way of thinkin', is they are top heavy with literary learning and feather light with common sense and domestic training. "i remember a song they used to sing daring the war: 'jeff davis is our president lincoln is a fool; jeff davis rides a fine white horse while lincoln rides a mule.' "and here's another one: 'hurrah for southern rights, hurrah! hurrah for the bonny blue flag that bore the single star.' "yes, they was hants sixty years ago. the generation they was interested has bred em out. ain't none now. "i never did care much for politics, but i've always been for the south. i love the southland. only thing i don't like is they don't give a square deal when it comes between the colored and the whites. ten years ago, i was worth $15,000 and now i'm not worth fifteen cents. the real estate men got the best of me. i've been blind now for four years and all my wife and i have is what we get from the welfare." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: ike worthy 2413 w. 11th avenue, pine bluff, arkansas age 74 "i was born in selma, alabama on christmas day and i'm goin' on 75. "i can 'member old missis' name miss liza ann bussey. i never will forget her name. fed us in a trough--eighteen of us. her husband was named jim bussey, but they all dead now. "when i got large enough to remember we went to louisiana. i was sixteen when we left alabama--six hundred head of us. dr. bonner emigrated us there for hisself and other white men. "there was nine of us boys in my parents' family. we worked every day and cleared land till twelve o'clock at night. on saturday we played ball and on sunday we went to sunday school. "we worked on the shares--got half--and in the fall we paid our debts. sometimes we had as much as $150 in the clear. "most money i ever had was farmin'. i farmed 52 years and never did buy no feed. raised my own meat and lard and molasses. had four milk cows and fifteen to twenty hogs. you see, i had eight children in the family. "never went to school but one day in my life, then my father put us to work. never learned to read. you see everybody in the pen now'days got a education. i don't think too much education is good for 'em. "i was 74 christmas day. "garland, brewster--the sheriff and the judge--i missed them boys when they was little. worked at the brickyard. "i got shot accidental and lost my right leg 32 years ago when i was farmin'. i've chopped cotton and picked cotton with this peg-leg. mr. emory say he don't see how i can do it but i goes right along. i made $21 pickin' and $18 choppin' last year. i picked up until thanksgiving night. "i worked at the long-bell lumber company since i had this peg-leg too. i stayed in little rock 23 years. had a wood yard and hauled wood. "yes ma'am, i voted the 'publican ticket. no ma'am, i never did hold any office. "i don't know what goin' come of the younger generation. to my idea i don't think there's anything to 'em. they is goin' to suffer when all the old ones is dead. "i goes to the zion methodist church. no ma'am, i'm not a preacher--just a bench member." interviewer: samuel s. taylor person interviewed: alice wright 2418 center street, little rock, arkansas age: about 74 "i was born way yonder in slavery time. i don't know what part of alabama nor exactly when, but i was born in slavery time and it was in alabama. my oldest boy would be fifty-six years old if he were living. my father said he was born in slavery time and that i was born in slavery time. i was a baby, my papa said, when he ran off from his old master and went to mississippi. he lived in the thickets for a year to keep his old master from finding out where he was. father, mother and family "my father's name was jeff williams. he's been dead a long time. nobody living but me and my children. my mother's name was malinda williams. my father had seven children, four girls and five boys. four of the boys were buried on the cummins (?) place. it used to be the old place of old man flournoy's. my oldest brother was named isaac. "i had sixteen children; four of them are still living--two boys and two girls. the boys is married and the daughters is sick. no, honey, i can't tell how many of em all was boys and girls. house "my folks lived right in the white folks' yard. i don't know what kind of house it was. my mother used to cook and do for the white folks. she caught her death of cold going backward and forward milking and so on. how the children were fed "they'd put a trough on the floor with wooden spoons and as many children as could get around that trough got there and eat, they would. how freedom came "dolly and evelyn were upstairs spinning thread and overheard the old master saying that peace was declared but they didn't want the niggers to know it. father had them to throw their clothes out the windows. then he slipped out with them. malinda williams, my mother, came with them. dolly and evelyn were my sisters. i don't know my master's name, but it must have been williams because all the slaves took their old master's names when they were freed. i was a baby in my daddy's arms when he ran away. patrollers "i heard my papa talk about the patrollers. he said they used to run them in many a time. that is the reason he had to cross the bridge that night going over the mississippi into georgia. the slaves had been set free in georgia, and he wanted to get there from alabama. what the slaves got "the slaves never got nothin' when they were freed. they just got out and went to work for themselves. marriage "my father tended to the white folks' mules. he wasn't no soldier. when he married my mother, he was only fifteen years old. his master told him to go pick himself out a wife from a drove of slaves that were passing through, and he picked out my mother. they married by stepping over the broom. the old master pronounced them master and wife. slave droves "the drove passed through alabama, but my father didn't know where it came from nor where it went. they were selling slaves. they would pick up a big lot of them somewhere, and they would drive them across the country selling some every place they stopped. my master bought my mother out of the drove. droves came through very often. i don't know where they came from. war memories "my father remembered coming through alabama. he remembered the soldiers coming through alabama. they didn't bother any colored people but they killed a lot of white people, tore up the town and took some white babies out and busted their brains out. that is what my father said. my father died in 1910. he was pushing eighty then and maybe ninety. he had a house full of grown children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. he wasn't able to do no work when he died. it was during the war that my father ran away into georgia with me, too. breeding "my father said they put medicine in the water (cisterns) to make the young slaves have more children. if his old master had a good breeding woman he wouldn't sell her. he would keep her for himself. worship "when they were praying for peace they used to turn down the wash kettles to keep the sound down. in the master's church, the biggest thing that was preached to them was how to serve their master and mississ. indians "my grandmother was a full-blood indian. i don't know from what tribe. buried treasure "people used to bury their money in iron pots and chests and things in order to keep the soldiers from getting it. in wabbaseka [hw: ark.] there they had money buried. they buried their money to keep the soldiers from getting it. ku klux "the ku klux klan came after freedom. they used to take the people out and whip them. just after the war "immediately after the war, papa farmed. most of it was down at the cummins place. when he ran away to georgia, he didn't stay there. he left and came back to mississippi. i don't know just when my papa came to the cummins' place. it was just after the war. after be left the cummins' place he worked at the smith place. then he was farming agent for sometime for old man cook in jefferson county. he would see after the hands. voting "i ain't never voted in my life. i know plenty men that used to vote but i didn't. i never heard of no women voting. occupation "i used to do field work. i washed and ironed until i got too old to do anything. i can't do anything now. i ain't able. support "i get the old age pension and the welfare give me some commodities for myself and my sick daughter. she ain't been able to walk for a year. marriage "i married willis wright in july 1901. he did farming mostly. when he died in 1928, he was working at the southern oil mill. he didn't leave any property." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: hannah brooks wright w. 17th, highland addition, pine bluff, arkansas age: 85 occupation: laundress "yes ma'am, i was born in slavery times. i was born on elsa brooks' plantation in mississippi. i don't know what year 'twas but i know 'twas in slavery times. "i was a great big gal when the yankees come through. i was elsa brooks' house gal. "i remember when a man come through to 'vascinate' all the chillun that was born in slavery times. i cut up worse than any of 'em--i bit him. i thought he was gwine cut off my arm. old missis say our names gwine be sent to the white house. old missis was gwine around with him tryin' to calm 'em down. "and the next day the yankees come through. the lord have mercy! i think i was 'bout twelve years old when freedom come. we used to ask old missis how old we was. she'd say, 'go on, if i tell you how old you is, your parents couldn't do nothin' with you. jus' tell folks you was born in slavery times!' gramma wouldn't tell me neither. she'd say, 'you hush, you wouldn't work if you knowed how old you is.' "i used to sit on the lever a many a day and drive the mule at the gin. you don't know anything 'bout that, do you? "i remember one time when the yankees was comin' through. i was up on top of a rail fence so i could see better. i said, 'just look a there at them bluebirds.' when the yankees come along one of 'em said, 'you get down from there you little son of a b----.' i didn't wait to climb down, i jus' fell down from there. old missis come down to the quarters in her carriage--didn't have buggies in them days, just carriages--to see who was hurt. the yankees had done told her that one of her gals had fell off the fence and got hurt. i said, 'i ain't hurt but i thought them yankees would hurt me.' she said, 'they won't hurt you, they is comin' through to tell you you is free.' she said if they had hurt me she would jus' about done them yankees up. she said jeff davis had done give up his seat and we was free. "our folks stayed with old missis as long as they lived. my mammy cooked and i stayed in the house with missis and churned and cleaned up. old master was named tom brooks and her name was elsa brooks. sometimes i jus' called her 'missis.' "old missis told the patrollers they couldn't come on her place and interfere with her hands. i don't know how many hands they had but i know they had a heap of 'em. "sometimes missis would say it looked like i wanted to get away and she'd say, 'why, hannah, you don't suffer for a thing. you stay right here at the house with me and you have plenty to eat.' "i was the oldest one in my mammy's family. "i just went to school a week and mammy said they needed me at the house. "then my daddy put me in the field to plow. old missis come out one day and say, 'bill, how come you got hannah plowin'? i don't like to see her in the field.' he'd say, 'well, i want to learn her to work. i ain't gwine be here always and i want her to know how to work.' "they had me throwin' the shickles (shuttles) in slavery times. i used to handle the cyards (cards) too. then i used to help clean up the milk dairy. i'd be so tired i wouldn't know what to do. old missis would say, 'well, hannah, that's your job.' "we used to have plenty to eat, pies and cakes and custards. more than we got now. "i own this place if i can keep payin' the taxes. "old missis used to say, 'you gwine think about what i'm tellin' you after i'm dead and gone.' "young folks call us old church folks 'old _ism_ folks,' 'old fogies.' they say, 'you was born in slavery times, you don't know nothin.' you can't tell 'em nothin'. "i follows my mind. you ain't gwine go wrong if you does what your mind tells you." interviewer: miss irene robertson person interviewed: tom yates, marianna. arkansas age: 66 "i was born in 1872 in mississippi, on moon lake. mama said she was orphan. she was sold when she was a young woman. she said she come from richmond, virginia to charleston, south carolina. then she was brought to mississippi and married before freedom. she had two husbands. her owners was master atwood and master curtis burk. i don't know how it come about nor which one bought her. she had four children and i'm the youngest. my sister lives in memphis. "my father was sold in raleigh, north carolina. his master was tom yeates. i'm named fer some of them. papa's name was william yeates. he told us how he come to be sold. he said they was fixing to sell grandma. he was one of the biggest children and he ask his mother to sell him and let grandma raise the children. she wanted to stay with the little ones. he said he cried and cried long after they brought him away. they all cried when he was sold, he said. i don't know who bought him. he must have left soon after he was sold, for he was a soldier. he run away and want in the war. he was a private and mustered out at devalls bluff, arkansas. that is how come my mother to come here. he died in 1912 at wilson, arkansas. he got a federal pension, thirty-six dollars, every three months. he wasn't wounded, or if he was i didn't hear him speak of it. he didn't praise war." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: annie young, 913 west scull street, pine bluff, arkansas age: 76 "my old master's name was sam knox. i 'members all my white people. my mother was the cook. "we had a good master and a good mistress too. i wish i could find some of my master's family now. but after the war they broke up and went up north. "i 'member well the day my old master's son got killed. my mother was workin' in the field and i know she come to the house a cryin'. i 'member well when we was out in the plum nursery and could hear the cannons. my white girl nannie told me 'now listen, that's the war a fightin'.' "the soldiers used to come along and sometimes they were in a hurry and would grab something to eat and go on and then sometimes they would sit down to a long table. "i could hear my great grandmother and my mother talkin' 'we'll be free after awhile.' "after the war my stepfather come and got my mother and we moved out in the piney woods. my stepfather was a preacher and sometimes he was a hundred miles from home. my mother hired out to work by the day. i was the oldest of seven chillun and when i got big enough to work they worked me in the field. when we cleaned up the new ground we got fifty cents a day. "i was between ten and twelve years old when i went to school. my first teacher was white. but i tell you the truth, i learned most after my children started to school. "i worked twenty-three years for the police headquarters. i was janitor and matron too. i washed and ironed too. i been here in pine bluff about fifty or sixty years. "if justice was done everybody would have a living. i earned the money to buy this place and they come and wanted me to sign away my home so i could get the old age pension but i just had sense enough not to do it. i'm not goin' sign away my home just for some meat and bread." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: john young 925 e. 15th ave., pine bluff, ark. age: 92 "well, i don't know how old i is. i was born in virginia, but my mother was sold. she was bought by a speculator and brought here to arkansas. she brought me with her and her old master's name was ridgell. we lived down around monticello. i was big enough to plow and chop cotton and drive a yoke of oxen and haul ten-foot rails. "oh lord, i don't know how many acres old master had. he had a territory--he had a heap a land. i remember he had a big old carriage and the carriage man was little alfred. the reason they called him that was because there was another man on the place called big alfred. they won't no relation--just happen to be the same name. "i remember when the yankees come and killed old master's hogs and chickens and cooked 'em. there was a good big bunch of yankees. they said they was fightin' to free the niggers. after that i runned away and come up here to pine bluff and stayed awhile and then i went to little rock and jined the 57th colored infantry. i was the kittle drummer. we marched right in the center of the army. we went from little rock to fort smith. i never was in a big battle, just one little scrummage. i was at fort smith when they surrendered and i was mustered out at leavenworth, kansas. "my grandfather went to war as bodyguard for his master, but i was with the yankees. "i remember when the ku klux come to my grandmother's house. they nearly scared us to death. i run and hid under the bed. they didn't do nothin', just the looks of 'em scared us. i know they had the old folks totin' water for 'em. seemed like they couldn't get enough. "after the war i come home and went to farmin'. then i steamboated for four years. i was on the kate adams, but i quit just 'fore it burned, 'bout two or three weeks. "i never went to school a minute in my life. i had a chance to go but i just didn't. "no'm i can't remember nothin' else. it's been so long it done slipped my memory." interviewer: mrs. bernice bowden person interviewed: john young 923 e. fifteenth, pine bluff, arkansas age: 89 "i know i was born in arkansas. the first place i recollect i was in arkansas. "i was a drummer in the civil war. i played the little drum. the bass drummer was rheuben turner. "i run off from home in drew county. five or six of us run off here to pine bluff. we heard if we could get with the yankees we'd be free, so we run off here to pine bluff and got with some yankee soldiers--the twenty-eighth wisconsin. "then we went to little rock and i j'ined the fifty-seventh colored infantry. i thought i was good and safe then. "we went to fort smith from little rock and freedom come on us while we was between new mexico and fort smith. "they mustered us out at fort leavenworth and i went right back to my folks in drew county, monticello. "i've been a farmer all my life till i got too old." file was produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) [illustration] an arkansas planter by opie read, author of "a yankee from the west," "the waters of caney fork," "mrs. annie green," "up terrapin river." chicago and new york: rand, mcnally & company, publishers. an arkansas planter. chapter i. lying along the arkansas river, a few miles below little rock, there is a broad strip of country that was once the domain of a lordly race of men. they were not lordly in the sense of conquest; no rusting armor hung upon their walls; no ancient blood-stains blotched their stairways--there were no skeletons in dungeons deep beneath the banquet hall. but in their own opinion they were just as great as if they had possessed these gracious marks of medieval distinction. their country was comparatively new, but their fathers came mostly from virginia and their whisky came wholly from kentucky. their cotton brought a high price in the liverpool market, their daughters were celebrated for beauty, and their sons could hold their own with the poker players that traveled up and down the mississippi river. the slave trade had been abolished, and, therefore, what remained of slavery was right; and in proof of it the pulpit contributed its argument. negro preachers with wives scattered throughout the community urged their fellow bondsmen to drop upon their knees and thank god for the privilege of following a mule in a christian land. the merciless work of driving the negroes to their tasks was performed by men from the north. many a son of new england, who, with emotion, had listened to phillips and to garrison, had afterward hired his harsh energies to the slave owner. and it was this hard driving that taught the negro vaguely to despise the abolitionist. but as a class the slaves were not unhappy. they were ignorant, but the happiest song is sometimes sung by ignorance. they believed the bible as read to them by the preachers, and the bible told them that god had made them slaves; so, at evening, they twanged rude strings and danced the "buck" under the boughs of the cottonwood tree. on the vine-shaded veranda the typical old planter was wont to sit, looking up and down the road, watching for a friend or a stranger--any one worthy to drink a gentleman's liquor, sir. his library was stocked with romances. he knew english history as handed down to him by the sentimentalist. he hated the name of king, but revered an aristocracy. no business was transacted under his roof; the affairs of his estate were administered in a small office, situated at the corner of the yard. his wife and daughters, arrayed in imported finery, drove about in a carriage. new orleans was his social center, and he had been known to pay as much as a thousand dollars for a family ticket to a ball at the st. charles hotel. his hospitality was known everywhere. he was slow to anger, except when his honor was touched upon, and then he demanded an apology or forced a fight. he was humorous, and yet the consciousness of his own dignity often restrained his enjoyment of the ludicrous. when the cotton was in bloom his possessions were beautiful. on a knoll he could stand and imagine that the world was a sea of purple. that was the arkansas planter years ago, before the great sentimental storm swept down upon him, before an evening's tea-table talk in massachusetts became a tornado of iron in virginia. when ragged and heart-sore he returned from the army, from as brave a fight as man ever engaged in, he sat down to dream over his vanished greatness. but his dream was short. he went to work, not to re-establish his former condition of ease--for that hope was beyond him--but to make a living for his family. on a knoll overlooking the arkansas river stood the cranceford homestead. the site was settled in 1832, by captain luke cranceford, who had distinguished himself in an indian war. and here, not long afterward, was born john cranceford, who years later won applause as commander of one of the most stubborn batteries of the confederate army. the house was originally built of cypress logs, but as time passed additions of boards and brick were made, resulting in a formless but comfortable habitation, with broad passage ways and odd lolling places set to entrap cool breezes. the plantation comprised about one thousand acres. the land for the most part was level, but here and there a hill arose, like a sudden jolt. from right to left the tract was divided by a bayou, slow and dark. the land was so valuable that most of it had been cleared years ago, but in the wooded stretches the timber was thick, and in places the tops of the trees were laced together with wild grape vines. far away was a range of pine-covered hills, blue cones in the distance. and here lived the poorer class of people, farmers who could not hope to look to the production of cotton, but who for a mere existence raised thin hogs and nubbins of corn. in the lowlands the plantations were so large and the residences so far apart that the country would have appeared thinly settled but for the negro quarters here and there, log villages along the bayous. in this neighborhood major john cranceford was the most prominent figure. the county was named in honor of his family. he was called a progressive man. he accepted the yoke of reconstruction and wore it with a laugh, until it pinched, and then he said nothing, except to tell his neighbors that a better time was coming. and it came. the years passed, and a man who had been prominent in the confederate council became attorney-general of the american nation, and men who had led desperate charges against the federal forces made speeches in the old capitol at washington. and thus the world was taught a lesson of forgiveness--of the true greatness of man. in new orleans the major was known as a character, and his nerve was not merely a matter of conjecture. courage is supposed to hold a solemn aspect, but the major was the embodiment of heartiness. his laugh was catching; even the negroes had it, slow, loud and long. sometimes at morning when a change of season had influenced him, he would slowly stride up and down the porch, seeming to shake with joviality as he walked. years ago he had served as captain of a large steamboat, and this at times gave him an air of bluff authority. he was a successful river man, and was therefore noted for the vigor and newness of his profanity. his wife was deeply religious, and year after year she besought him to join the church, pleaded with him at evening when the two children were kissed good night--and at last he stood the rector's cross-examination and had his name placed upon the register. it was a hard struggle, but he weeded out his oaths until but one was left--a bold "by the blood." he said that he would part even with this safety valve but that it would require time; and it did. the major believed in the gradual moral improvement of mankind, but he swore that the world intellectually was going to the devil. and for this conviction he had a graded proof. "listen to me a minute," he was wont to say. "i'll make it clear to you. my grandfather was graduated with great honors from harvard, my father was graduated with honor, i got through all right, but my son tom failed." chapter ii. one hot afternoon the major sat in his library. the doors were open and a cool breeze, making the circuitous route of the passage ways, swept through the room, bulging a newspaper which he held opened out in front of him. he was scanning the headlines to catch the impulsive moods of the world. the parlor was not far away, down the hall, and voices reached him. and then there came the distressing hack, hack, of a hollow cough. he put down the newspaper, got up, and slowly strode about the room, not shaking with joviality as he walked. in the parlor the voices were hushed, there was a long silence, and then came the hollow cough. he sat down and again took up the newspaper, but the cough, hack, hack, smote him like the recurrence of a distressing thought, and he crumpled the paper and threw it upon the floor. out in the yard a negro woman was singing; far down the stream a steamboat whistled. and again came the hollow cough. there was another long silence, and then he heard light footsteps in the hall. a young woman halted at the door and stood looking at him. her face was pale and appeared thin, so eager was her expression. she was slight and nervous. "well," he said. she smiled at him and said, "well." then she slowly entered the room, and with a sigh took a seat near him. the cough from the parlor was more distressful, and she looked at him, and in her eyes was a beseeching sadness. "louise." "yes, sir." "what did i tell you?" "i don't know, sir." "don't say that, for you do know." "you've told me so many things--" "yes, i know. but what did i tell you about carl pennington?" "i don't know, sir." "yes you do. i told you that i didn't want him to come here. didn't i?" "yes, sir." "then why is he here?" "i met him and invited him to come." "ah, ha. but i don't want him here; don't want you to see him." she sat looking at him as if she would study every line of his face. he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and looked down. the cough came again, and he looked at the girl. "you know the reason i don't want you to see him. don't you?" "yes, sir, and i know the reason why i do want to see him." "the devil--pardon me," he quickly added, withdrawing his hands from his pockets and bowing to her. she slightly inclined her head and smiled sadly. he looked hard at her, striving to read her thoughts; and she was so frail, her face was so thin and her eyes so wistful that she smote him with pity. he reached over and took one of her hands, and affectionately she gave him the other one. she tried to laugh. the cough came again, and she took her hands away. he reached for them, but she put them behind her. "no, not until i have told you," she said, and he saw her lip tremble. "he was afraid to come in here to see you," she went on, speaking with timid slowness. "he is so weak and sick that he can't stand to be scolded, so i have come to--" she hesitated. he shoved himself back and looked hard at her, and his eyebrows stuck out fiercely. "to ask me what?" his voice was dry and rasping. "what can you ask me? to let him come here to see you? no, daughter. i can't permit that. and i don't intend to be cruel when i say this. i am sorry for him, god knows i deeply sympathize with him, but he must not hope to--" "i was not going to ask you to let him come," she broke in. "i am going to ask you to let me go--go with him." "by the blood!" the major exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "what do you mean? marry him?" "yes, sir," she quietly answered. he looked at her, frowning, his face puffed, his brows jagged. and then appearing to master himself he sat down and strove to take her hand, but she held it behind her. "my daughter, i want to talk to you, not in anger, but with common sense. it actually horrifies me to think of your marriage--i can't do it, that's all. why, the poor fellow can't live three months; he is dead on his feet now. listen at that cough. louise, how can you think of marrying him? haven't you any judgment at all? is it possible that you have lost--but i won't scold you; i must reason with you. there is time enough for you to marry, and the sympathetic fancy that you have for that poor fellow will soon pass away. it must. you've got plenty of chances. jim taylor--" "why do you speak of him, father?" "i speak of him because he loves you--because he is as fine a young fellow as walks the face of the earth." "but, father, he is so big and strong that he doesn't need any one to love him." at this the major appeared not to know whether to laugh or to frown. but he did neither; he sat for a time with his hands on his knees, looking wonderingly, almost stupidly at her; and then he said: "nonsense. where did you pick up that preposterous idea? so strong that he doesn't need love! why, strength demands love, and to a big man the love of a little woman--" she drew back from him as he leaned toward her and he did not complete the sentence. her impatience made him frown. "won't you let me reason with you?" he asked. "won't you help me to suppress all appearance of displeasure?" "it is of no use," she replied. "what is of no use? reason?" "argument." "what! do you mean--" "i mean that i am going to marry him." in her eyes there was no appeal, no pleading, for the look that she gave him was hard and determined. harsh words flew to the major's mind, and he shook with the repression of them; but he was silent. he shoved his hands into his pockets and she heard his keys rattling. he arose with a deep sigh, and now, with his hands behind him, walked up and down the room. suddenly he faced about and stood looking down upon her, at the rose in her hair. "louise, one night on a steamboat there was a rollicking dance. it was a moonlight excursion. there was a splash and a cry that a woman had fallen overboard. i leaped into the river, grasped her, held her head above the stream, fighting the current. a boat was put out and we were taken on board, and then by the light of a lantern i found that i had saved the life of my own daughter. so, upon you, i have more than a father's claim--the claim of gallantry, and this you cannot disregard, and upon it i base my plea." she looked up straight at him; her lips were half open, but she said nothing. "you don't seem to understand," he added, seeming to stiffen his shoulders in resentment at the calmness with which she regarded him. "i tell you that i waive the authority of a father and appeal to your gratitude; i remind you that i saved your life--leaped into the cold water and seized you, not knowing whose life i was striving to save at the risk of losing my own. isn't that worth some sort of return? isn't it worth even the sacrifice of a whim? louise, don't look at me that way. is it possible that you don't grasp--" he hesitated and turned his face toward the parlor whence came again the cough, hollow and distressing. the sound died away, echoing down the hall, and a hen clucked on the porch and a passage door slammed. "louise," he said, looking at her. "yes, sir." "do you catch--" "i catch everything, father. it was noble of you to jump into the river when you didn't know but that you might be drowned, and recognizing that you risked your life, and feeling a deep gratitude, it is hard to repay you with disobedience. wait a moment, please. you must listen to me. it is hard to repay you with disobedience, but it cannot be helped. you say that mr. pennington is dying and i know that you speak the truth. he knows that he is dying, and he appeals to me not to let him die alone--not alone in words," she quickly added, "but with something stronger than words, his helplessness, his despair. other people have appeared to shun him because he is dying, but--" "hold on," he broke in. "i deny that. no one has shunned him because he is dying. everybody is sorry for him, and you know that i would do anything for him." "would you? then let him die under this roof as my husband. oh, look how poor and thin he is, so helpless, and dying day by day, with no relatives near him, with nothing in prospect but long nights of suffering. please don't tell me that i shan't take care of him, for i feel that it is the strongest duty that will ever come to me. listen how he coughs. doesn't it appeal to you? how can you refuse--how can you remind me of the gratitude i owe you?" tears were streaming down her face. he bent over her, placed his hands upon her cheeks and kissed her, but instantly he drew back with his resentful stiffening of the shoulders. "louise, it can't be. no argument and no appeal can bring it about. it makes me shudder to think of it. really i can't understand it. the situation to me is most unnatural. but i won't be harsh with you. but i must say that i don't know where you get your stubbornness. no, i won't be harsh. let me tell you what i will agree to do. he may come to this house and stay here until--may stay here and the best of care shall be taken of him, and you may nurse him, but you must not bear his name. will you agree to this?" she shook her head. she had wiped away her tears and her eyes were strong and determined. "after conceding so much i don't see why you should refuse the vital point," she said. "i can tell you why, and i am afraid that i must." "don't be afraid; simply tell me." "but, daughter, it would seem cruel." "not if i demand it." "then you do demand it? well, you shall know. his father served a term in the louisiana penitentiary for forgery. and now you may ask why i ever let him come into this house. i will tell you. he had been teaching school here some time and i said nothing. one day during a rainstorm he stopped at the gate. he was sick and i invited him to come in. after that i could not find enough firmness to tell him not to come, he was so pale and weak. i see now that it was a false sympathy. do you understand me? his father was a convict." "yes, i understand. he told me." "by the blood on the cross! do you mean to say--louise," he broke off, gazing upon her, "your mind is unsettled. yes, you are crazy, and, of course, all your self-respect is gone. you needn't say a word, you are crazy. you are--i don't know what you are, but i know what i am, and now, after the uselessness of my appeal to your gratitude, i will assert the authority of a father. you shall not marry him." "and would you kill a dying man?" she quietly asked. the question jolted him, and he shouted out: "what do you mean by such nonsense? you know i wouldn't." "then i will marry him." for a moment the major's anger choked him. with many a dry rasp he strove to speak, and just as he had made smoother a channel for his words, he heard the hollow cough drawing nearer. he motioned toward a door that opened in an opposite direction, and the girl, after hesitating a moment, quickly stepped out upon a veranda that overlooked the river. the major turned his eyes toward the other door, and there pennington stood with a handkerchief tightly pressed to his mouth. for a time they were silent, one strong and severe, the other tremulous and almost spectral in the softened light. "there is a chair, sir," said the major, pointing. "i thank you, sir; i don't care to sit down. i--i am very sorry that you are compelled to look upon me as--as you do, sir. and it is all my fault, i assure you, and i can't defend myself." he dropped his handkerchief and looked down as if he were afraid to stoop to pick it up. the major stepped forward, caught up the handkerchief, handed it to him and stepped back. "thank you, sir," pennington said, bowing, and then, after a short pause, he added: "i don't know what to say in explanation of--of myself. but i should think, sir, that the strength of a man's love is a sufficient defense of any weakness he may possess--i mean a sufficient defense of any indiscretion that his love has led him to commit. this situation stole upon me, and i was scarcely aware of its coming until it was here. i didn't know how serious--" he coughed his words, and when he became calmer, repeated his plea that love ought to excuse any weakness in man. "your daughter is an angel of mercy," he said. "when i found myself dying as young as i was and as hopeful as i had been my soul filled up with a bitter resentment against nature and god, but she drew out the bitterness and instilled a sweetness and a prayer. and now to take her from me would be to snatch away the prospect of that peaceful life that lies beyond the grave. sir, i heard you tell her that she was crazy. if so, then may god bless all such insanity." he pressed the handkerchief to his mouth, racking, struggling; and when the convulsive agony had passed he smiled, and there in the shadow by the door the light that crossed his face was ghastly, like a dim smear of phosphorus. and now the major's shoulders were not stiffened with resentment; they were drooping with a pity that he could not conceal, but his face was hard set, the expression of the mercy of one man for another, but also the determination to protect a daughter and the good name of an honored household. "mr. pennington, i was never so sorry for any human being as i am for you at this moment, but, sir, the real blessings of this life come through justice and not through impulsive mercy. in thoughtless sympathy a great wrong may lie, and out of a marriage with disease may arise a generation of misery. we are largely responsible for the ailments of those who are to follow us. the wise man looks to the future; the weak man hugs the present. you say that my daughter is an angel of mercy. she has ever been a sort of sister of charity. i confess that i have never been able wholly to understand her. at times she has even puzzled her mother, and a daughter is odd, indeed, when a mother cannot comprehend her. i am striving to be gentle with you, but i must tell you that you cannot marry her. i don't want to tell you to go, and yet it is better that this interview should come to a close." he bowed to pennington and turned toward the veranda that overlooked the river, but a supplicating voice called him back. "i wish to say," said the consumptive, "that from your point of view you are right. but that does not alter my position. you speak of the misery that arises from a marriage with disease. that was very well put, but let me say, sir, that i believe that i am growing stronger. sometimes i have thought that i had consumption, but in my saner moments i know that i have not. i can see an improvement from day to day. several days ago i couldn't help coughing, but now at times i can suppress it. i am growing stronger." "sir," exclaimed the major, "if you were as strong as a lion you should not marry her. good day." chapter iii. slowly and heavily the major walked out upon the veranda. he stood upon the steps leading down into the yard, and he saw louise afar off standing upon the river's yellow edge. she had thrown her hat upon the sand, and she stood with her hands clasped upon her brown head. a wind blew down the stream, and the water lapped at her feet. the major looked back into the library, at the door wherein pennington had stood, and sighed with relief upon finding that he was gone. he looked back toward the river. the girl was walking along the shore, meditatively swinging her hat. he stepped to the corner of the house, and, gazing down the road, saw pennington on a horse, now sitting straight, now bending low over the horn of the saddle. the old gentleman had a habit of making a sideward motion with his hand as if he would put all unpleasant thoughts behind him, and now he made the motion not only once, but many times. and it seemed that his thoughts would not obey him, for he became more imperative in his pantomimic demand. at one corner of the large yard, where the smooth ground broke off into a steep slope to the river, there stood a small office built of brick. it was the major's executive chamber, and thither he directed his steps. inside this place his laugh was never heard; at the door his smile always faded. in this commercial sanctuary were enforced the exactions that made the plantation thrive. outside, in the yard, in the "big house," elsewhere under the sky, a plea of distress might moisten his eyes and soften his heart to his own financial disadvantage, but under the moss-grown shingles of the office all was business, hard, uncompromising. it was told in the neighborhood that once, in this inquisition of affairs, he demanded the last cent possessed by a widowed woman, but that, while she was on her way home, he overtook her, graciously returned the money and magnanimously tore to pieces a mortgage that he held against her small estate. just as he entered the office there came across the yard a loud and impatient voice. "here, bill, confound you, come and take this horse. don't you hear me, you idiot? you infernal niggers are getting to be so no-account that the last one of you ought to be driven off the place. trot, confound you. here, take this horse to the stable and feed him. where is the major? in the office? the devil he is." toward the office slowly strode old gideon batts, fanning himself with his white slouch hat. he was short, fat, and bald; he was bowlegged with a comical squat; his eyes stuck out like the eyes of a swamp frog; his nose was enormous, shapeless, and red. to the major's family he traced the dimmest line of kinship. during twenty years he had operated a small plantation that belonged to the major, and he was always at least six years behind with his rent. he had married the widow martin, and afterward swore that he had been disgracefully deceived by her, that he had expected much but had found her moneyless; and after this he had but small faith in woman. his wife died and he went into contented mourning, and out of gratitude to his satisfied melancholy, swore that he would pay his rent, but failed. upon the major he held a strong hold, and this was a puzzle to the neighbors. their characters stood at fantastic and whimsical variance; one never in debt, the other never out of debt; one clamped by honor, the other feeling not its restraining pinch. but together they would ride abroad, laughing along the road. to mrs. cranceford old gid was a pest. with the shrewd digs of a woman, the blood-letting side stabs of her sex, she had often shown her disapproval of the strong favor in which the major held him; she vowed that her husband had gathered many an oath from gid's swollen store of execration (when, in truth, gid had been an apt pupil under the major), and she had hoped that the major's attachment to the church would of necessity free him from the humiliating association with the old sinner, but it did not, for they continued to ride abroad, laughing along the road. like a skittish horse old gid shied at the office door. once he had crossed that threshold and it had cost him a crop of cotton. "how are you, john?" was gid's salutation as he edged off, still fanning himself. "how are you, sir?" was the major's stiff recognition of the fact that gid was on earth. "getting hotter, i believe, john." "i presume it is, sir." the major sat with his elbow resting on a desk, and about him were stacked threatening bundles of papers; and old gid knew that in those commercial romances he himself was a familiar character. "are you busy, john?" "yes, but you may come in." "no, i thank you. don't believe i've got time." "then take time. i want to talk to you. come in." "no, not to-day, john. fact is i'm not feeling very well. head's all stopped up with a cold, and these summer colds are awful, i tell you. it was a summer cold that took my father off." "how's your cotton in that low strip along the bayou?" "tolerable, john; tolerable." "come in. i want to talk to you about it." "don't believe i can stand the air in there, john. head all stopped up. don't believe i'm going to live very long." "nonsense. you are as strong as a buck." "you may think so, john, but i'm not. i thought father was strong, too, but a summer cold got him. i am getting along in years, john, and i find that i have to take care of myself. but if you really want to talk to me about that piece of cotton, come out under the trees where it's cool." the major shoved back his papers and arose, but hesitated; and gid stood looking on, fanning himself. the major stepped out and gid's face was split asunder with a broad smile. "i gad. i've been up town and had a set-to with old baucum and the rest of them. pulled up fifty winner at poker and jumped. devilish glad to see you; miss you every minute of the time i'm away. let's go over there and sit down on that bench." they walked toward a bench under a live-oak tree, and upon gid's shoulder the major's hand affectionately rested. they halted to laugh, and old gid shoved the major away from him, then seized him and drew him back. they sat down, still laughing, but suddenly the major became serious. "gid, i'm in trouble," he said. "nonsense, my boy, there is no such thing as trouble. throw it off. look at me. i've had enough of what the world calls trouble to kill a dozen ordinary men, but just look at me--getting stronger every day. throw it off. what is it, anyway?" "louise declares that she is going to marry pennington!" "what!" old gid exclaimed, turning with a bouncing flounce and looking straight at the major. "marry pennington! why, she shan't, john. that's all there is of it. we object and that settles it. why, what the deuce can she be thinking about?" "thinking about him," the major answered. "yes, but she must quit it. why, it's outrageous for as sensible a girl as she is to think of marrying that fellow. you leave it to me; hear what i said? leave it to me." this suggested shift of responsibility did not remove the shadow of sadness that had fallen across the major's countenance. "you leave it to me and i'll give her a talk she'll not forget. i'll make her understand that she's a queen, and a woman is pretty devilish skittish about marrying anybody when you convince her that she's a queen. what does your wife say about it?" "she hasn't said anything. she's out visiting and i haven't seen her since louise told me of her determination to marry him." "don't say determination, john. say foolish notion. but it's all right." "no, it's not all right." "what, have you failed to trust me? is it possible that you have lost faith in me? don't do that, john, for if you do it will be a never failing source of regret. you don't seem to remember what my powers of persuasion have accomplished in the past. when i was in the legislature, chairman of the committee on county and county lines, what did my protest do? it kept them from cutting off a ten-foot strip of this county and adding it to jefferson. you must remember those things, john, for in the factors of persuasion lie the shaping of human life. i've been riding in the hot sun and i think that a mint julep would hit me now just about where i live. say, there, bill, bring us some mint, sugar and whisky. and cold water, mind you. oh, everything will come out all right. by the way, do you remember that catholic priest that came here with a letter of introduction to you?" "yes, his name is brennon." "yes, that's it. but how did he happen to bring a letter to you?" "he came from maryland with a letter given him by a relative of mine." "yes, and he has gone to work, i tell you. do you know what he's doing? reaching out quietly and gathering the negroes into his church. and there are some pretty wise men behind him. they didn't send an irishman or a dutchman or an italian, but an american from an old family. he's already got three negroes on my place, and perdue tells me that he's nipping one now and then over his way. there's a scheme in it, john." "there is a scheme in all human affairs, and consequently in all church movements," the major replied, and the impulse of a disquisition straightened him into a posture more dignified, for he was fond of talking and at times he strove to be logical and impressive; but at this moment bill arrived with mint from the spring; and with lighter talk two juleps were made. "ah," said old gideon, sipping his scented drink, "virtue may become wearisome, and we may gape during the most fervent prayer, but i gad, john, there is always the freshness of youth in a mint julep. pour just a few more drops of liquor into mine, if you please--want it to rassle me a trifle, you know. recollect those come-all ye songs we used to sing, going down the river? remember the time i snatched the sword out of my cane and lunged at a horse trader from tennessee? scoundrel grabbed it and broke it off and it was all i could do to keep him from establishing a close and intimate relationship with me. great old days, john; and i gad, they'll never come again." "i remember it all, gid, and it was along there that you fell in love with a woman that lived at mortimer's bend." "easy, now, john. a trifle more liquor, if you please. thank you. yes, i used to call her the wild plum. sweet thing, and i had no idea that she was married until her lout of a husband came down to the landing with a double-barrel gun. ah, lord, if she had been single and worth money i could have made her very happy. fate hasn't always been my friend, john." "possibly not, gid, but you know that fate to be just should divide her favors, and this time she leaned toward the woman." "slow, john. i gad, there's your wife." a carriage drew up at the yard gate and a woman stepped out. she did not go into the house, but seeing the major, came toward him. she was tall, with large black eyes and very gray hair. in her step was suggested the pride of an old kentucky family, belles, judges and generals. she smiled at the major and bowed stiffly at old gid. the two men arose. "thank you, i don't care to sit down," she said. "where is louise?" "i saw her down by the river just now," the major answered. "i wish to see her at once," said his wife. "shall i go and call her, madam?" gid asked. she gave him a look of surprise and answered: "no, i thank you." "no trouble, i assure you," gid persisted. "i am pleased to say that age has not affected my voice, except to mellow it with more of reverence when i address the wife of a noble man and the mother of a charming girl." she had dignity, but humor was never lost upon her, and she smiled. this was encouraging and old gid proceeded: "i was just telling the major of my splendid prospects for a bountiful crop this year, and i feel that with this blessing of providence i shall soon be able to meet all my obligations. i saw our rector, mr. mills, this morning, and he spoke of how thankful i ought to be--he had just passed my bayou field--and i told him that i would not only assert my gratitude but would prove it with a substantial donation to the church at the end of the season." in the glance which she gave him there was refined and gentle contempt; and then she looked down upon the decanter of whisky. old gideon drew down the corners of his mouth, as was his wont when he strove to excite compassion. "yes," he said with a note of pity forced upon his voice, "i am exceedingly thankful for all the blessings that have come to me, but i haven't been very well of late, rather feeble to-day, and the kind major, noticing it, insisted upon my taking a little liquor, the medicine of our sturdy and gallant fathers, madam." the major sprawled himself back with a roaring laugh, and hereupon gid added: "it takes the major a long time to get over a joke. told him one just now and it tickled him mighty nigh to death. well, i must be going now, and, madam, if i should chance to see anything of your charming daughter, i will tell her that you desire a conference with her. william," he called, "my horse, if you please." chapter iv. mrs. cranceford had met pennington in the road, and on his horse, in the shade of a cottonwood tree, he had leaned against the carriage window to tell her of his interview with the major. he had desperately appealed to the sympathy which one with so gentle a nature must feel for a dying man, and had implored her to intercede with her husband; but with compassionate firmness she had told him that no persuasion could move her husband from the only natural position he could take, and that she herself was forced to oppose the marriage. the major, with his hands behind him, was now walking up and down the short stretch of shade. "i don't wonder that the absurdity of it does not strike him," he said, "for he is a drowning sentimentalist, catching at a fantastic straw." he paused in his walk to look at his wife as if he expected to find on her face a commendation of this simile. she nodded, knowing what to do, and the major continued, resuming his walk: "i say that i can't blame him so much, but louise ought to have better sense. i'll swear i don't know where she gets her stubbornness. oh, but there is no use worrying ourselves with a discussion of it. you may talk to her, but i have had my say." louise, meanwhile, was strolling along a shaded lane that led from the ferry. iron weeds grew in the corners of the fence, and in one hand she carried a bunch of purple blooms; with the other hand she slowly swung her hat, holding the strings. a flock of sheep came pattering down the road. with her hat she struck at the leader, a stubborn dictator demanding the whole of the highway. his flock scampered off in a fright, leaving him doggedly eyeing the disputer of his progress. but now she was frightened, with such fierceness did the old ram lower his head and gaze at her, and she cried out, "go on back, you good-for-nothing thing." "he won't hurt you," a voice cried in the woods, just beyond the fence. "walk right up to him." an enormous young fellow came up to the fence and with climbing over broke the top rail. "don't you see he's scared?" "but he would have knocked me over if you hadn't come." "no, he wouldn't; he was just trying to make friends with you." "but i don't want such a friend." together they slowly walked along. with tenderness in his eyes he looked down upon her, and when he spoke, which he did from time to time, his voice was deep and heavy but with a mellowness in it. she addressed him as mr. taylor and asked him if he had been away. and he said that he had, but that was not a sufficient reason for the formality of mister--his name was jim. she looked up at him--and her eyes were so blue that they looked black--and admitted that his name had been jim but that now it must be mr. taylor. she laughed at this but his face was serious. "why, i haven't called you jim since----" "since i asked you to marry me." "no, not since then. and now you know it wouldn't be right to call you jim." in his slowness of speech he floundered about, treading down the briars that grew along the edge of the road, walking with heavy tread but tenderly looking down upon her. "that ought not to make any difference," he said. "i knew you before you--before you knew anything, and now it doesn't sound right to hear you call me anything but jim. it is true that the last time i saw you--seems a long time, but it wasn't more than a week ago--you said that you wouldn't marry me, and really the time seems so long that i didn't know but you might have changed your mind." "no, not yet," she replied. "but you might." "no, i couldn't." "is it as bad as that?" "it's worse; it would be impossible for me to change." "i don't suppose you know why?" "yes, i do. i am going to be married." "what!" he stopped, expecting her to obey his own prompting and halt also, but she walked on. with long strides he overtook her, passed her, stood in front of her. she stepped aside and passed on. but again he overtook her, but this time he did not seek to detain her. "i can't believe it," he said, stripping the leaves from the thorn bushes and briars that came within touch of his swinging hand. "i don't believe that you would marry a man unless you loved him and who--who----" "somebody," she said. "please don't tantalize me in this way. tell me all about it." "you know mr. pennington----" "who, that poor fellow!" he cried. "you surely don't think of marrying him. louise, don't joke with me. why, he can't live more than three months." now she halted and there was anger in her eyes as she looked at him, and resentful rebuke was in her voice when she spoke. "and you, too, fix the length of time he is to live. why do you all agree to give him three months? is that all the time you are willing to allow him?" he stepped back from her and stood fumbling with his great hands. "i didn't know that any one else had given him three months," he replied. "i based my estimate merely on my recollection of how he looked the last time i saw him. i am willing to allow him all the time he wants and far more than nature seems willing to grant." "no, you are not. you all want him to die." "don't say that, louise. you know that i ain't that mean. but i acknowledge that i don't want you to marry him." "what need you care? if i refuse to marry you what difference does it make to you whom i marry?" "it makes this difference--that i would rather see you the wife of a man that can take care of you. louise, they say that i'm slow about everything, and i reckon i am, but when a slow man loves he loves for all time." "i don't believe it; don't believe that any man loves for all time." "louise, to hear you talk one might think that you have been grossly deceived, but i know you haven't, and that is what forces me to say that i don't understand you." "you don't have to understand me. nobody has asked you to." she walked on and he strode beside her, stripping the leaves off the shrubs, looking down at her, worshipping her; and she, frail and whimsical, received with unconcern the giant's adoration. "i told the major that i loved you--" "told him before you did me, didn't you?" she broke in, glancing up at him. "no, but on the same day. i knew he was my friend, and i didn't know but--" "that he would order me to marry you?" "no, not that, but i thought he might reason with you." "that's just like a stupid man. he thinks that he can win a woman with reason." he pondered a long time, seeming to feel that this bit of observation merited well-considered reply, and at last he said: "no, i didn't think that a woman could be won by something she didn't understand." "oh, you didn't. that was brilliant of you. but let us not spat with each other, jim." "i couldn't spat with you, louise; i think too much of you for that, and i want to say right now that no matter if you do marry i'm going to keep on loving you just the same. i have loved you so long now that i don't know how to quit. people say that i am industrious, and they compliment me for keeping up my place so well, and for not going to town and loafing about of a sunday and at night, but the truth is there ain't a dog in this county that's lazier than i am. during all these years my mind has been on you so strong that i have been driven to work." she had thrown down her iron weed blossoms and had put her hands to her ears to shut out his words as if they were a reproach to her, but she heard him and thus replied: "it appears that i have been of some service at any rate." "yes, but now you are going to undo it all." "i thought you said you were going to keep on loving me just the same." "what! do you want me to?" there was eagerness in his voice, and with hope tingling in his blood he remembered that a few moments before she had called him jim. "do you want me to?" "i want you always to be my friend." under these words he drooped and there was no eagerness in his voice when he replied: "friendship between a great big man and a little bit of a woman is nonsense. they must love or be nothing to each other." they had now reached the road that led past the major's house. she turned toward home. "wait a moment," he said, halting. she stopped and looked back at him. "did you hear what i said?" "what about?" "hear what i said about a big man and a little woman?" "no, what did you say?" he fumbled with his hands and replied: "no matter what i said then. what i say now is good-bye." "good-bye." she tripped along as if she were glad to be rid of him, but after a time she walked slower as if she were deeply musing. she heard the brisk trotting of a horse, and, looking up, recognized gideon batts, jogging toward her. he saw her, and, halting in the shade, he waited for her to come up, and as she drew near he cried out, "helloa, young rabbit." she wrinkled her greek nose at him, but she liked his banter, and with assumed offense she replied: "frog." "none of that, my lady." "well, then, what made you call me a young rabbit?" "because your ears stick out." "i don't care if they do." "neither does a young rabbit." "i call you a frog because your eyes stick out and because you are so puffy." "slow, now, my lady, queen of the sunk lands. oh, but they are laying for you at home and you are going to catch it. i'd hate to be in your fix." "and i wouldn't be in yours." "easy, now. you allude to my looks, eh? why, i have broken more than one heart." "why, i didn't know you had been married but once." he winced. "look here, you mustn't talk that way." "but you began it. you called me a young rabbit." "that's right, and now we will call it off. what a memory you've got. i gad, once joke with a woman and her impudence--which she mistakes for wit--leaps over all difference in ages. but they are laying for you at home and you are going to catch it. i laughed at them; told them it was nonsense to suppose that the smartest girl in the state was going to marry--" "you've said enough. i don't need your championship." "but you've got it and can't help yourself. why, so far as brains are concerned, the average legislator can't hold a candle to you." "that's no compliment." "slow. i was in the legislature." "yes, one term, i hear." "why did you hear one term?" "because they didn't send you back, i suppose." "easy. but i tell you that the major and your mother are furious. your mother said--" "she said very little in your presence." "careful. she said a great deal. but i infer from your insinuation that she doesn't think very well of me." "you ought to know." "i do; i know that she is wrong in her estimate of me. and i also know that i am right in my estimate of her. she is the soul of gentleness and quiet dignity. but you like me, don't you?" "i am ashamed to say that i like you in spite of my judgment." "easy. that's good, i must say. ah, the influence i have upon people is somewhat varied. upon a certain type of woman, the dignified lady of a passing generation, i exercise no particular influence, but i catch the over-bright young women in spite of themselves. the reason you think so much of me is because you are the brightest young woman i ever saw. and this puts me at a loss to understand why you are determined to marry that fellow pennington. wait a moment. i gad, if you go i'll ride along with you. answer me one question: is your love for him so great that you'll die if you don't marry him? or is it that out of a perversity that you can't understand you are determined to throw away a life that could be made most useful? louise, we have joked with each other ever since you were a child. in my waddling way i have romped with you, and i can scarcely realize that you are nearly twenty-four years old. think of it, well advanced toward the age of discretion, and yet you are about to give yourself to a dying man. i don't know what to say." "it seems not," she replied. and after a moment's pause she added: "if i am so well advanced toward the age of discretion i should be permitted to marry without the advice of an entire neighborhood." she was now standing in the sun, looking up at him, her half-closed eyes glinting like blue-tempered steel. "is marriage wholly a matter of selfishness?" she asked. "slow. if you are putting that to me as a direct question i am, as a man who never shies at the truth, compelled to say that it is. but let me ask you if it is simply a matter of accommodation? if it is, why not send out a collection of handsome girls to marry an aggregation of cripples?" her eyes were wide open now and she was laughing. "no one could be serious with you, mr. gid." "and no one could make you serious with yourself." "frog." "young rabbit." she put her hands to her ears. "i would rather be a young rabbit than a frog." "wait a moment," he called as she turned away. "well." "when you go home i wish you'd tell your mother that i talked to you seriously concerning the foolishness of your contemplated marriage. will you do that much for your old playmate?" she made a face at him and trippingly hastened away. he looked after her, shook his head, gathered up his bridle reins, and jogged off toward his home. chapter v. at home louise made known her arrival by singing along the hallway that led to her room. she knew that not a very pleasant reception awaited her, and she was resolved to meet it with the appearance of careless gayety. she entered her room, drew back the curtains to admit the light, deftly touched her hair at the mirror, and sat down in a rocking chair. she took up a book, an american fad built upon a london failure, and was aimlessly turning the leaves when she heard her mother's voice. "are you in there, louise?" "yes, come." in the mother's appearance there was no suggestion of a stored rebuke; her gray hair, faultlessly parted, was smoothed upon her brow, her countenance bespoke calmness, and her sad eyes were full of tender love. "oh, you look so cool and sweet," said the girl. "have this chair." "no, thank you, i prefer to sit here." she sat upon a straight-back chair. in her "day" only grandmothers were supposed to sit in rockers; younger women were thought to preserve their health and their grace of form by sitting with rigid dignity upon chairs which might now be exhibited as relics of household barbarism. "did you have a pleasant visit?" the girl asked. "yes, very; but it was so warm over there under the hills that i was glad when the time came to leave." "does that englishman still live alone on the jasper place?" "yes, with his straight pipe and scotch whisky. perdue says that he appears to be perfectly contented there all alone." "have they found out anything about him?" "no, only what he has been pleased to tell, and that isn't much. it seems that he is the younger son of a good family strayed off from home to better his condition." "but why should he try to raise cotton when they say there is so little money in it, and especially when it requires experience? and the climate must be trying on him?" "no, he says that the climate agrees with him. he has lived in india. he is reading american history and is much taken with the part the south has borne, so i learned from mr. perdue. he did not expect to find so little prejudice against foreigners. i could have told him that, in the south, an englishman is scarcely looked upon as a foreigner--that is, among the best people." they talked about many things that concerned them but little, of a new steamboat that had just entered upon the commerce of the lower river, of a cotton gin that was burned the night before, of the catholic priest who had come to gather the negroes into his church; and surely they were far from a mention of pennington. but suddenly louise moved with uneasiness, for she had caught something that had not been said, that had not been looked, and, springing to her feet, she almost threw herself upon her mother, and with her arms about her, she cried: "please don't say a word; please don't. i can argue with father, but i can't argue with you, for you take everything so to heart and suffer so much. please don't speak anybody's name--don't say that father has said anything to you about anybody. you mustn't cry, either. leave it all to me, and if i was born to wring your dear heart--there, let us hush." she straightened up, putting the hair out of her eyes, and the silent and stately woman sat there with the tears rolling down her face. "please don't, mother. you'll make me think i'm the meanest creature in the world. and i don't know but that i am, but i can't help it. just call me unnatural, as you have done so many times, and let it all go. there, just listen at father walking up and down the porch; and i know he's mad at me." "no, my child, he is not angry; he is hurt." "please don't say that. i don't want to hurt him. i would rather make him mad than to hurt him. oh, i don't know what ails me, i am so restless and unhappy. i have tried every way to cure myself, but can't--i have read and read until i haven't any sense, and now i don't know what to do. but don't you tell me what not to do; don't say anything, but be your own sweet self." she took up a brush from the dresser, touched her mother's hair, and said: "let me, please." she loosened the thick coil. "beautiful," she said. "don't you know how i used to tease you to let me comb it, a long time ago? but it wasn't as pretty then as it is now." through her fingers the white hair streamed, glinting in the light now sobered by the falling of dusk. the major's step was heard at the door. "come in, father. see, i am at my old employment." and in their faces and in the hair streaming through his daughter's fingers the old man read that all was well. he stood smiling at them. out in the yard the fox-hounds began to yelp, and a galloping horse stopped with a loud, jolting "gluck" at the gate. then came authoritative commands, and then a jar as if some one had leaped upon the porch. there was brisk walking, the opening and slamming of doors, and then at louise's door a voice demanded: "what are you all doing here in the dark? ain't supper ready? i'm as hungry as a she bear." the major's son tom had arrived. and just at that moment, and before any one replied to him, the supper bell began to ring. "takes me to bring things about, eh? you people might have waited here hungry for an hour. what are you doing here, anyway? lou brushing mam's hair and pap looking on like a boy at a show." "thomas," said his mother, "i wish you wouldn't be so rough. there, daughter, that will do. just coil it. that's it; thank you. major, i do wish you wouldn't laugh at the brusqueness of your son; you encourage him." tom took his mother by the shoulders and turned her face toward the door. he was a clean-looking, blondish fellow, younger than his sister--an athlete, a boxer, with far more restlessness of muscle than absorption of mind. he had failed at harvard, where his great-grandfather had distinguished himself; he had, with the influence of a congressman, secured a west point cadetship, and there had fallen under the rapid fire of a battery of mathematics, and had come home scouting at the humiliation which he had put upon his parents, and was now ready to submit himself to any other test that might present itself--was ready to borrow, to lend, or to fight. he picked negro tunes on a banjo, and had been heard hoarsely to sing a love song under a cypress tree. he had now just returned from the capital of the state, where he had spent two days watching the flank movements of a military drill. "you people seem to be mighty solemn," was tom's observation as they sat down to supper, glancing from one to another, and finally directing a questioning look at his father. "what's the trouble? what's happened? is it possible that old gideon has paid his rent?" louise laughed, a wrinkle crept across mrs. cranceford's brow and the major sprawled back with a loud "haw." gid's rent was a standing joke; and nothing is more sacredly entitled to instant recognition than a joke that for years has been established in a southern household. "i notice that he never goes into the major's office," mrs. cranceford remarked; and tom quickly replied: "and i don't blame him for that. i went in there about a month ago and haven't had a dollar since." the major did not laugh at this. the reputed exaction of his executive chamber was a sore spot to him. "how you robbers, young and old, would like to fleece me," he said. "and if i didn't turn to defensive stone once in a while you'd pull out my eye teeth." "don't see how anybody could get hold of your eye teeth, dad," tom replied. "you are always busy cutting them when i come round. oh, by the way," he added with sudden seriousness, "you remember that fellow mayo, the one that ran for county clerk down here some time ago?" "the scoundrel who swore he was elected?" "that's the man. he disappeared, you know, after his trouble down here, then he went on from one community to another, a democrat one season and a republican the next, and now he has returned as a labor leader. i met him yesterday in little rock, and i never have seen a more insolent ruffian. he makes no secret of his plans, and he says that blood is bound to flow. i asked him if he had any to spare, and he cocked his eye at me and replied that he didn't know but he had." the major was silent, abstractedly balancing his knife on the rim of his plate. mayo, an adventurer, a scoundrel with a brutish force that passed for frankness, had at one time almost brought about an uprising among the negroes of cranceford county, and eager ears in the north, not the ears of the old soldier, but of the politician, shutting out the suggestions of justice, heard only the clamor of a political outrage; and again arose the loud cry that the south had robbed the inoffensive negro of his suffrage. but the story, once so full of alarm, was beginning to be a feeble reminiscence; northern men with business interests in the south had begun to realize that the white man, though often in the wrong, could sometimes be in the right. but now a problem--graver than the over-thrashed straw of political rights, was about to be presented. "i was in hopes that somebody had killed that fellow," said the major, and his wife looked up with gentle reproof. "don't say that, dear. the lord will take him in his own good time." the old gentleman winked at tom. "i don't know about that," he replied. "i am afraid that the lord in his management of the universe has forgotten him." "john, please don't talk that way." when she was very serious she called him john. "when you speak so lightly you make me afraid that your relationship with the church is not very sacred to you." "it's serious at any rate, margaret." "what do you mean by that, john?" "why," tom cried, "it means that you dragged him into the pow-wow." "thomas"--and this time her reproof was not very gentle--"i won't stand that from you. and daughter," she added, speaking to louise, "it is not a laughing matter. it all comes from so close an association with that good-for-nothing old gideon. i know it does, and you needn't say a word. nothing is sacred to him; he has no respect for god and cares nothing for man except to the extent that he can use him." the major strove to wink at tom, but there was a hitch in his eye. "my dear, you don't understand the old fellow," said he. "and therefore you misjudge him. i know that he is weak, but i also know that he is strong, and he is quite as necessary to me as i am to him. he rests me, and rest is as essential as work. sometimes the perfect gentleman is a bore; sometimes the perfect lady is tiresome. in man there is a sort of innocent evil, a liking for the half depraved and an occasional feeding of this appetite heightens his respect for the truly virtuous." "i don't believe it, john." "of course you don't. you are the truly virtuous, and--" he spread himself back with a loud "haw," and sat there shaking under her cool gaze. "there, margaret," he said, wiping his eyes, "don't take it to heart. i am doing the best i can and that is all the excuse i have to offer. i'm getting old; do you realize that? the things that used to amuse me are flat now and i can't afford to kill an amusement when one does happen to come along. don't you worry about gid. why, margaret, he has stood by me when other men turned their backs. the river was dangerous during my day, and the pop of a pistol was as natural as the bark of a dog. but old gid was there by me." "oh, i don't doubt that he has some good qualities," she admitted. "but why doesn't he mend his ways?" "oh, he hasn't time for that, margaret. he's too busy with other matters. there, now, we won't talk about him. but i promise you, my dear, that he shall not unduly influence me. i don't exactly know what i mean by that, either. i mean that you need have no fear of my permitting him to weaken my respect for the church. yes, i think that's about what i mean. but the fact is he has never tried to do that. but what's the use of this talk. i can sum up the whole situation by reminding you that i am the master. there, now, don't sigh--don't look so worried." "but, john, it grieves me to hear you say that you need him." "had to step back to pick that up, didn't you? tom, after you're married you'll find that your wife will look with coldness or contempt upon your most intimate friend. it's the absurdest jealousy in woman's nature." "thomas," said his mother, "you will find nothing of the sort; but i'll tell you what you may expect from the right sort of a wife--contempt for a coarse, low-bred fellow, should you insist upon holding him as your closest companion." "mother," louise spoke up, "i think you are too severe. mr. batts is hemmed in with faults, but he has many good points. and i can understand why he is necessary to father. i am fond of him, and i am almost ready to declare that at times he is almost necessary to me. no, i won't make it as strong as that, but i must say that at times it is a keen pleasure to jower with him." "to do what?" mrs. cranceford asked. "jower with him? where did you get that word?" "it's one of his, picked up from among the negroes, i think, and it means more than dispute or wrangle. we jower at times--quarrel a little more than half in earnest." "well," said the mother, "perhaps i ought not to say anything, but i can't help it when i am so often hurt by that man's influence. why, last sunday afternoon your father left the rector sitting here and went away with that old sinner, and we heard them haw-hawing over in the woods. but i won't say any more." "you never do, margaret," the major replied, winking at louise. "but let us drop him. so you saw mayo, eh?" he added, turning to tom. "yes, sir, and i understand that he is coming back down here to prove to the negroes that we are cheating them out of their earnings." the major tossed a cigar to tom, lighted one, and had begun to talk with a rhetorical and sententious balancing of periods--which, to his mind, full of the oratory of prentiss, was the essence of impressiveness--when a negro woman entered the room. and hereupon he changed the subject. when bedtime came the old gentleman stood on a rug in front of a large fire-place, meditatively winding his watch. his wife sat on a straight-back chair, glancing over the harmless advertisements in a religious newspaper. in the parlor they had spent an agreeable evening, with music and with never an allusion to an unpleasant subject, but there was something finer than an allusion, and it had passed from husband to wife and back again--a look at each other and a glance toward louise. but they had laughed at the girl's imitation of a cakewalk, and yet in the minds of the father and the mother was the low echo of a hollow cough. affectionately she had kissed them good night, and had started off down the hall in mimicry of a negro belle's walk, but they had heard her door shut with a quick slam as if she were at last impelled to be truthful with herself, to close herself in with her own meditations. the major hung his watch on a nail above the mantel-piece. from a far-off nook of the sprawling old house came the pling-plang of the boy's banjo. "margaret?" "yes, dear." "what did you say to her?" she began to fold the newspaper. "i didn't say anything. she wouldn't permit me." "what do you think?" "that she will do as she pleases." "consoling, by the--consoling, i must say. but i tell you she won't. i will shame her out of it." chapter vi. the top of the cotton stalk glimmered with a purple bloom, but down between the rows, among the dying leaves, the first bolls were opening. the air was still hot, for at noontime the glare in the sandy road was fierce, but the evening was cool, and from out in the gleaming dew came a sweetly, lonesome chirrup, an alarm in the grass, the picket of the insect army, crying the approach of frost. in the atmosphere was felt the influence of a reviving activity; new cotton pens were built along the borders of the fields, and the sounds of hammer and saw were heard in the neighborhood of the gin-house. with the dusk of saturday evening "new" negroes came. in the city they had idled the summer away, gambling, and had now come with nimble fingers to pick cotton during the day and with tricky hands to throw dice at night. gaunt, long-legged birds flew from the north and awkwardly capered on a sand-bar. afar off there appeared to hover over the landscape a pall of thin, pale smoke; but, like the end of the rainbow, it stole back from closer view, was always afar off, lying low to the earth. the autumn rains had not yet set in, and the water in the bayou was low and yellow. the summer grapes were ripe, and in the cool, shaded coves at the base of the hills the muscadine was growing purple. the mules, so over-worked during plow-time, now stumbled down the lane, biting at one another. the stiffening wind, fore-whistle of the season's change of tune, was shrill amid the rushes at the edge of the swamp. it was a time to work, but also to muse and dream while working. in the air was something that invited, almost demanded reverie. upon the fields there might lie many a mortgage, but who at such a time could worry over the harsh exactions of debt? nearly three weeks had passed, and not again in the major's household had pennington's name been mentioned. but once, alone with his wife, the major was leading up to it when she held up her hands and besought him to stop. "i can't bear to think of it," she said. "it stuns and stupefies me. but it is of no use to say anything to her. she is of age and she is head-strong." there was a dry rasp in the major's throat. "don't you think that to say she is a crank would be hitting nearer the mark?" "no, i don't," his wife answered. "she is not a crank. she is a remarkably bright woman." "yes, she shows it. when a man does a fool thing he is weak, off, as they say; but when a woman jumps out of the enclosure of common sense we must say that she is bright." "i thought you were going to shame her out of it?" "i will, but she hasn't given me a chance. but we'll let it go. i believe she has repented of her folly and is too much humiliated to make a confession." his wife smiled sadly. "don't you think so?" he asked. "no, i don't." "well, i must say that you are very calm over the situation." "didn't i tell you that i was stunned and stupefied by it?" "yes, that's all right, and there's no use in worrying with it. common sense says that when you can't help a thing the best plan is to let it go until a new phase is presented." and so they ceased to discuss the subject, but like a heavy weight it lay upon them, and under it they may have sighed their worry, but they spoke it not. from tom this sentimental flurry had remained securely hidden. sometimes the grave tone of his father's words, overheard at night, and his mother's distressful air, during the day, struck him with a vague apprehension, but his mind was not keen enough to cut into the cause of what he might have supposed to be a trouble; and so, he gave it none of his time, so taken up with his banjo, his dogs, his sporting newspaper, and his own sly love affair. in louise's manner no change was observed. one afternoon the major, old gid, and an englishman named anthony low were sitting on the porch overlooking the river when the catholic priest from maryland, father brennon, stopped to get a drink of water. and he was slowly making his way across the yard to the well when the major called him, urging him to come upon the porch and rest himself. "wait," the major added, "and i'll have some water drawn for you." "i thank you," the priest replied, bowing, "but i prefer to draw it." when he had drunk out of the bucket, he took a seat on the porch. he was a man of middle age, grave, and sturdy. his eyes were thoughtful and his smile was benevolent; his brow was high and broad, his nose large and strong, and a determined conviction seemed to have molded the shape of his mouth. his speech was slow, resonant, dignified; his accent of common words was southern, but in some of his phrases was a slight burr, the subdued echo of a foreign tongue. the englishman was a stocky young fellow, with light hair and reddish side whiskers, a man of the world, doggedly careful in his use of superlatives, but with a habit of saying, "most extraordinary." he had rented an old plantation and lived alone in a dilapidated log house, with his briar pipe, scotch whisky, sole leather hatbox, and tin bathtub. he had thought that it would be a sort of lark to grow a crop of cotton, and had hired three sets of negroes, discharging them in turn upon finding that they laughed at his ways and took advantage of his inexperience. he had made his first appearance by calling one morning at the major's house and asking to be shown about the place. the major gladly consented to do this, and together they set out on horseback. the planter knew much of english hospitality, gathered from old romances, and now was come the time to show a britain what an american gentleman could do. they rode down a lane, crossed a small field, and halted under a tree; and there was a negro with whisky, mint and sugar. they crossed a bayou, passed the "quarters," turned into the woods; and there was another negro with whisky, mint and sugar. they rode across a large field, and went through a gate, came to a spring; and there waiting for them was a negro with liquor for a julep. they turned into the "big" road, trotted along until they came to another spring, at least three miles from the starting point; and there was a negro with whisky, sugar and mint. but the englishman's only comment was, "ah, most extraordinary, how that fellow can keep ahead of us, you know." several months had elapsed, and the major had called on mr. low, had shouted at the yard-gate, had supposed that no one was at home, had stalked into the wide open house and there had found the englishman sitting in his bathtub, reading huxley. and to-day mr. low had come to acknowledge the receipt of that visit. "you are on the verge of your busy season," said the priest. "yes," the major replied, "we begin picking to-morrow." "a beautiful view across the whitening fields," said the priest. "you ought to see my bayou field," old gid spoke up. "it would make you open your eyes--best in the state. don't you think so, john?" "well," the major answered, "it is as good as any, i suppose." "i tell you it's the best," gid insisted. "and as a man of varied experience i ought to know what best is. know all about cotton. i gad, i can look at a boll and make it open." "tell me," said the englishman, "have you had any trouble with your labor?" "with the negroes?" gid asked. "oh, no; they know what they've got to do and they do it. but let a cog slip and you can have all the trouble you want. i gad, you can't temporize with a negro. he's either your servant or your boss." "all the trouble you want," said the englishman. "by jove, i don't want any. your servant or your master. quite remarkable." "don't know how remarkable it is, but it's a fact all the same," gid replied. "you've had trouble, i understand." "yes, quite a bit. i've had to drive them off a time or two; the rascals laughed at me. quite full of fun they were, i assure you. i had thought that they were a solemn race. they are everywhere else except in america." "it is singular," the major spoke up, "but it is nevertheless true that the american negro is the only species of the african race that has a sense of humor. there's no humor in the spanish negro, nor in the english negro, nor in fact in the american negro born north of the ohio river, but the southern negro is as full of drollery as a black bear." "ah, yes, a little too full of it, i fancy," mr. low replied. "i threatened them with the law, but they laughed the more and were really worse in every respect after that." "with the law!" old gid snorted. "what the deuce do they care about the law, and what sort of law do you reckon could keep a man from laughing? you ought to threatened them with a snake bone or a rabbit's foot." "i beg pardon. a snake bone or a rabbit's foot, did you say? i really don't understand." "yes, threaten to conjure them. that might have fetched them." "ah, i see. quite extraordinary, i assure you." the priest began to talk, and with profound attention they turned to him. he sat there with the mystery of the medieval ages about him, with a great and silent authority behind him. "have you gentlemen ever considered the religious condition of the negro? have you not made his religion a joke? is it not a popular belief that he will shout at his mourners' bench until midnight and steal a chicken before the dawn? he has been taught that religion is purely an emotion and not a matter of duty. he does not know that it means a life of inward humanity and outward obedience. i have come to teach him this, to save him; for in our church lies his only salvation, not alone of his soul, but of his body and of his rights as well as of his soul. i speak boldly, for i am an american, the descendant of american patriots. and i tell you that the methodist negro and the baptist negro and the presbyterian negro are mere local issues; but the catholic negro is international--he belongs to the great nervous system of rome; and whenever rome reaches out and draws him in, he is that moment removed as a turbulent element from politics. although slavery was long ago abolished, there existed and to some small extent still exists a bond between the white man and the black man of the south--a sort of family tie; but this tie is straining and will soon be broken; a new generation is coming, and the negro and the white man will be two antagonistic forces, holding in common no sunny past--one remembering that his father was a master, the other that his father was a slave. when that time comes, and it is almost at hand, there will be a serious trouble growing out of a second readjustment. the anglo-saxon race cannot live on a perfect equality with any other race; it must rule; it demands complete obedience. and the negro will resent this demand, more and more as the old family ties are weakened. he has seen that his support at the north was merely a political sentiment, and must know that it will not sustain him in his efforts against capital, for capital, in the eye of capital, is always just, and labor, while unfortunate, is always wrong. and when the negro realizes this, remembering all his other wrongs, he will become desperate. that is the situation. but is there no way to avert this coming strife? i am here to say that there is. as communicants of the catholic church the negroes will not listen to the labor agitator. he will listen to the church, which will advise peace and submission to proper authority." the priest had not gone far into his discourse before the major began to walk up and down the porch in front of him, nodding at him each time as he passed. and when the clergyman ceased to speak, the major, halting and facing him, thus replied: "there may be some truth, sir, in what you have said--there is some little truth in the wildest of speculation--but i should like to ask you why is not a protestant negro in a protestant country as safe as a catholic negro in a protestant country? you tell me that your religion will protect the negro, and i ask you why it does not protect the laborer in the north? you say that the protestant negro in the south is a local issue, and i ask you why is not a catholic laborer in the north an international issue? if the negro of the south, yielding to your persuasion, is to become a part of the great nervous system of rome, why are not catholic laborers everywhere a part of that system? i think, sir, that you have shrewdly introduced a special plea. your church, with its business eyes always wide open, sees a chance to make converts and is taking advantage of it. and i will not say that i will oppose your cause. if the negro thinks that your church is better for him than the protestant churches have proved themselves to be, why i say let him be taken in. i admit that we are not greatly concerned over the negro's religion. we are satisfied with the fact that he has his churches and that he has always been amply provided with preachers agreeing with him in creed and color of skin. i will concede that his professions of faith are regarded more or less in the light of a joke. but i want to tell you one thing--that the negro's best friends live here in the south. from us he knows exactly what to expect. he knows that he cannot rule us--knows that he must work for a living. the lands belong to the white man and the white man pays the taxes, and the white man would be a fool to permit the negro to manage his affairs. men who dig in the coal mines of pennsylvania don't manage the affairs of the company that owns the mines. i cannot question the correctness of one of your views--that the old tie is straining and may soon be broken. the old negroes still regard us with a sort of veneration, but if the younger ones show respect it is out of fear. into this county a large number of negroes have lately come from mississippi and south carolina. they have been brought up on large plantations and have but a limited acquaintance with the white man. instinctively they hate him. and these newcomers will listen to the voice of the agitator and by their example will lead their brethren into trouble. you are right when you say that the anglo-saxon race must rule. it will rule a community as it must eventually rule the civilized world. but i don't see how your church is to be the temporal as well as the spiritual salvation of the negro." the major sat down; the priest smiled gravely, showing the shape into which conviction and determination had molded his mouth. "my church is not at all times able to prevent labor troubles in the north," said he, "but it has often prevented the shedding of blood." "ah," the major broke in, "that may be true; and so has the influence of the other churches. but what i want to know is this: how can you protect a negro here more than you protect an italian in the north?" "my dear sir, the italian in the north is protected." "i grant you, but by the law rather than by the church." "but is not the church behind the law?" there was a shrewd twinkle in the priest's eyes, and he was about to proceed with his talk when old gid snorted: "i gad, i hear that the public schools of the north are in the hands of the catholics, and if that's the case i reckon they've got a pretty good hold on the court house. i understand that they daresn't open a bible in the public schools of chicago; and they also tell me that the children there have to learn dutch. zounds, ain't that enough to make old andy jackson rattle his bones in his grave? i wish i had my way for a few weeks. i'd show the world that this is america. i'd catch low-browed wretches carrying all sorts of spotted and grid-ironed flags through the streets. dutch! now, i'd just like to hear a child of mine gabbling dutch." the priest addressed himself to the major: "you ask how we are to protect the negro in the south. i will tell you--by teaching him that except in the catholic church he cannot hope to find perfect equality. our communion knows no color--save red, and that is the blood of christ. our religion is the only true democracy, but a democracy which teaches that a man must respect himself before he should expect others to respect him. but, my dear major, i am not here to convince you, but to convince the negro. he has been buffeted about by political parties, and now it remains for the church to save him. one of these days an act rather than a word may convince you." tom had come out upon the porch. for a time he stood, listening, then quickly stepping down into the yard, he gazed toward the dairy house, into which, accompanied by a negro woman, had gone a slim girl, wearing a gingham sun-bonnet. the girl came out, carrying a jug, and hastened toward the yard gate. tom heard the gate-latch click and then stepped quickly to the corner of the house; and when out of sight he almost ran to overtake the girl. she had reached the road, and she pretended to walk faster when she heard his footsteps. she did not raise her eyes as he came up beside her. "let me carry the jug, sallie." "no, i can carry it." "give it to me." he took the jug and she looked up at him with a smile. "how's your uncle, sallie?" "he ain't any better." her uncle was wash sanders. twenty years had passed since he had first issued a bulletin that he was dying. he had liver trouble and a strong combination of other ailments, but he kept on living. at first the neighbors had confidence in him, and believed that he was about to pass away, but as the weeks were stretched into years, as men who had been strong and hearty were one by one borne to the grave, they began to lose faith in wash sanders. all day long he would sit on his shaky verandah, built high off the ground, and in answer to questions concerning his health would answer: "can't keep up much longer; didn't sleep a wink last night. don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive." his cows appeared always to be dry, and every day he would send his niece, sallie pruitt, for a jug of buttermilk. he had but one industry, the tending and scraping of a long nail on the little finger of his left hand. he had a wife, but no children. his niece had recently come from the pine woods of georgia. her hair looked like hackled flax and her eyes were large and gray. "i didn't think you could see me," said the girl, taking off her bonnet and swinging it as she walked, keeping a sort of time with it. "why, you couldn't possibly come and get away without my seeing you." "yes, i could if it was night." "not much. i could see you in the dark, you are so bright." "i'm not anything of the sort. give me the jug and let me go on by myself if you are goin' to make fun of me." she reached for the jug and he caught her hand, and walking along, held it. "i wouldn't want to hold anybody's hand that i'd made fun of," she said, striving, though gently, to pull it away. "i didn't make fun of you. i said you were bright and you are. to me you are the brightest thing in the world. whenever i dream of you i awake with my eyes dazzled." "oh, you don't, no such of a thing." they saw a wagon coming, and he dropped her hand. he stepped to the right, she to the left, and the wagon passed between them. she looked at him in alarm. "that's bad luck," she said. "what is?" "to let anything pass between us." "oh, it doesn't make any difference." "yes, it does," she insisted. "no, you mustn't take my hand again--you've let something pass between us." he awkwardly grabbed after her hand. she held it behind her, and about her waist he pressed his arm. "oh, don't do that. somebody might see us." "i don't care if the whole world sees us." "you say that now, but after awhile you'll care." "never as long as i live. you know i love you." "no, i don't." "yes, you do." "you might say you do, but you don't. but even if you do love me now you won't always." "yes, as long as i live." she looked up at him, and her eyes were full of beauty and tenderness. "your mother----" "none of that," he broke in. "i am my own master. to me you are the most beautiful creature in the world, and----" "somebody's comin'," she said. a horseman came round a bend in the road, and he stepped off from her, but they did not permit the horseman to pass between them. he did not put his arm about her again, for now they were within sight of her uncle's desolate house. they saw wash sanders sitting on the verandah. tom carried the jug as far as the yard gate. "won't you come in?" sanders called. "i ought to be getting back, i guess." "might come in and rest awhile." tom hesitated a moment and then passed through the gate. the girl had run into the house. "how are you getting along?" the young man asked as he began slowly to tramp up the steps. "porely, mighty porely. thought i was gone last night--didn't sleep a wink. and i don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive." "wouldn't you like a mess of young squirrels?" tom asked, as he sat down in a hickory rocking chair. of late he had become interested in wash sanders, and had resented the neighbors' loss of confidence in him. "well, you might bring 'em if it ain't too much trouble, but i don't believe i could eat 'em. don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive." he lifted his pale hand, and with his long finger nail scratched his chin. "what's the doctor's opinion?" tom asked, not knowing what else to say and feeling that at that moment some expression was justly demanded of him. "the doctors don't say anything now; they've given me up. from the first they saw that i was a dead man. last doctor that gave me medicine was a fellow from over here at gum springs, and i wish i may die dead if he didn't come in one of finishin' me right there on the spot." there came a tap at a window that opened out upon the verandah, and the young fellow, looking around, saw the girl sitting in the "best room." she tried to put on the appearance of having accidentally attracted his attention. he moved his chair closer to the window. "how did you know i was in here?" she asked, looping back the white curtain. "i can always tell where you are without looking." "are you goin' to make fun of me again?" "if i could even eat enough to keep a chicken alive i think i'd feel better," said wash sanders, looking far off down the road. "i never did make fun of you," the young fellow declared in a whisper, leaning close to the window. "and i wish you wouldn't keep on saying that i do." "i won't say it any more if you don't want me to." "but i can't eat and can't sleep, and that settles it," said wash sanders. "of course i don't want you to say it. it makes me think that you are looking for an excuse not to like me." "would you care very much if i didn't like you?" "if i had taken another slug of that gum springs doctor's stuff i couldn't have lived ten minutes longer," said wash sanders. and thus they talked until the sun was sinking into the tops of the trees, far down below the bend in the river. chapter vii. at the major's house the argument was still warm and vigorous. but the evening was come, and the bell-cow, home from her browsing, was ringing for admittance at the barn-yard gate. the priest arose to go. at that moment there was a heavy step at the end of the porch, the slow and ponderous tread of jim taylor. he strode in the shadow and in the gathering dusk recognition of him would not have been easy, but by his bulk and height they knew him. but he appeared to have lost a part of his great strength, and he drooped as he walked. "where is the major?" he asked, and his voice was hoarse. "here, my boy. why, what's the trouble?" "let me see you a moment," he said, halting. the major arose, and the giant, with one stride forward, caught him by the arm and led him away amid the black shadows under the trees. mrs. cranceford came out upon the porch and stood looking with cool disapproval upon the priest. at a window she had sat and heard him enunciate his views. out in the yard jim taylor said something in a broken voice, and the major, madly bellowing, came bounding toward the house. "margaret," he cried, "louise is married!" the woman started, uttered not a sound, but hastening to meet him, took him by the hand. jim taylor came ponderously walking from amid the black shadows. the englishman and old gid stole away. the priest stood calmly looking upon the old man and his wife. "john, come and sit down," she said. "raving won't do any good. we must be seemly, whatever we are." she felt the eye of the priest. "who told you, mr. taylor?" "the justice of the peace. they were married about an hour ago, less than half a mile from here." she led the major to a chair, and he sat down heavily. "she shall never darken my door again," he declared, striving to stiffen his shoulders, but they drooped under his effort. "don't say that, dear; don't say that. it is so cold and cruel." "but i do say it--ungrateful little wretch. it rises up within me and i can't keep from saying it." the priest stepped forward and raised his hand. "may the blessings of our heavenly father rest upon this household," he said. the woman looked a defiance at him. he bowed and was gone. jim taylor stood with his head hung low. slowly he began to speak. "major, you and your wife are humiliated, but i am heart-broken. you are afflicted with a sorrow, but i am struck down with grief. but i beg of you not to say that she shan't come home again. her marriage doesn't alter the fact that she is your daughter. her relationship toward you may not be so much changed, but to me she is lost. i beg you not to say she shan't come home again." mrs. cranceford tenderly placed her hand on the giant's arm. he shook under her touch. "i will say it and i mean it. she has put her feet on our love and has thrown herself away, and i don't want to see her again. i do think she is the completest fool i ever saw in my life. yes, and we loved her so. and tom--it will break his heart." in the dusk the wife's white hand was gleaming--putting back the gray hair from her husband's eyes. "and we still love her so, dear," she said. "what!" he cried, and now his shoulders stiffened. "what! do you uphold her?" "oh, no, but i am sorry for her, and i am not going to turn against her simply because she has made a mistake. she has acted unwisely, but she has not disgraced herself." "yes, she has disgraced herself and the rest of us along with her. she has married the dying son of a convict. i didn't want to tell you this--i told her----" this was like a slap in the face, and for a moment she was bereft of the cool dignity that had been so pronounced a characteristic of her quiet life. "if you didn't tell me before why do you tell me now?" was her reply. she stood back from him, regathering her scattered reserve, striving to be calm. "but it can't be helped now, john." her gentle dignity reasserted itself. "let time and the something that brightens hopes and softens fears gradually soothe our affliction." she had taken up the major's manner of speech. "mr. taylor, i have never intimated such a thing to you before," she added, "but it was my hope that she might become your wife. there, my dear man, don't let it tear you so." the giant was shaken, appearing to be gnarled and twisted by her words, like a tree in a fierce wind. "i talked to her about you," she continued, "and it was my hope--but now let us be kind to her memory, if indeed we are to regard her simply as a memory." "margaret," said the major, getting up and throwing back his leonine head, "you are enough to inspire me with strength--you always have. but while you may teach me to bear a trouble, you can't influence me to turn counter to the demands of a just resentment. she shan't put her foot in this house again. jim, you can find a more suitable woman, sir. did you hear what became of them after that scoundrel married them? who performed the ceremony? morris? he must never put his foot in my yard again. i'll set the dogs on him. what became of them, jim?" "i didn't hear, but i think that they must have driven to town in a buggy." "well, it really makes no difference what became of them. are you going, jim?" "yes, sir." "won't you stay with us to-night?" "no, i thank you. it's better for me to be alone." he hesitated. "if you want me to i'll find out to-night where they've gone." "oh, no, do nothing of the sort, for i assure you that it makes no difference. let them go to the devil." "john, don't say that, please," his wife pleaded. "but i have said it. well, if you are determined to go, good-night." "good-night." jim strode off into the darkness, but halted and turned about. "major, if i can forgive her you ought to," he said. "you've got common sense to help you, but common sense was never known to help a man that's in my fix." they heard the gate open, heard the latch click behind him as he passed out into the road. toward his lonely home he trod his heavy way, in the sand, in the rank weeds, picking not his course, stumbling, falling once to his knees. the air was full of the pungent scent of the walnut, turning yellow, and in it was a memory of louise. often had he seen her with her apron full of nuts that had fallen from the trees under which he now was passing. he halted and looked about him. the moon was rising and he saw some one sitting on a fence close by the road side. "is that you, jim?" a voice called. "yes. oh, it's you, is it, mr. batts?" "yep, just about. hopped up here to smell the walnuts. takes me away back. they took it pretty hard, didn't they?" "yes, particularly the major. his wife has more control over herself." "or may be less affection," gid replied. "they say she's strong, but i call her cold. hold on and i'll walk with you." he got down off the fence and walked beside the giant. "she's a mighty strange woman to me," the old man said when they had walked for a time in silence. "but there's no question of the fact that she's strong, that is, as some people understand strength. to me, i gad, there is more force in affection than in restraint. she loves her children--no doubt about that--and of course she thinks the world of the major, but somehow she misjudges people. she doesn't understand me at all. but i reckon the majority of men are too deep for a woman. i didn't want to see them in the throes of their trouble, and i says to the englishman, 'it's time to git,' and we got. he wanted me to go over to his house and get some scotch whisky. i told him that the last rain must have left some water in a hollow stump near my house, and that i preferred it to his out-landish drink. and hanged if he didn't think i was in earnest. yes, sir, i knew that girl would marry him; and let me tell you, if i was a youngster i would rather have her love than the love of any woman i ever saw. there's something about her i never saw in any other woman--i gad, she's got character; understand me? she ain't beautiful, hardly handsome, but there's something about her, hanged if i know what it is. but it's something; and i've always found that the strongest charm about a woman is a something that you can't exactly catch--something that is constantly on the dodge. and you bet i've had lots of experience. the major could tell you many a story on me. yes, sir. say, jim, i know how you feel over this affair, and i want you to understand that i'm your friend, first, last and all the time. i've been trying to talk up to the right place, but now i don't exactly know what to say." "don't say anything, uncle gideon." "i reckon that would be about the wisest plan. just wanted to let you know where to find me. strange things happen even in this quiet community, don't they? but i'm woefully sorry that this special thing has happened. i gad, the major snorted so loud that my horse broke loose from the post, and that's the reason i'm stepping around here like a blind dog in a meat house. begin pickin' to-morrow, i reckon?" "i don't know. i had made all my arrangements, but now after what's happened i don't care whether there's a boll picked or not. i'm let down." "don't feel that way, old fellow. you'll be all right in a day or two." "mr. batts, if i didn't know that you were trying to soothe me i would take that remark as an insult. if i thought i wasn't any more steadfast than to be all right in a day or two--if i really believed my character that light, i swear i'd go this minute and drown myself." "why, my dear boy, you know i didn't mean to infer that your heart had no more memory than that. what i meant was that your sense of resignation would demand a hearing, so to speak. let me tell you something. i understand that girl better than her father or mother does--i have made her a special study, and i want to tell you that when i take the trouble to throw my mind on a woman a mystery has to be cleared right then and there. and this is what i want to say: she has married that fellow out of pity. i don't believe she loves him. always was ruled by pity. recollect hearing the major tell of a sudden streak of misfortune that overtook his family when he was a child. his father had to sell several of his slaves, and his old black mammy stood on the block with him in her arms while they were auctioning her off. well, sir, louise cried about that fit to kill herself. we told her how long ago it had happened, and impressed on her the fact that the old woman was soon bought back, but she kept on crying over the cruelty of the thing. yes, sir. well, i turn off here. good night." in the dark the major walked about the yard mournfully calling tom. a negro woman said that she had seen him going down the road, and the old gentleman returned to the porch and sat down. in the sitting room a lamp was burning, and a patch of light fell about his chair. he wanted to tell the young man of the trouble that had fallen upon the household, and yet he dreaded to hear his footstep. tom was so proud of his sister, had always looked up to her, had regarded her whims as an intellectual diversion; and now what a disappointment. how sadly would his heart be wrung. from a distant room came the pling-plang of a banjo. "there's tom, margaret. will you please tell him to come here? i don't want to see him in the light." mrs. cranceford hastened to obey, and the major sat listening. he pushed his chair back out of the patch of light. the banjo hushed its twanging, and then he heard tom coming. the young man stepped out upon the porch. his mother halted in the doorway. "tom," said the major, "i have a desperate piece of news, and i wish i could break it to you gently, but there is no way to lead up to it. your sister has married carl pennington." "yes, so jim taylor told me. met him in the road a while ago. i didn't know that there was anything of the sort on hand. must have kept it mighty quiet. i suppose----" "what, you suppose! what the deuce can you suppose! stand there supposing when i tell you that she has married a dying man." the old gentleman flounced in his chair. "she has thrown herself away and i tell you of it and you want to suppose. what's the matter with you? have you lost all your pride and your sense? she has married a dying man, i tell you." the young fellow began awkwardly to twist himself about. he looked at his mother, standing in the door with the light pouring about her, but her eyes were turned from him, gazing far away into the deepening night. "i know they might think he's dying," he said, "but they might be mistaken. sometimes they believe a man's dying and he keeps on living. wash sanders----" "go back to your banjo, you idiot!" the major shouted. "i'll swear this beats any family on the face of the earth." he got up, knocking over his chair. "go on. don't stand there trying to splutter an explanation of your lack of sense! no wonder you have always failed to pass an examination. not a word, margaret. i know what you are going to say: beats any family on the face of the earth." chapter viii. on the morrow there was a song and a chant in the cotton fields. aged fingers and youthful hands were eager with grabbing the cool, dew-dampened fleece of the fields. the women wore bandana handkerchiefs, and picturesquely down the rows their red heads were bobbing. whence came their tunes, so quaintly weird, so boisterous and yet so full of melancholy? the composer has sought to catch them, has touched them with his refining art and has spoiled them. the playwright has striven to transfer from the field to the stage a cotton-picking scene and has made a travesty of it. to transfer the passions of man and to music-riddle them is an art with stiff-jointed rules, but the charm of a cotton-picking scene is an essence, and is breathed but cannot be caught. here seems to lie a sentiment that no other labor invites, and though old with a thousand endearments, it is ever an opera rehearsed for the first time. but this is the view that may be taken only by the sentimentalist, the poet loitering along the lane. to him it is a picture painted to delight the eye, to soothe the nerves, to inspire a pastoral ode. there is, however, another side. at the edge of the field where the cotton is weighed, stands the planter watching the scales. his commercial instincts might have been put to dreamy sleep by the appearance of the purple bloom, but it is keenly aroused by the opening boll. he is influenced by no song, by no color fantastically bobbing between the rows. he is alert, determined not to be cheated. too much music might cover a rascally trick, might put a clod in the cotton to be weighed. sentiment is well enough, and he can get it by turning to walter scott. none of the planters was shrewder than the major. in his community he was the business as well as the social model. he was known to be brave and was therefore expected to be generous. his good humor was regarded as an echo of his prosperity, and a lucky negro, winning at dice, would strive to imitate his manner. at planting, at plowing and at gathering, no detail was too small or too illusive to escape his eye. his interests were under a microscopic view and all plans that were drawn in the little brick office at the corner of the yard, were rigorously carried out in the fields. in the one place he was all business; in the other there was in him an admixture of good humor and executive thoroughness. he knew how many pounds of cotton a certain man or woman was likely to pick within the working hours of a day, and he marked the clean and the trashy pickers; and the play of his two-colored temperament was seen in his jovial banter of the one and his harsh reprimand of the other. but to-day a hired man stood at the scales to see the cotton weighed. the major walked abroad throughout the fields. as he drew near, the negroes hushed their songs and their swaggering talk. they bowed respectfully to him and to one another whispered his affliction. at noon, when he returned home, the housekeeper told him that his wife was away. he sat down in the library to wait for her. looking out he saw sallie pruitt carrying a jug across the yard. a few moments later he asked for tom and was told that he had just left the house. he tried to read, but nothing interested him. there was nothing but dullness in the newspaper and even ivanhoe had lost his charm. it was nearly three o'clock when mrs. cranceford returned. he did not ask whither she had gone; he waited to be told. she sat down, taking off her gloves. "did you see mr. perdue?" she asked. "no, i have seen no one. don't care much to see any one." "i didn't know but you might have met him. he was here this morning. told me about louise." "what does he know about her?" "he told me where she had gone to live--in that old log house at the far end of the anthony place." "well, go on, i'm listening." "i didn't know that you cared to hear." "then why did you begin to tell me?" she did not answer this question. she waited for him to say more. "of course i'd like to know what has become of her." "i went over to see her," said mrs. cranceford. "the deuce you did." "john, don't talk that way." "i won't. you went to see her." "yes, and in that miserable house, all open, she is nursing her dying husband." the major got up and began to walk about the room. "don't, margaret, i'd rather not hear about it." "but you must hear. no place could be more desolate. the wind was moaning in the old plum thicket. the gate was down and hogs were rooting in the yard. louise did not hear me as i drove up, the wind was moaning so distressfully among the dead plum bushes--she did not know that i was on the place until i entered the room where she sat at the bedside of her husband. she jumped up with a cry and----" "margaret, please don't." "i must tell you, john. i will tell you. she jumped up with a cry and ran to me, and started to take off my cloak, but remembering that there was no fire in the damp room, she let it stay on. she tried to speak, but couldn't. her husband held out his waxen hand, and when i took it i shuddered with the cold chill it sent through me." "margaret, i am going out," said the major, turning toward the door. "if you do, john, i will go with you and tell you as we walk along. please sit down." he sat down with an air of helplessness. he fumbled with his fingers, which seemed to have grown thicker; he moved his foot as if it were a heavy weight. his wife continued: "in the room there was scarcely any furniture, nothing to soften the appearance of bleakness. i asked why no fire had been made, and louise said that she had engaged a negro to cut some wood, but that he had gone away. she had paid him in advance. she would herself have kindled a fire, but there was no axe on the place, and she was afraid to leave her husband long enough to go to the woods to gather sticks. i went out and found the negro dozing in the sun. he was impudent when i spoke to him, but when i told him my name and threatened him with you, he scuffled to his feet and sauntered off, and i thought that we should see no more of him, but soon we heard the lazy strokes of his axe. and shortly afterward we had a fire. louise was in one of her silent moods, but pennington talked as much as his cough would permit him. he said that it was all his fault. 'i told her,' said he, 'that unless she married me i would die blaspheming the name of god, and that if she would save me from hell she must be my wife. i know that it was selfish and mean, but i couldn't help it. and so she has married me to save my soul.' he grew excited and i tried to calm him. i told him that you were angry at first, but that now you were in a better humor toward him." "margaret----" "this appeared to help him, but i saw that louise did not believe me. however, i commanded her to come home and bring her husband with her. but she shook her head and declared that she would never again enter your house until she could in some way discharge the debt of gratitude with which you reproached her, which she says you flaunted in her face at a time when she was greatly distressed." "what! i don't exactly understand." "yes, you do, dear. you reminded her that you had saved her life, and told her that you based your plea for obedience upon your own gallantry." "oh, that was a piece of mere nonsense, a theatrical trick. of course i don't deserve any credit for having saved the life of my own child." "it may have been a theatrical trick with you, but it wasn't with her. she keenly feels your reproach." "confound it, you are both making a monster of me." "no, dear, that is not our design." "our design! have you too, set yourself against me? let me go to old gideon. he's the only friend i've got." "john, you mustn't say that. and why, at this time, should you refer to that old sinner? but let me go on. while i was there the doctor came, and shortly afterward we heard a heavy tread on the flapping boards of the passageway that divides the two sections of the old house." "jim taylor," said the major. "yes, jim taylor. louise jumped up in a flutter. he didn't take any notice of her excitement. 'i heard that you were living here,' he said, 'and knowing what sort of an old place it is, i've come to see if i can be of any use to you.' here he looked about at the cracks in the walls and the holes in the roof. 'and you'll pardon me,' he went on, 'but i took the liberty to bring a carpenter along to patch up things a little. that's him out there at work on the gate.' louise began to cry. he pretended not to notice her. 'it won't take long to make this a very comfortable place,' he went on, 'and i hope you won't feel offended, but i have brought some young chickens and a squirrel or two--in a basket out there in the kitchen. i always was a sort of a neighborly fellow you know.' 'you are the best man in the world,' louise broke out. 'no, not in the world, but i reckon i can stand flat-footed and lift with the most of them,' he replied, assuming that he thought she referred to his strength. 'yes,' he continued, 'and the boys will be here pretty soon with the wagon to haul you some wood. and i hope you'll pardon me again, but nothing would do old aunt nan but she must come over to cook for you and help you take care of mr. pennington until he gets about again. she's the best cook in the whole country. you know the governor of the state once said that she could beat anybody frying a chicken, and----'" "confound his impudence!" exclaimed the major, grinding the floor as he wheeled about, "he's performing the offices that belong to me. and i won't stand it." "the offices that did belong to you, dear, but you have washed your hands of them." "have i? well, we'll see about that. i'll send over there and have everything put to rights. no, i'll send the carriage and have them brought home. i'll be--i say i won't be made a scape-goat of in this way. why, confound----" "john." "yes, i understand, but i won't put up with it any longer. i'll send tom over there--i'll send the law over there and bring them home under arrest." she shook her head. "no, it will be of no use to send for them. louise will not come, and you know she won't. besides, we can make her just as comfortable there as here. it will not be for long, so let her have her own way." "by the blood, she has had it!" "john, have you forgotten that you are a member of the church?" "that's all right. but do you mean by member of the church that i am to draw in my head like a high-land terrapin every time anything is said to me? am i to be brow-beaten by everybody just because i belong to the church? oh, it's a happy day for a woman when she can squash her husband with the church. i gad, it seems that all a married woman wants with a church is to hit her husband on the head with it." "john, now you are the echo of old gid." "i'm not and you know it, but there are times when a man would be excusable for being the echo of the devil. but for gracious sake don't cry. enough to make a man butt his head against the wall. just as a man thinks a woman is stronger than a lion she tunes up and cries. there, margaret, let it all go. there." he put his arm about her. "everything will come out all right. i am wrong and i confess it. i am bull-headed and as mean as a dog." "no, you are not," she protested, wiping her eyes. "yes, i am and i see it now. you are always right. and you may manage this affair just as you see fit. poor little girl. but never mind, it will all come right. let us walk down the lane. it is beautiful down there. the frost has painted things up for you; the sumac bushes are flaming and the running briars on the fences are streams of fire. come on." he took her by the hand and led her away. chapter ix. within a few days a great change was wrought in the appearance of the old log house. the roof, which had been humped in the middle like the back of a lean, acorn-hunting hog, was straightened and reshingled; the yard was enclosed with a neat fence; and the stack chimney which had leaned off from the house as if it would fall, was shoved back and held in place with strong iron bands. and the interior was transformed. soft carpets were spread, easy chairs provided, the rough walls were papered and the windows were curtained. the fire-light fell upon pictures, and a cat had come to take her place at the corner of the hearth; but in the dead of night, when all the birds were hushed, when the wind moaned in the plum thicket, the hollow and distressing cough echoed throughout the house. at evening sorrowful-looking cows would come down the lane, and standing at the gate would low mournfully, an attention which they ever seek to pay a dismal place, but jim taylor entered a complaint, threatened violence and finally compelled their owners to have them driven home before the arrival of their time for lonesome lowing. it was jim's custom to call at morning and at evening. sometimes, after looking about the place, he would merely come to the door and ask after mr. pennington and then go away. one morning when louise answered his tap at the door, she told him that the sufferer was much better and that she believed he was going to get well. "i'm mighty glad to hear it," he replied. "the doctors can't always tell." "won't you come in?" "no, i might worry him." "oh, not in the least. he's asleep anyway, and i'm lonesome. come in, please." he followed her into the house, trying to lessen his weight as if he were walking on thin ice; and the old house cracked its knuckles, but his foot-fall made not a sound. she placed a chair for him and sat down with her hands in her lap, and how expressive they were, small and thin, but shapely. she was pale and neat in a black gown. to him she had never looked so frail, and her eyes had never appeared so deeply blue, but her hands--he could not keep his eyes off them--one holding pity and the other full of appeal. "don't you need a little more wood on?" he asked. "no, it's not cold enough for much fire." "where did you get that cat?" "she came crying around the other day and i let her in, and she has made herself at home." "the negroes say it's good luck for a cat to come to the house." she sighed. "i don't believe in luck." "i do. i believe in bad luck, for it's generally with me. does your mother come every day?" "yes, although i beg her not to." "i reckon she'll do about what she wants to. has the major----" she held up her hand and he sat looking at her with his mouth half open. but at the risk of offending her, he added: "i didn't know but he might have come over." "he would, but i won't let him." "and do you think it's exactly right not to let him?" "i think it is exactly right to do as a something within me dictates," she answered. "he placed me in a certain position----" "but he is more than willing to take you out of it," taylor broke in. "he doesn't want you to remain in that position." "no, he can't take me out of it. he charged me with ingratitude, and i would rather he had driven me off the place. nothing can be much crueler than to remind one of ingratitude; it is like shooting from behind a rock; it is having one completely at your mercy." now she sat leaning forward with her hands clasped over her knees. pennington coughed slightly in his sleep and she looked toward the bed. she straightened up and put the hair back out of her eyes and taylor followed the motion of her hand. "did he eat the squirrel?" "yes, and enjoyed it." the cat got up, stretched, and rubbing against the tongs, knocked them down with a clatter. pennington awoke. louise was beside him in a moment. "ah, it's you, mr. taylor," he said. "yes, but it wasn't me that made the noise." "oh, it didn't disturb me, i assure you. i was just about waking up anyway. that will do, thank you." louise had begun to arrange the pillows. "i'll sit up. see how strong i am. give me a pipe. i believe i can smoke a little." she went to fill a pipe for him, and turning to taylor, he said: "i'm getting stronger now every day; good appetite, sleep first-rate. and i'll be able to walk about pretty soon. oh, they had me dead, you know, but i knew better all the time." louise placed a coal upon his pipe and handed it to him. she said that she was afraid it might make him cough, but it did not. "i have always maintained that there was nothing the matter with my lungs," he said, contentedly blowing rings of smoke. "why, i hadn't a symptom of consumption except the cough, and that's about gone. and my prospects were never better than they are this minute. received a letter yesterday from over in alabama--want me to take a professorship in a college. the first thing you know i shall have charge of the entire institution. and when i get up in the world i want it understood, mr. taylor, that i shall never forget you. your kindness----" "don't speak of it," taylor put in, holding up his hand in imitation of louise. "i've known this little lady, sir, all her life, and i'd be a brute to forget her in time of trouble." "yon are a true-hearted man, mr. taylor, and i shall never forget you, sir." and after a short silence, he added: "all i desire is a chance, for with it, i can make louise happy. i need but little money, i should not know how to disport a large fortune, but i do desire a comfortable home with pictures and books. and i thank the lord that i appreciate the refinements of this life." in silence he smoked, looking up at the rings. "ah, but it was dark for me a short time ago, mr. taylor. they made me believe that i was going to die. we hear a great deal of resignation, of men who welcome the approach of death, but i was in despair. and looking upon a strong man, a man whose strength was thrown upon him, a man who had never thought to take even the slightest care of himself, i was torn with blasphemous rage. it wasn't right. but thank god, i lived through that dark period, and am now getting well. don't you think so?" "why, yes, i can see it. and i'll tell you what we'll do: i'll bring over the dogs pretty soon and we'll go hunting. how does that strike you?" pennington propped himself higher in the bed and put his pipe on a chair. "it has been a long time since i went hunting," he said, musingly. "it seems a long time since i have done anything, except to brood over my failing health. but i will have no more of that. yes, i will go hunting with you." he shoved up the sleeve of his shirt and called his wife's attention. "don't you think i'm getting more flesh on my arm? look here. no dying man has this much muscle. louise, i'm going to get up. there is really no use of my lying here." he threw off the covers and the giant arose and stood looking upon him, smiling sadly. he asked for his clothes, and when louise had brought them he picked at a worn spot and said: "i must get some clothes with the first money i earn. i didn't know that this coat was so far gone. why, look, it is almost threadbare; and the trousers are not much better. let a man get sick and he feels that the world is against him; let him get well and wear poor clothes, and he will find that the world doesn't think enough of him to set itself against him--find that the world does not know him at all." taylor ventured upon the raveled platitude that clothes do not make the man. pennington shook his head, still examining his trousers. "that will do in a copy-book, but not in life," said he. and then looking up as taylor moved toward the door, he asked: "are you going?" "yes, i must get back to see how things are getting along. be over again to-morrow." louise went with him out into the passage. he halted at the log step and stood there, looking at her. "mr. taylor, i can never forget your kindness," she said. "all right, but i hope you won't remember to mention it again." he looked at her hands, looked into her eyes; and frankly she returned his gaze, for it was a gaze long and questioning. "your friendship----" he held up his hand to stop her. "won't you let me speak of that, either?" "you may speak of it, but you must know that it does not exist," he answered, leaning against a corner of the house, still looking at her. "but you don't mean that you are not my friend?" "i mean what i told you some time ago--that there can be no friendship between a big man and a little woman." "oh, i had forgotten that." "no, you hadn't; you thought of it just then as you spoke." "why, mr. taylor, how can you say that?" "i can say it because it is true. no, there can be no friendship between us." "you surely don't mean that there can be anything else." she had drawn back from him and was stiffly erect with her arms folded, her head high; and so narrow was the hard look she gave him that her eyes appeared smaller. her lips were so tightly compressed that dimples showed in her cheeks; and thus with nature's soft relics of babyhood, she denied her own resentment. "on your part i don't presume that there can be anything else," he answered, speaking the words slowly, as if he would weigh them one at a time on the tip of his tongue. "you may think of me as you please, as circumstances now compel you to think, and i will think of you not as i please, but as i must." "please don't talk that way. don't reproach me when i am in such need of--of friendship. one of these days you may know me better, but now you can regard me only as a freak. yes, i am a freak." "you are an angel." "mr. taylor!" again her head was high, and in her eyes was the same suggestion of a sharp squint. "you didn't tell me that i shouldn't think of you as i please." "but i didn't tell you to speak what you might be pleased to think. there, carl is calling me. good-bye." chapter x. jim taylor, too humane to impose the burden of his weight upon a horse, always made his visits on foot, and this day while trudging homeward, he met mrs. cranceford. she had of late conceived so marked a sympathy for him, that her manner toward him was warmly gentle. taylor stepped to the road-side and halted there as she drove up alone in a buggy. with a sorrowful reverence he took off his hat, and she smiled sympathetically; and the lazy old horse, appearing to understand it all, stopped of his own accord. "good morning, jim. have you been over to the house?" "yes, ma'm, just left there." "how is he?" "so much better that i believe he's going to get well." "you don't say so! why, i am----" she was about to say that she was delighted to hear it, but on the giant's face she thought she saw a deeper shadow lying, heard in his voice a softer note of sorrow; and considerately she checked her intended utterance. then they looked at each other and were ashamed. "he was up dressing himself when i left." "you surprise me." "and he has surprised us all, ma'm. i don't believe he's got consumption; his cough has left him. why, he's thinking of taking a place in a college over in alabama." "he is? but i hope he won't take louise so far from home." he shifted his position and sunk his hands deep into his pockets. "i guess he thinks she can't be so very far from home as long as she is with him." "but it makes no difference what he thinks." mrs. cranceford persisted. "he must not take her over there. why, i should think he could find employment here." jim looked far away, and she added: "is your cotton turning out well?" "first-rate, and i want to sell it as soon as i can. i've got to go away." "go away!" she repeated. "you don't mean it?" "yes, ma'm, i do. if he gets well they won't have any more use for me and i might as well go off somewhere and take a fresh start; and besides, i can't keep from showing that i love her, and no matter how cool she might be toward me it couldn't help but pain him. and there are people in this neighborhood mean enough to talk about it: no longer ago than yesterday that strapping alf joyner threw out a hint of this sort, and although he meant it in fun, maybe, i snatched him off the fence where he was sitting, and walloped him in the road. no, i can't keep from showing how much i think of her; there is so much of me," he added, with a smile, "that i can't be a hypercrite all over at once." at this she smiled, but her countenance grew serious and she said: "i am sorry you have been compelled to resent an insinuation." she gathered up the lines. "but perhaps you imagine more than is intended. it is easy, and also natural that you should." jim made no reply. she bowed to him, shook the lines, and the old horse moved on. just before reaching a bend in the road, she looked back at him. how powerful was his bearing, how strong his stride; and with all his bigness he was not ungraceful. everywhere, in the fields, along the fences, lay october's wasteful ripeness, but the season was about to turn, for the bleak corner of november was in sight. a sharp wind blew out of a cloud that hung low over the river, and far away against the darkening sky was a gray triangle traced, the flight of wild geese from the north. with the stiffening and the lagging of the breeze came lower and then louder the puffing of a cotton gin. under a persimmon tree jim taylor halted, and with his arms resting on a fence he stood dreamily looking across a field. afar off the cotton pickers were bobbing between the rows. the scene was more dull than bright; to a stranger it would have been dreary, the dead level, the lone buzzard away over yonder, sailing above the tops of the ragged trees; but for this man the view was overspread with a memory of childhood. he was meditating upon leaving his home; he felt that his departure was demanded. and yet he knew that not elsewhere could he find contentment. amid such scenes he had been born and reared. he was like the deer--would rather feed upon the rough oak foliage of a native forest than to feast upon the rich grasses of a strange land. but he had made up his mind to go. he had heard of the charm of the hills, the valleys and the streams in the northern part of the state, and once he had gone thither to acquaint himself with that paradise, but in disappointment he had come back, bringing the opinion that the people were cold and unconcerned in the comfort and the welfare of a stranger. so, with this experience fresh in his mind, he was resolved not to re-settle in his own commonwealth, but to go to a city, though feeling his unfitness for urban life. but he thought, as so many men and women have been forced to think, that life in a crowd would invite forgetfulness, that his slow broodings would find a swift flow into the tide that swallows the sad thoughts of men. a sudden noise in the road broke the web of his musing, and looking about, he recognized low, the englishman. between his teeth the briton held his straight-stem pipe, and on his shoulder he carried his bath tub. "moving?" taylor asked. "ah, good morning. no--not moving. an outrage has been committed. during the night someone punched a hole in the bottom of my bath. don't know who could have done it; most extraordinary, i assure you. one of those ungrateful blacks, i warrant. going this way? i shall be glad of your company. ah, do you happen to know of a tinker?" he asked, as together they walked along the road. "a what?" "a tinker to mend my bath?" "haven't any such thing about here, but i guess the blacksmith can mend your tub. here, let me carry it for you a ways. you must be tired of it by this time." he protested, but taylor took the tub. "thank you. you are very kind, i'm sure. i would have sent it, but these rascals are so untrustworthy. ah, how long do you conjecture it would take one to make his fortune in this community?" "it depends more upon the man than the community," taylor answered. "i know one that never could." "and by jove, i fancy i have a very intimate acquaintance with another. but i rather like it here, you know. i have plenty of room and no one is much disposed to interfere with me except those rascally blacks, and upon my honor i believe they tried to ruin my bath. don't you think you'd better let me take it now?" "no; i'll carry it. wouldn't have known i had it if you hadn't reminded me." "you are very kind, i'm sure. ah, by the way, a very singular man called on me yesterday. mayo, i believe, is his name." "yes, we know him down here. came very near getting a dose of rope once. he tries to be a moses among the negroes, but instead of leading them out of the wilderness he's going to lead them into trouble." "i dare say as much, if they listen to him. but he avers that he doesn't want an office--wants only to see that the blacks get what they are entitled to." "and about the first thing that will be done for him after he gets what he's entitled to," jim replied, "will be the sending of his measure to a coffin maker." "i surmise as much, i assure you. i didn't encourage him to prolong his visit; indeed, i told him that i preferred to be alone." they turned out of the lane into a wood, crossed a bayou, and pursuing their way a short distance further, taylor halted, and handing the englishman his tub, pointed to a path that crossed the road. "that will take you to the blacksmith shop," he said. "ah, you are very kind," low replied, shouldering his treasure. he turned down the path, but after going a short distance stopped and faced about. "i say, there!" he cried. "oh, taylor. just a moment. i wouldn't mind having you over any evening, you know. you are a devilish decent fellow." "all right; you may look for me most any time. take you out 'possum hunting some night." low was now humping himself down the path, and taylor turned to pursue his way homeward, when once more the englishman faced about and shouted: "you are very kind, i'm sure. i shall be delighted." jim taylor was master of a small plantation and sole inhabiter of the house wherein he was born. in the garden, under a weeping-willow tree, were the graves of his parents and of his sister, a little girl, recalled with emotion--at night when a high wind was blowing, for she had ever been afraid of a storm; and she died on a day when a fierce gale up the river blew down a cottonwood tree in the yard. she and louise were as sisters. at her grave the giant often sat, for she was a timid little creature, afraid to be alone; and sometimes at night when the wind was hard, when a cutting sleet was driving, he would get out of his bed and stand under the tree to be near her. it was so foolishly sentimental of so strong a man that he would not have dared to tell anyone, but to the child in the grave he told his troubles. so, on this morning, when the wind was gathering its forces as it swept the fields, as the clouds were thickening far away among the whitish tops of the dead cypress trees, he went straightway to the weeping-willow, passed the grave of his father, his mother, and sat down beside the stone that bore the name and the age of the little one. chapter xi. when mrs. cranceford returned home early in the afternoon, she told the major, whom she found pacing up and down the long porch, that pennington was up and walking about the house. she told him, also, that he was resolved upon taking louise to alabama, and added that she herself would oppose this determination up to the very moment of departure. the major grunted. "what right have you to do that?" he asked. "why should you meddle with the affairs of a man that is seeking to make a living for his wife?" "john, you are laughing at me and i know it. here lately you make light of everything i say." the season was changing, he felt its influence, and he shook with good humor as he walked. "john, you are so tickled that you can't answer me." "why, i could answer you very easily if i only knew what you want me to say." this broke her whimsical resentment of his droll playfulness; she laughed with him, and taking his arm, walked up and down the porch. they talked of many things--of louise's persistent stubbornness, and of a growing change in the conduct of tom--his abstraction and his gentleness. he had left uncut the leaves of a sporting review, had taken to romances, and in his room had been found, sprawled on foolscap, an ill-rhymed screed in rapturous praise of soulful eyes and flaxen hair. mrs. cranceford knew that he must be in love; so did the major, but he could not conjecture the object of so fervid a passion. but his wife had settled upon the object and was worried, though of her distress she had not spoken to tom, so recent had been the discovery of the tell-tale blotch of ink. but she would as soon as an opportunity offered. "it will soon pass," said the major. "i don't think he intends to marry her." "marry her!" his wife exclaimed. "i would rather see him dead than married into a family of white trash. she may be a most amiable young person and all that, but he shan't marry her. it would break my heart, and i vow she shall never come here. why, she came from the pine woods and is a cracker." "but the cracker may have a most gallant and well-born origin, my dear," the major replied. "the victim of a king's displeasure is not insignificant; he must have been a force." "what! do you approve of it?" she demanded, pulling away from him. "is it possible that you would not oppose his marriage into such a family as hers must be?" "i don't think, my dear, that her father was in the penitentiary." "john, that is unworthy of you. i was grieved at louise's marriage, and you know it." in prankishness he sought a refuge; he laughed, but she did not follow him. for a moment her black eyes were hard, then came a look of distress--and tears. he put his arm about her. "why, my dear, i didn't mean to hurt your feelings; bless your life, i didn't. why, of course, he shan't marry her. who ever heard of such a thing? i'll talk to him--thrash him if you say the word. there, it's all right. why, here comes gid." she went into the house as batts came up, glancing back at him as she passed through the door; and in her eyes there was nothing as soft as a tear. the old fellow winced, as he nearly always did when she gave him a direct look. "are you all well?" gideon asked, lifting the tails of his long coat and seating himself in a rocking chair. "first-rate," the major answered, drawing forward another rocker; and when he had sat down, he added: "somewhat of an essence of november in the air." "yes," gid assented; "felt it in my joints before i got up this morning." from his pocket he took a plug of tobacco. "i thought you'd given up chewing," said the major. "last time i saw you i understood you to say that you had thrown your tobacco away." "i did, john; but, i gad, i watched pretty close where i threw it. fellow over here gave me some stuff that he said would cure me of the appetite, and i took it until i was afraid it would, and then threw it away. i find that when a man quits tobacco he hasn't anything to look forward to. i quit for three days once, and on the third day, about the time i got up from the dinner table, i asked myself: 'well, now, got anything to come next?' and all i could see before me was hours of hankering; and i gad, i slapped a negro boy on a horse and told him to gallop over to the store and fetch me a hunk of tobacco. and after i broke my resolution i thought i'd have a fit there in the yard waiting for that boy to come back. i don't believe that it's right for a man to kill any appetite that the lord has given him. of course i don't believe in the abuse of a good thing, but it's better to abuse it a little sometimes than not to have it at all. if virtue consists in deadening the nervous system to all pleasurable influences, why, you may just mark my name off the list. there was old man haskill. i sat up with him the night after he died, and one of the men with me was harping upon the great life the old fellow had lived--never chewed, never smoked, never was drunk, never gambled, never did anything except to stand still and be virtuous--and i couldn't help but feel that he had lost nothing by dying. haven't seen louise, have you?" "no; but i have about made up my mind to go over there, whether she wants me or not." "i believe i would, john. we haven't long to stay here, and nothing sweetens our sojourn like forgiveness. i don't mean it in sacrilege, but christ was greatest and closest to his father when he forgave the thief." "that's true," said the major. "you may not be able to think very coherently, gid, but sometimes you stroll into a discussion and bark the shins of thought." "easy, john. i am a thinker. my mind is full of pictures when your fancy is checkered with red and blue lines. so you are willing to forgive her?" he added after a pause. "yes, more than willing. but she isn't ready to be forgiven. she has some very queer notions, and i'll be hanged if i know where she picked them up. at times she's most unnatural." "don't say that, john. i gad, sir, what right has one person to say that another person is unnatural? who of us is appointed to set up the standard and gauge of naturalness? who is wholly consistent? you may say the average man. ah, but if everyone conformed to the average there would be nothing great in the world. there is no greater bore than the well-balanced man. he wears us out with his evenness. you know what he's going to say before he says it." "i grant you all that; but the well-balanced man made it possible for the genius to make the world great. genius is the bloom that bursts out at the top of commonplace humanity." "yes, that's all very well; but just at present i'd like to have a little liquor. be easy, though, and don't let the madam know what you're after." "there's not a drop in the house, gid, but there's a demijohn in the office. let's step out there." "no, i believe not, john," the old fellow replied, with a shudder. "can't you bring it out?" "she'll see me if i do. you must go with me. whisky that's not worth going after is not worth drinking." "you are right, john; but you have stated one of those truths that are never intended to be used except in the absence of something else that might have been said. plain truths are tiresome, john. they never lend grace to a conversation." "what do you know about the graces of conversation? you are better fitted to talk of the disgraces of conduct." "slow, john. but i know that a truth to be interesting must be whimsical or so blunt that it jolts." "but didn't it jolt you when i said that you must go into the office after the liquor?" "yes; but cruelly, john. you must never jolt cruelly. i gad, i'm getting old. do you realize that we have known each other intimately for thirty-five years?" mrs. cranceford came out upon the porch. "ah," said old gid, without changing his tone, and as if he were continuing a moral discourse, "thirty-five years ago we heard an old circuit-rider preach at gum springs, and while we could not subscribe to his fiery doctrine, being inclined to the broader and more enlightened faith of the episcopal church, yet the fervor and sincerity of his utterances made a lasting impression on us. madam, i hear with much pleasure that mr. pennington is better." "yes, he is feeling quite improved," she replied, merely glancing at him. "did the major think enough of him to tell you?" the major looked at gid, winked at him, and the old fellow believing that he knew what was wanted, thus answered: "yes, ma'am, but i first heard it from the priest. he knows everything, it seems. i met him down the road and had quite a talk with him. by the way, i read a number of years ago a most edifying book, 'the prince of the house of david.' you doubtless have it in your collection, and may i ask you to lend it to me?" she had but small faith in the old fellow's sincerity, and yet she was pleased to see him manifest an interest in so godly a book. "yes, and i will get it for you," she answered, going straightway to look for it; and when she had passed through the door, gid snatched a bottle out of his pocket and held it out toward the major. "here, john, hurry out there and fill this up while she's gone. meet me around at the gate. quick!" "why, you old rascal, do you suppose me capable of complicity in such a fraud?" "oh, that's all right, john. hurry up. i could get liquor, plenty of it, but yours always hits me where i live. i'm sick, i tell you, and hang it, i'm getting old. you don't seem to realize that i'm an old man, not long for this vain world. take it, john, and hurry up. confound it, you won't be deceiving her; it would be an advantage taken of her unreasonable prejudice. you never saw me drunk and never will. thunderation, here she comes!" he stuffed the bottle back into his hip pocket and the major threw himself back with a loud laugh. mrs. cranceford, handing the book to gid, cast a suspicious look at the major, who continued to shake. "why, what has amused you so?" she asked. and now old gid was nodding and chuckling in hypocritical diversion. "i was just telling him of the first time i borrowed a copy of this book," he said. "walked four miles to get it, and when i returned, some rascal had greased the foot-log and i slipped off into the creek. oh, it's very funny now, but it wasn't then; had to fight to keep from losing the book and came within one of drowning. well, i must go. ma'am, i'm a thousand times obliged to you for this store-house of faith, and i assure you that i'll take the best of care that it shall come back to you in good condition. by the way, john, is your office locked? i'll step out there and get that paper." "yes, it's locked. i'll go with you." "oh, never mind. let me have the key." "but you can't find the paper." "well, let it go; i can get it some other time." the major, slyly shaking, walked with him to the end of the porch. "you've played thunder," the old fellow whispered. "i didn't think it of you. i gad, every chance you get you hoist me on your hip and slam the life out of me. sick as a dog, too. again, ma'am," he added, turning about, "let me thank you for this book. and major," he said aloud, and "damn you," he breathed, "i hope to see you over my way soon." he swore at his horse as he mounted, and throwing back a look of reproach, he jogged off down the road. but he had not proceeded more than a mile when a boy, urging a galloping horse, overtook him and gave him a bundle; and therein he found a bottle of whisky, with these words written in red ink and pasted on the glass: "you are an old fool." chapter xii. all day the clouds had been gathering, hanging low over the fields. at evening came a downpour of rain, and at night a fitful wind was blowing--one moment of silence and then a throb of rain at the windows. in his office the major sat, looking over the affairs of his estate. it was noted that he preferred a stormy night thus to apply himself; the harshness of figures, the unbending stubbornness of a date, in his mind seemed to find a unity with the sharp whistle of the wind and the lashes of rain on the moss-covered roof. before him, on yellowing paper, was old gid's name, and at it he slowly shook his head, for fretfully he nursed the consciousness of having for years been the dupe of that man's humorous rascality. the plantation was productive, the old fellow had gathered many a fine crop, and for his failure to pay rent there could be no excuse, except the apologies devised by his own trickish invention. year after year, in his appeals for further indulgence, he had set up the plea of vague obligations pressing upon him, some old debt that he was striving to wipe out and from which he would soon be freed; and then, no longer within the tightening grasp of merciless scoundrels, he would gratefully devote the proceeds of his energies to the discharge of the obligations held so lightly over him by the noblest man on earth. once he returned from new orleans, whither he had gone to sell his cotton, with the story that he had been knocked senseless and robbed of his wallet, and in proof of this he produced a newspaper account of the midnight outrage, and exhibited a wound on the head, inflicted by the bludgeon of the footpad. and with such drollery did he recite this story that the major laughed at him, which meant, of course, that his tenure of the old plantation was not to be disturbed. the memory of this rascally trick came back to the major as he sat there looking over his papers. he recounted it all as a reminiscence of his own weakness, and he was firmly and almost angrily resolved that this season the old fellow should not waddle from under his obligations. amusement was well enough; to laugh at a foible was harmless, but constantly to be cheated was a crime against his wife and his children. children? yes, for out of no calculation for the future did he leave louise. there came a tap at the door. mrs. cranceford had sent a negro boy with an umbrella and a lantern. the night was wild, and the slanting rain hit hard. before he reached the house the wind puffed out his lantern, leaving him to stumble through the dark. as he stepped upon the porch there was a loud "halloa" at the gate, and just at that moment he heard his wife's voice. "john, go out there and see who that is," she said. he went round to the gate. his wife stood on the porch waiting for him. presently he came back, walking rapidly. "who is it, dear?" "a negro man. margaret, we must go at once to louise. pennington is dying." with an inarticulate note of astonishment she fled to her room, to prepare herself for the journey, and the major loudly commanded the carriage to be brought out. lanterns flashed across the yard, under the streaming trees, and flickered in the gale that howled about the barn. pale, impatient, and wrapped in a waterproof, mrs. cranceford stood at the front doorway. the carriage drew up at the gate. "are you ready?" the major asked, speaking from the darkness in the midst of the rain. "yes," she answered, stepping out and closing the door. "where is tom?" the major inquired. "he hasn't come home." "he ought to go. i wonder where he can be." "he could be most any place," she answered; and as she stepped under the umbrella to walk with him to the gate, she added: "but i think he is at wash sanders' house." he helped her into the carriage, took a seat beside her, and shut the door with a slam. "as fast as you can!" he shouted to the driver. they sat a long time in silence, listening to the rain and the hoofs of the horses sloshing in the wet sand. the carriage stopped. "what's the matter?" "de bayou, sah." "drive on." "de bridge is full o' holes." "drive through." "de water's mighty high." "drive through." down they went with a splash. the carriage swayed, was lifted, was swung round--the horses lunged; one of the doors was burst open and the water poured in. mrs. cranceford clung to the major, but she uttered not a word. up the slippery bank the horses strained. one of them fell, but he was up in a moment. firmer footing was gained, and the road was reached. now they were in a lane. the major struck a match and looked at his watch. it was nearly two o'clock. across the fields came a light--from louise's window. the carriage drew up at the gate. "that you, major?" a voice asked. "yes. why, how did you get here, jim?" "tore down the fences and rode across the fields." "how is he?" the major asked, helping his wife to the ground. "i haven't been in--been walking up and down out here. thought i'd wait for you." at the entrance of the passageway louise met them. she kissed her mother, saying not a word. the major held out his arms toward her. she pretended not to notice this complete surrender; she took his hand and turned her face from him. "my poor little girl, i----" she dropped his hand, opened the door of a room opposite the dying man's chamber and said: "step in here, please. mother, you and jim may come with me." the old man broke down. "my precious child, god knows----" "will you please step in here? i will come with you. mother, you and jim----" she pointed to the door of her husband's room. in sorrowful obedience the major bowed his head and crossed the threshold. in the room was a fire and on the mantel-piece a lamp was burning. "sit down," she said. "louise, i have not deserved this." "take the rocking chair, please." he stood with his hands resting on the back of the chair. "why do you hold me off with such stubbornness? why continue to be so unnatural a child, so incomprehensible a woman?" even now he did not forget to measure his sentences, but with the depth of his earnestness his voice was wavering, "you know----" "yes, i know," she broke in, looking full at him, and her face smote him with pity. "but this is no time for explanations." she turned toward the door. "are you going to leave me?" he asked, following her. "yes. mother will tell you all that is to be told." she went out and closed the door. the major walked softly up and down the room, listening, but he heard nothing save the creaking of the house and the moaning of the wind in the old plum thicket. a long time passed, and then mrs. cranceford entered. her eyes were wet with tears. "it is all over," she said. at the moment the major made no reply. he led her to a chair, and when she had sat down, looking up at him, he leaned over her and said: "margaret, i know you can't help appreciating my position; and i feel that i am the keenest sufferer under this roof, for to me all consolation is denied. now, what is expected of me? i am going to make no more protests--i am going to do as i am instructed. what is expected of me?" "go home, dear, and wait until i come," she answered. "but doesn't that seem hard, margaret?" "yes; but it is her wish and we must not oppose it." "i will do as you say," he replied, and kissing her he added: "if you can, make her feel that i love her. tell her that i acknowledge all the wrong." he stepped out into the passage, but he came back to the door, and standing there for a moment, he said: "make her feel that i love her." chapter xiii. pennington was buried in the yard of the church wherein he had taught school. no detail of the arrangements was submitted to the major. for a time he held out that the family burial ground was the proper place for the interment, under the trees where his father and his mother were laid to rest, but louise stood in strong opposition to this plan, even though appearances called for its adoption. so, after this, the major offered no suggestion. at the grave there was no hysterical grief. the day was bleak and the services were short. when all had been done, the major gently put his arm about his daughter and said that she must go home with him. "not now," she replied; and she did not look up at him. "but please don't worry over me; don't feel that you have to do something. mother is going with me, and after that you may know what i intend to do. please don't urge me. let me have my way just a little longer." he stepped back from her and mrs. cranceford took her arm and led her away. the major slowly followed them. he felt the inquisitive look of a neighbor, and his shoulders stiffened. in a buggy the mother and the daughter had followed the hearse; the major, tom and big jim taylor were driven in the family carriage. louise was to go back to the desolate house. the major stoutly opposed this, pleaded with her after she had seated herself in the buggy, clutched the spoke of a muddy wheel as if he would hold her back. she took the lines from her mother, tossed them upon the horse, folded her arms, and in silence waited. "john, dear," said mrs. cranceford, "let us drive on. there, please don't attract the attention of those people. you know what gossips they are." the major spoke to louise. "will you answer me one question?" "yes, sir." "is it your intention to live alone in that wretched house?" "no, sir; but i must go there to think." the major stepped back, and with a handkerchief wiped his muddy hand. "margaret, i leave her with you," he said. shortly after the major reached home his wife arrived, but louise was not with her. "i could do nothing," she said. "when we drove up to the gate she jumped out and declared that i must come on home. i pleaded with her, but she wouldn't yield. two old women were in the house and she said that they were company enough; she wanted to think and they would not distract her thoughts. i told her that if she would agree to let me stay i would not say a word, but she shook her head. 'you shall hear from me to-morrow,' were her words, 'but you must leave me to myself to-night. it is of no use to urge me.' i saw that it wasn't, and i drove away. i declare i can't make her out." "most unreasonable creature i ever saw," the major replied, uneasily walking up and down the room. "she has made me contemptible in the eyes of this neighborhood, and now appears determined to disgrace herself." "don't say that, john." "why not? it's a fact." "it is not a fact. i am not afraid of a daughter of mine disgracing herself. it's only bad blood that disgraces itself." "i am not so sure about that when women throughout the entire country are striving to be unnatural. by the blood----" "john." he wheeled about and looked at her. "but i ask you if it isn't enough to make a saint pull out his hair? simply opposed her marriage, used legitimate argument, and afterward begged like a dog. isn't it enough to make me spurn the restraints of the church and take up the language of the mud-clerk?" "no, dear; nothing should prompt you to do that. you have a soul to be saved." "but is it necessary that my life should be tortured out of me in order that my soul may be saved? i don't care to pay such a price. is it put down that i must be a second job? is a boil the sign of salvation?" "for goodness' sake don't talk that way," she pleaded, but she had to turn her face away to hide her smile from him. "but i've got to talk some way. just reflect on her treatment of me and how i have humbled myself and whined at her feet. and i ask what may we not expect of such a creature? is it that she wants to be different from anyone else? let me tell you one thing: the woman who seeks to be strongly individualized may attain her aim, but it leads to a sacrifice of her modesty. i say she is in danger of disgracing herself." mrs. cranceford shook her head. "you wait and we shall see. no member of my family was ever disgraced. i may be distressed at her peculiarities, at times, but i shall never be afraid for her conduct." early the next morning a negro brought a letter from louise. mrs. cranceford hastened to the office to read it to the major. it appeared to have been written with care and thus was it worded: "my dear mother:--i am thankful that i am not to look upon the surprise and sorrow you must feel in reading this letter. i hardly know how to rake together and assort what i desire to say, but i will do the best i can, and if you fail to understand me, do not charge it against yourself, but list it with my other faults. what i have recently gone through with is quite enough to unstring the nerves of a stronger woman than i am, and what must be my condition? worn out and weary of any life that i could conceive of here--don't you see how i am floundering about? but give me time and in all honesty you shall know the true state of my mind. many a time father has said that he did not understand me, and more than once you have charged me with being strange. but i am sure that i have never tried to be mysterious. i have had thoughts that would not have appeared sane, had i written them, but i have never been foolishly romantic, although my education has been far from practical. the first thing i remember was a disappointment, and that was not being a boy. it may be a vanity, but at that early age i seemed to recognize the little privileges given to a boy and denied a girl. but as i grew older i was shocked by the roughness and cruelty of boys, and then i was pleased to reflect that i was of gentler mold. at some time of life i suppose we are all enigmas unto ourselves; the mystery of being, the ability to move, and the marvelous something we call emotion, startles us and drives us into a moody and speculative silence. i give this in explanation of my earlier strangeness. i could always talk readily, but never, not even to you, could i tell completely what i thought. most young people are warned against the trash that finds its way--no one appears to know how--into the library of the home, but i remember to have been taken to task for reading mannish books. and in some measure i heeded the lecture thus delivered, but it is to mannish books that i owe my semblance of common sense." "what is she trying to get at?" the major broke in. "have you read it? if you have, tell me what she says." "i am reading it now," his wife replied; and thus she continued: "the strongest emotion of my life has been pity, and you know that i never could keep a doll nor a trinket if a strong appeal was made for it. i grew up to know that this was a weakness rather than a virtue, but never has my judgment been strong enough to prevail against it. and this leads me to speak of my marriage. that was the result of pity and fear. let me see if i can make you understand me. that poor man's condition smote my heart as never before had it been smitten. and when he made his appeal to me, hollowed-eyed and coughing, i trembled, for i knew that my nature would prompt me to yield, although i might fully estimate the injustice to myself. so my judgment fought with my sense of pity, and in the end, perhaps, might have conquered it, but for the element of fear which was then introduced. the question of his soul was brought forward, and he swore that i would send it to heaven or to hell. in the light of what i have read, and in the recollection of what i have often heard father say in his arguments with preachers, perhaps i should have been strong enough to scout the idea of a literal torment, but i could not. you remember old aunt betsy taylor, jim's black mammy. when i was very young she was still living on the place, and was to me a curiosity, the last of her race, i was told. i did not know what this meant, but it gave her words great weight. once she pictured hell for me, the roaring furnace, the writhing of the damned, and no reason and no reading has ever served to clear my mind of her awful painting. with her as the advocate i could hear the groans of lost souls; and in my childish way i believed that the old woman was inspired to spread the terrors of perdition; nor has education and the little i have seen of society, wholly changed this belief. so when mr. pennington swore to me that if i refused to marry him he would die blaspheming the name of god, my judgment tottered and fell. i sit here now, looking at the bed whereon he died. you saw him breathe his last, saw his smile of peace and hope. that smile was my reward. for it i had wrung the heart of my father and wiped my feet upon his pride. but i had sent a soul above. i have set myself to the task of perfect frankness, and i must tell you that in my heart there was not the semblance of love for him, love as you know it; there was only pity and i can say that pity is not akin to love. yes. i sold myself, not as many a woman has, not as i would have been praised and flattered for doing--not for money, but to save a soul. this is written at night, with a still clock above me, the hands recording the hour and the minute of his death, and the light of the sun may fade my words and make them ghastly, but i am revealing, to my mother, my inner self." mrs. cranceford paused to wipe her eyes, and the major, who had been walking up and down the room, now stood looking through the window at the sweep of yellow river, far away. "but does she say when she is coming home?" he asked without turning his head. "read on, please." the sheets were disarranged and it was some time before she obeyed. "read on, please," he repeated, and he moved from the window and stood with his hands resting on the back of a chair. mrs. cranceford read on: "there is one misfortune of mine that has always been apparent to you and that is my painful sensitiveness. it was, however, not looked upon as a misfortune, but rather as a fault which at will i might correct, but i could no more have obviated it than i could have changed my entire nature. when father charged me with ingratitude i realized the justice of the rebuke (from his point of view), while feeling on my side the injustice of the imputation, for i was not ungrateful, but simply in a desperate state of mind. i am afraid that i am not making myself clear. but let me affirm that i do not lose sight of the debt i owe him, the debt of gallantry. i had always admired him for his bravery, and hundreds of times have i foolishly day-dreamed of performing a life-saving office for him. but the manner--and pardon me for saying it--the arrogance which he assumed over me, wounded me, and the wound is still slowly bleeding. but in time it will heal, and when it does i will go to him, but now i cannot." "but she must come to me or let me go to her!" the major broke in. "i confess that i didn't understand her. why, there is heroism in her composition. go ahead, margaret. she's got more sense than all of us. go ahead." mrs. cranceford continued: "i can conceive of nothing more useless than my life at home would be. the truth is, i must do something, see something, feel the throb rather than the continuous pressure of life. thousands of women are making their way in the world. why should not i? and it is not that i mean wholly to desert you or to love you less, but i must go away, and before this letter reaches you i shall be on my journey----" mrs. cranceford's trembling hands let the paper fall. the major grabbed it up, fumbled with it, put it upon the desk and sat down. in silence they looked at each other, and their vision was not clear. "read on," he said. "we can stand anything now." she wiped her eyes and obeyed him: "shall be on my journey. i have in mind a certain place, but what place it is i must not tell you. if i succeed i shall let you know, and if i fail--but i will base nothing upon the probability of failure. i know that you will look upon this almost as an act of insanity, and carrying out my resolve to be frank, i must say that i do not know but that it is. it is, though, the only course that promises relief and therefore i must take it. you must not charge me with a lack of love for you and never must you lose faith in me. it is singular that after all these years, after all our confidences, i should choose a pen wherewith to make myself known to you, and you may call me a most unnatural daughter, but you must charge my unnaturalness to nature, and nothing that nature does should appear unnatural when once we have come to understand it. i have money enough to last me until i can secure employment. i hope that i know what sort of employment it may be, but as there is in my hope a fear of failure, i will not tell you. my training has not been systematic enough to enable me to be a school teacher, for i know a little of many things, but am thorough in nothing. but in some other line the mannish books may help me. in reading this over i realize that i am vain and affected. but put it down as another frankness. god bless you and good-bye." "i told you she would disgrace herself," the major exclaimed, slapping his hand upon the desk. "she has done nothing of the sort," his wife replied, stepping out and closing the door. chapter xiv. the neighbors were curious to know why louise had left home and whither she was gone. day and night they came to ask questions, and though told that she was visiting relatives in kentucky, they departed suspecting that something must be wrong. the gossips were more or less busy, and jim taylor snatched another idler off the fence and trounced him in the sand. weeks passed and no letter came from louise. the major worried over her until at last he forbade the mention of her name. during the day mrs. cranceford was calm and brave, but many a time in the night the major heard her crying. every sunday afternoon jim taylor's tread was heard on the porch. to the major he talked of various things, of the cotton which was nearly all picked, of the weakening or strengthening tendency of the market, but when alone with mrs. cranceford his talk began and ended with louise. but in this he observed the necessity for great care, lest the major might hear him, and he chose occasions when the old gentleman was in his office or when with gid he strolled down into the woods. in the broad parlor, in the log part of the house, jim and mrs. cranceford would sit, hours at a time; and never did she show an impatience of his long lapses of silence nor of his monotonous professions of faith in the run-away. and upon taking his leave he would never fail to say: "i believe we'll hear from her to-morrow; i am quite sure of it." in the midst of the worry that followed the young woman's departure, there had been but one mention of the young man's affair with the niece of wash sanders. mrs. cranceford had spoken to him, not directly, but with gentle allusion, and he had replied with an angry denunciation of such meddlesomeness. "i'm not going to marry a dying woman," he declared; "and i'm not going to take up any faded ninny that you and father may pick out. i'm going to please myself, and when you decide that i mustn't, just say the word and i'll hull out. and i don't want to hear anything about crackers or white trash, either. that's me." his mother must have agreed that it was, for the weeks went by and not again did she drop a hint of her anxiety. one rainy afternoon the major and old gid were sitting on a tool-box under the barn shed, when father brennon came riding down the road. "as they say over the creek, light and look at your saddle!" the major shouted. with a nod and a smile the priest rode through the gate, dismounted, gave his horse over to a negro who, in answer to a shout, had come forward from some mysterious precinct of the barn-yard, shook hands with the major and gid, and gracefully declining a seat on the tool-box, rolled a barrel from against the wall and upon it seated himself. "more in accordance with the life of a priest," he said, tapping the barrel with his knuckles. "it is rolling." "ah," replied the major, "and a barrel may also typify the reckless layman. it is often full." the priest gave to this remark the approval of a courteous laugh. even though he might stand in a slippery place, how well he knew his ground. to call forth a weak joke and then to commend it with his merriment--how delightful a piece of flattery. and it can, in truth, be said that in his heart he was sincere. to be pleasing was to him an art, and this art was his second nature. "mr. brennon," said the major (and under no compulsion would he have said father), "i have thought a great deal of the argument we had some time ago; and i have wondered, sir, that in coming to this community to proselyte the negro, you did not observe the secrecy with which the affairs of your church are usually conducted. but understand, please, that i do not mean to reflect upon the methods of your creed, but simply wonder that you have not followed a recognized precedent." the priest had taken hold of the chine at each end of the barrel and was slowly rolling himself backward and forward. "i fail to see why any secrecy should be observed in my work," he replied. "the catholic church has never made a secret of doing good--for we believe in the potency of example. if we elevate the moral condition of one man, it is well that another man should know it. the methodist holds his revival and implores the sinner to come forward and kneel at the altar. and as it were, i am holding a revival--i am persuading the negro and the white man as well to kneel under the cross. should there be any secrecy in such a work?" "well, no, not when you put it that way. but you know that we look upon the catholic religion as a foreign religion. it does not somehow seem native to this soil. it is red with the pomp of monarchy, it has the ceremonious restraint of the king's court; it hasn't the free noise of a republic. i will not question its sincerity or the fact that it has in view the betterment of man, but to us it will always seem an importation." "it was here first," the priest replied, gravely smiling. "it discovered this country." "we must grant that," the major rejoined, "but still i insist that the native born american regards it as a foreign institution, foreign to his nature, to his sense of liberty, if not to his soul." "my dear major, christ is foreign to no soil. the earth is his father's foot-stool. the soul of man is the abiding place of the love of the saviour, and no heart is out-landish. what you may call liberty is an education, but the soul as god's province is not made so by training, but came with the first twinkling of light, of reason, the dawn of time." "that's about as straight as any man can give it," old gid joined in. "but what puzzles me is why god is more at home in one man's heart than in another. he fills some hearts with love and denies it to others; and the heart that has been denied is cursed, through no fault of its own--simply because it has not received--while the other heart is blessed. i reckon the safest plan is to conclude that we don't know anything about it. i don't, and that settles it so far as i'm concerned. i can't accept man's opinion, for man doesn't know any more about it than i do; so i say to myself, 'gideon batts, eat, drink and be merry, for the first thing you know they will come along and lay you out where the worm is whetting his appetite.' you have raked up quite a passle of negroes, haven't you, colonel?" the priest looked at him, but not resentfully. "my work has not been without a fair measure of success," he answered, now sitting upright and motionless. "you must have noticed that we are building quite a large church." "so i see," said the major. "and you still believe that you are going to preserve the negro's body as well as save his soul." "we are going to save his soul, and a soul that is to be saved serves to protect its habitation." "but you foresee a race war?" "i foresee racial troubles, which in time may result in a war of extermination." "i agree with you, mr. brennon," the major replied. "as time passes it will become more and more clear that the whites and the negroes cannot live together. their interests may be identical, but they are of a different order and can never agree. and now let us face the truth. what sowed the seeds of this coming strife? emancipation? no, enfranchisement. the other day mr. low gave me a copy of the london spectator, calling my attention to a thoughtful paper on this very subject. it deeply impressed me, so much so that i read parts of it a number of times. let me see if i can recall one observation that struck me. yes, and it is this: 'we want a principle on which republicans can work and we believe that the one which would be the most fruitful is that the black people should be declared to be foreign immigrants, guests of the state, entitled to the benefit of every law and every privilege, education, for example, but debarred from political power and from sitting on juries, which latter, indeed, in mixed cases, ought to be superseded by properly qualified magistrates and judges.' the paper goes on to show that this would not be oppressive, and that the blacks would be in the position of a majority of englishmen prior to 1832, a position compatible with much happiness. but the trouble is we have gone too far to retrace our steps. it was easy enough to grant suffrage to the negro, but to take it away would be a difficult matter. so what are we to do? to let the negro exercise the full and unrestrained measure of his suffrage, would, in some communities, reduce the white man to the position of political nonentity. and no law, no cry about the rights of a down-trodden race, no sentiment expressed abroad, could force the white man to submit quietly to this degradation. upon the negro's head the poetry of new england has placed a wreath of sentiment. no poet has placed a wreath upon the brow of the california chinaman, nor upon the head of any foreign element in any of the northern states. then why this partiality? is the negro so gentle that he must always be defended, and is the white man of the south so hard of heart that he must always be condemned?" "what you say is perfectly clear to me," the priest replied, "and it is natural that you should defend your position." "it is the only position and the only course left to a thinking and a self-respecting white man," the major rejoined. "yes, i will agree to that, too." "ah, and that's the trouble, mr. brennon. you agree while you oppose." "my dear major, i am not here to oppose, nor to destroy, but to save fragments when the hour of destruction shall have come." "but if your church believes that it can save fragments why doesn't it exert itself to save the whole?" "major, salvation comes of persuasion and persuasion is slow." "yes, and let me tell you that your form of religion will never become popular among the negroes. the negro is emotional, and to make a display of his religious agitation is too great a luxury to be given up. your creed entails too much belief and too little excitement; upon the layman it doesn't confer sufficient importance. the negro must shout and hug. the quiet mysticism of the divine spirit does not satisfy him. he wants to be exorcised; he wants what is known as the mourners'-bench jerks. if his brother loves him he doesn't want a quiet assurance of that fact, conveyed by a year of conduct; he demands a noisy proof, the impulse of a moment of joy." with a slow shake of his head old gid confirmed this view, and the priest looked on, gravely smiling. "you have now touched upon a mistaken phase of the negro's character," said he. "and to make my point clear, i must speak plainly with regard to the appearance of our form of worship. i must present it as it impresses the ignorant and the superstitious. in doing so i make myself appear almost irreverent, but in no other way can i show you the possibilities of my work among the colored race. mystery appeals to the negro. behind all mystery there is power. under the influence of the sensationalist the negro may shout, demand an impulsive proof of love, hug his brother; but in his heart god is a fearful and silent mystery. and the catholic church shows him that the holy spirit is without noise. in the creation of the great tree there has not been a sound; all has been the noiseless will of god. it is not difficult to show him that ours was the first church; it may be shown that the protestant bible held him a slave; and above all we prove to him that in the catholic church there is no discrimination against his color, that a negro may become a cardinal. we convince him that shouting is but a mental agitation and a physical excitement. i have know many a negro, on the scaffold, to renounce the religion which for years he had practiced, and with cool discernment embrace the parent church. the germ of catholicism is in his blood. he cannot be a free thinker. the barbarian is subdued by the solemn and majestic form of the church of rome, while he might regard with disdain the intricate reason of the presbyterian faith. and in this respect the negro is akin to the barbarian. he is moved by music and impressed by ceremony." "you are plain-spoken, indeed," the major replied. "the boldness with which you recount your shams is most surprising. i didn't expect it." "i told you that i would be bold." "but you didn't say that you would acknowledge your insincerity." "nor have i done so. i have simply shown you why our church appeals to the superstitious blood of the african. to accomplish a good we must use the directest means. if i were seeking to convert you, i should adopt a different method. i would appeal to your reason; convince you of a truth which the wisest men have known and still know--that the catholic church is god's church. it is now time for me to go," he added, after a short pause. "please tell your man that i want my horse." chapter xv. at the close of a misty day jim taylor stood at the parlor door to take his leave of mrs. cranceford. during the slow hours of the afternoon they had talked about louise, or sitting in silence had thought of her; and now at parting there was nothing to be added except the giant's hopeful remark, "i believe we'll hear from her to-morrow; i am quite sure of it." repetition may make a sentiment trite, and into a slangish phrase may turn a wise truism, but words spoken to encourage an anxious heart do not lose their freshness. "yes, i am quite sure of it," he repeated. and the next day a letter came. it bore no post mark; the captain of a steamboat had sent it over from a wood-yard. the boat was an unimportant craft and its name was new even to the negroes at the landing, which, indeed, must have argued that the vessel was making its first trip on the arkansas. the communication was brief, but it was filled with expressions of love. "i am beginning to make my way," the writer said, "and when i feel that i have completely succeeded, i will come home. my ambition now is to surprise you, and to do this i must keep myself in the dark just a little longer. i have tried to imagine myself a friendless woman, such as i have often read about, and i rather enjoy it. love to jim." the major was in his office when the letter was brought, and thither his wife hastened to read it to him. "what is it?" he asked as she entered the room. "a letter from louise? i don't want to hear it." "john." "i don't want to hear another crazy screed from her. where is she? is she coming home? read it." during the reading he listened with one hand cupped behind his ear--though his hearing was not impaired--and when the last word had been pronounced, he said: "likes to be mysterious, doesn't she? well, i hope she'll get enough of it. if her life has been so much influenced by sympathy why has she felt none of that noble quality for us? where is she?" "the letter doesn't say. it is not even dated, and it is not post-marked." "did it come in a gale? was it blown out of a mysterious cloud?" "it came from the wood-yard, and the man who brought it said that it had been left by the captain of the mill-boy, a new boat, they say." "well, it's devilish----" "john." "i say it's very strange. enjoys being mysterious. i wonder if she equally enjoys having the neighbors talk about her? sends love to jim. well, that isn't so bad. you'd better have some one take the letter over to him." "i sent him word by the man who brought the letter that we had heard from her." no further did the major question her, but taking up a handful of accounts, he settled himself into the preoccupation in which she had found him, but the moment she went out and closed the door, he got out of his chair and with his hands behind him, walked up and down the room. at the window he halted, and standing there, looked down the river, in the direction of the cape of sand whereon louise had stood, that day when pennington coughed in the library door; and in his mind the old man saw her, with her hands clasped over her brown head. he mused over the time that had passed since then, the marriage, the death, the dreary funeral; and though he did not reproach himself, yet he felt that could he but recall that day he would omit his foolish plea of gallantry. for the coming of jim, mrs. cranceford had not long to wait. she was in the parlor when he tapped at the door. after she had called, "come in," he continued to stand there as if he were afraid of meeting a disappointment. but when he had peeped in and caught sight of her smiling face, his cold fear was melted. "here it is," she said, holding the letter out to him. almost at one stride he crossed the room and seized the letter. in the light of the window he stood to read it, but it fluttered away from him the moment he saw that there was a greeting in it for himself. he grabbed at it as if, possessing life, it were trying to escape, and with a tight grip upon it he said: "i knew she would write and i am sure she would have written sooner if--if it had been necessary." mrs. cranceford was laughing tearfully. "oh, you simple-hearted man, so trustful and so big of soul, what is your love not worth to a woman?" "simple-hearted? i am nothing of the sort. i try to be just and that's all there is to it." "no, jim taylor, there's more to it than that. a man may be just and his sense of justice may demand a stricter accounting than you ask for." "i guess you mean that i'm weak." "oh, no," she hastened to reply, "i don't mean that. the truth is i mean that you give something that but few men have ever given--a love blind enough and great enough to pardon a misdeed committed against yourself. it is a rare charity." he did not reply, but in the light of the window he stood, reading the letter; and mrs. cranceford, sitting down, gave him the attention of a motherly fondness, smiling upon him; and he, looking up from the letter which a pleasurable excitement caused to shake in his hand, wondered why any one should ever have charged this kindly matron with a cold lack of sympathy. so interested in his affairs was she, so responsive to a sentiment, though it might be clumsily spoken, so patient of his talk and of his silence, that to him she was the roman mother whom he had met in making his way through a short-cut of latin. "jim." "yes, ma'm." "i want to ask you something. have you talked much with tom lately?" "not a great deal. he was over at my place the other night and we talked of first one thing and then another, but i don't remember much of what was said. why do you want to know?" "can't you guess?" "don't know that i can. i was always rather slow at guessing. and don't let me try; tell me what you mean?" "you are as stupid as you are noble." "what did you say, ma'm?" again he had given his attention to the letter. "oh, nothing." "but you must have said something," he replied, pressing the letter into narrow folds, and appearing as if he felt that he had committed a crime in having failed to catch the meaning of her remark. "oh, it amounted to nothing." he stupidly accepted this decree, and smoothing out the letter and folding it again, requested that he might be permitted to take it home; and with this reply she gladdened him: "i intended that you should." at evening old gid came, with many a snort and many a noisy stamp at the dogs prancing upon the porch. into the library he bustled, puffing and important, brisk with the air of business. "john," he said, as he sat down, "the last bale of my cotton has been hauled to the landing. it will be loaded to-night and to-morrow morning i'm going with it down to new orleans; and i gad, i'll demand the last possible cent, for it's the finest staple i ever saw." "i thought you were going to bunch in and sell with me," the major replied. "i intended to, john, but you see i'm too far ahead of you to wait. i don't like to discount my industry by waiting. the truth is, i want the money as soon as i can get it. i am chafing to discharge my debts. it may be noble to feel and acknowledge the obligations of friendship, but the consciousness of being in debt, a monied debt, even to a friend, is blunting to the higher sensibilities and hampering to the character. now, you've never been in debt, and therefore you don't know what slavery is." "what! i've owed fifty thousand dollars at a time." "yes, but you had a way of getting out from under it, john. we don't deserve any credit for paying a debt if it comes easy, if it's natural to us. why, a man with the faculty of getting out from under a debt is better off and is more to be envied than the man who has never known what it is to walk under a weight of obligations, for to throw off the burden brings him a day of real happiness, while the more prudent and prosperous person is acquainted merely with contentment. you've had a good time in your life, john. on many an occasion when other men would have been at the end of the string you have reached back, grabbed up your resources and enjoyed them. yes, sir. and you have more education than i have, but you can never hope to rival me in wisdom." the major was standing on the hearth, and leaning his head back against the mantel-piece, he laughed; and from mrs. cranceford's part of the house came the impatient slam of a door. "it's a fact, john. and within me there is just enough of rascality to sweeten my wisdom." "there is no doubt as to the rascality, gid. the only question is with regard to the wisdom." "easy, john. the wisdom is sometimes hidden; modesty covers it up, and if the rascality is always apparent it is my frankness that holds it up to view. yes, sir. but my wisdom lacks something, is in want of something to direct it. pure wisdom can't direct itself, john; it is like gold--it must have an alloy. you've got that alloy, and it makes you more successful as a man, but sometimes less charming as a companion. the part of a man that means business is disagreeable to a gentle, humor-loving nature like mine. i perceive that i've got my speculative gear on, and i'm bold; yes, for i am soon to discharge a sacred obligation and then to walk out under the trees a free man. but i'm naturally bold. did you ever notice that a sort of self-education makes a man adventurous in his talk when a more systematic training might hold him down with the clamps of too much care?" "yes, might inflict him with the dullness of precision," the major suggested, smiling upon his guest. "that's it, and for this reason half-educated men are often the brightest. i read a book--and i reckon i'm as fond of a good book as any man--without bringing to bear any criticisms that scholars have passed upon it. but with you it is different." "gid, you ascribe scholarship to me when in fact you are far more bookish than i am. you sit in your den all alone and read while i'm shut up in my office going over my accounts. from care you have a freedom that i can never hope to find." "john, in comparison with me you don't know what care is." the major leaned against the mantel-piece and laughed. "it's a fact, john. why, i have care enough to kill a statesman or strain a philosopher. look at me; i'm old and don't amount to anything, and that is one of the heaviest cares that can settle down upon man. wise? oh, yes, we'll grant that, but as i before remarked, my wisdom lacks proper direction. it is like ill-directed energy, and that, you know, counts for nothing. i once knew a fellow that expended enough energy in epileptic fits to have made him a fortune. he'd fall down and kick and paw the air--a regular engine of industry, but it was all wasted. but he had a brother, a lazy fellow, and he conceived the idea of a sort of gear for him, so that his jerkings and kicks operated a patent churn. so, if i only had some ingenious fool to harness me i might do something." "why," said the major, "i wouldn't have you otherwise than what you are. suppose you were to become what might be termed a useful citizen, truthful and frugal----" "hold on, john," gid broke in, holding up his hands. "you distress me with your picture. when i hear of a frugal man i always imagine he's hungry. yes, sir. but let me tell you, i'll be a man of affairs when i come back from new orleans. you may be assured of that. i'm going to scatter money about this neighborhood. why, every lout within ten miles square, if he's got fifteen dollars, holds his opinion above mine. ah, by a lucky chance i see that your demijohn is in here. and now just fill up this bottle," he added, producing a flask as if by a sleight-of-hand trick, "and i will bid you good-night." chapter xvi. a neighboring planter, having just returned from new orleans, told the major that in the french market he had met gid, who had informed him that for his cotton he had received a premium above the highest price, in recognition of its length of fibre and the care with which it had been handled. the part of the statement that bore upon the length of fibre was accepted by the major, but he laughed at the idea that gid's care should call for reward. but so good a report was pleasing to him and he told his wife that her denunciation of the old fellow must soon be turned into praise. and with cool thoughtfulness she thus replied: "john, is it possible that at this late day you are still permitting that man to fill your eyes with dust? has he again wheedled you into the belief that he is going to pay you? it does seem to me that your good sense ought to show you that man as he really is." they were at the dinner table. the major shoved back his chair and looked at his wife long and steadily. "margaret," said he, "there is such a thing as persecution, and you are threatened with a practice of it. but do i believe he is going to pay me? i do. and naturally you want to know my reason for thinking so." "yes, i should like to know. i suppose your kindness rather than your judgment has found a reason. it always does." "good; and the reason which a kindness discovers, though the search for it may be a mistake, is better than the spirit that inspires a persecution. however, we won't indulge in any fine-drawn argument; we will----" "search for another reason when one is exploded," she suggested, victoriously smiling upon him. "oh, you mean that i really haven't found one. to tell you the truth i haven't a very strong one. but in some way he has convinced me of his sincerity. i have forced upon him the understanding that at least a good part of the money must be paid, and the fact that he took me seriously, forms, perhaps, the basis of my belief in his desire to face his obligations. we shall see." several days passed, but they saw nothing of gid. it was known that he was at home, for jim taylor had told the news of his return. at this neglect the major was fretted, and one morning he sent word to gid that he must come at once and give an account of himself. it was nearly noon when the old fellow arrived. clumsily he dismounted from his horse, and meekly he made his way into the yard, tottering as he walked. he appeared to have lost flesh, and his skin was yellow with worry and with want of sleep. the major came forward and they met and shook hands under a tree. from an upper window mrs. cranceford looked upon them. "gid, i didn't know what had become of you. i heard of you after you had received for your cotton more than the market price, and----" "it was a fine shipment, john. have you a rope handy? i want to hang myself. and why? because i don't expect anyone to believe my statement; but john, as sure as i am alive this minute, my pocket was picked in the french market. hold on, now. i don't ask you to believe me, for i won't be unreasonable, but i hope i may drop dead this moment if i wasn't robbed. and that's the reason i have held back. get the rope and i'll hang myself. i don't want to live any longer. i am no account on the face of the earth. i sang like a cricket when i might have been more in earnest, and now when my condition is desperate, the fact that i have been foolish and careless takes all weight from my words. as i came along my old horse stumbled, and i didn't try to check him--i wanted him to fall and kill me. get me the rope." the major took off his hat and leaned against the tree. with humility, with drooping patience, gid waited for him to speak, and his ear was strained to catch the familiar word of hope, or mayhap the first bar of a resounding laugh. the first words escaped him; he heard only their cold tone without comprehending their meaning: "i want you to get off that place just as soon as you can; and i want you to go as you came--with nothing. i have laughed at you while you were cheating me; i have placed a premium upon your worthlessness and rascality. there is no good in you. get off that place just as soon as you can." "john----" "don't call me john. you are a hypocrite and a deadbeat. yes, you have sung like a cricket and i have paid dearly for your music. don't say a word to me; don't open your lying mouth, but get out of this yard as soon as your wretched legs can carry you, and get off that place at once." the major turned his back upon him, and the old fellow tottered to the gate. with an effort he scrambled upon his horse and was gone. he looked back as if he expected to see a hand upraised, commanding him to stop; he listened for a voice inviting him to return; but he saw no hand, heard no voice, and onward down the road he went. in the highway he met a man and the man spoke to him, but he replied not, neither did he lift his heavy eyes, but rode onward, drooping over the horse's neck. he passed the house of wash sanders, and from the porch the invalid hailed him, but he paid no heed. upon reaching home, or the cypress log house which for him had so long been a free and easy asylum, he feebly called a negro to take his horse. into the house he went, into the only habitable room. it was at best a desolate abode; the walls were bare, the floor was rotting, but about him he cast a look of helpless affection, at the bed, at a shelf whereon a few books were piled. he opened a closet and took therefrom a faded carpet-bag and into it he put rousseau's confessions, then an old book on logic, and then he hesitated and looked up at the shelf. all were dear to him, these thumbed and dingy books; many a time at midnight had they supped with him beside the fire of muttering white-oak coals, and out into the wild bluster of a storm had they driven care and loneliness. but he could not take them all. painfully he made his selections, nearly filled his bag, leaving barely room for an old satin waistcoat and two shirts; and these he stuffed in hastily. he put the bag upon the bed, when with fumbling he had fastened it, and stood looking about the room. yes, that was all, all except a hickory walking cane standing in a corner. onward again he went with his cane on his shoulder and his bag on his back. at the bars down the lane a dog ran up to him. "go to the house, jack," he said, and the dog understood him and trotted away, but in the old man's voice he heard a suspicious note and he turned before reaching the house and followed slowly and cautiously, stopping whenever the old fellow turned to look back. at the corner of a field gid halted and put down his bag, and the dog turned about, pretending to be on his way home. in the field was a pecan tree, tall and graceful. year after year had the old man tended it, and to him it was more than a tree, it was a friend. upon the fence he climbed, sitting for a moment on the top rail to look about him; to the tree he went, and putting his arms about it, pressed his wrinkled cheek against its bark. he turned away, climbed the fence, took up his bag and resumed his journey toward the steamboat landing. far behind, on a rise in the road, the dog sat, watching him. the old man turned a bend in the road, and the dog, running until his master was again in sight, sat down to gaze after him. far ahead was the charred skeleton of a gin house, burned by marauders many years ago, and here he was to turn into the road that led to the landing. he looked up as he drew near and saw a horse standing beside the road; and then from behind the black ruin stepped a man--the major. "gid," he said, coming forward, "i believe we're going to have more rain." the old man dropped his bag, and the dog far down the road turned back. "wind's from the northwest, gid." he put his hand on the old fellow's shoulder. "don't touch me, john; let me go." "why, i can't let you go. look here, old man, you have stood by me more than once--you stood when other men ran away--and you are more to me than money is." "let me go, john. i am an old liar and an old hypercrite. my pocket was not picked--i lost the money gambling. let me go; i am a scoundrel." he stooped to take up his bag, but the major seized it. "i'll carry it for you," he said. "too heavy for as old a man as you are. come on back and raise another crop." "i haven't a thing to go on, john. can't even get feed for the mules. give me the satchel." "you shall have all the feed you want." "but your wife----" "i will tell her that the debt is paid." "john, your gospel would take the taint out of a thief on a cross. and i was never so much of a man as you now make me, and, i gad, i'm going to be worthy of your friendship. let me remind you of something: that old uncle of mine in kentucky will leave me his money. it's cold-blooded to say it, but i understand that he can't live but a short time. i am his only relative, and have a hold on him that he can't very well shake off. he'll beat me out of my own as long as he can, but old miz nature's got her eye on him. yes, i'll try it again and next year i'll let you sell the crop. but say, john, at one time i had them fellows on the hip, and if i had cashed in at the right time i would have hit 'em big. get your horse and we'll hook the satchel over the horn of the saddle." along the road they walked toward home, the major leading the horse. for a time they were silent, and then the major said: "as i came along i was thinking of that bully from natchez. he would have killed me with his derringer if you hadn't broken his arm with your cane." "oh, yes; that red-headed fellow. it has been a long time since i thought of him. how the pleasant acquaintances of our younger days do slip away from us." "yes," the major laughed, "and our friends fall back as we grow old. friendship is more a matter of temperament than----" "of the honesty of the other party," gid suggested. "yes, you are right. honesty doesn't always inspire friendship, for we must be interested in a man before we can become his friend; and mere honesty is often a bore." when they reached the gate that opened into gid's yard, the major shook hands with the old fellow and told him to resume his authority as if nothing had happened to interrupt it. "i will, john; but something has happened to interrupt it, and that interruption has been my second birth, so to speak. i passed away at twelve o'clock and was born again just now. i won't try to express my feelings, i am still so young; for any profession of gratitude would be idle in comparison with what i am going to do. i've got your friendship and i'm going to have your respect. come in and sit awhile, won't you?" "not now, but i'll come over to-night." "good. and remember this, john; i'm going to have your respect." chapter xvii. with a generous and perhaps weak falsehood the major sought to assure his wife that gid had paid a part of his debt, and that a complete settlement was not far off, but with a cool smile she looked at him and replied: "john, please don't tax your conscience any further. it's too great a strain on you. let the matter drop. i won't even say i told you so." "and as much as you might want the subject to be dropped you can't let it fall without reminding me--but we will let it drop; we'll throw it down. but you have your rights, margaret, and they shall be respected. i will tell him that out of respect to you he must stay away from here." "that is very thoughtful, dear; but does it occur to you that your continued intimacy with him, whether he comes here or not, will show a want of respect for me?" "you don't give a snap whether he pays his debts or not. you simply don't want me to associate with him. no, it has not occurred to me that i am not showing you proper respect and neither is it true. margaret, do you know what is the most absurd and insupportable tyranny that woman can put upon man? it is to choose a companion for her husband." "with me, dear, it is not tyranny; it is judgment." "oh, yes; or rather, it is the wonderful intuition which we are taught to believe that woman possesses. i admit that she is quick to see evil in a man, but she shuts her eyes to the good quality that stands opposite to offset it." "oh, i know that i haven't shrewdness enough to discover a good trait; i can recognize only the bad, for they are always clearly in view. it is a wonder that you can respect so stupid a creature as i am, and i know that you have ceased to have a deeper feeling for me." "now, margaret, for gracious sake don't talk that way. oh, of course you've got me now, and i have to flop or be a brute. yes, you've got me. you know i respect your good sense and love you, so what's the use of this wrangle. there, now, it's all right. i'll promise not to go near him if you say so. and i have made up my mind to attend church with more regularity. i acknowledge that i can go wrong oftener than almost any man. respect for you!" he suddenly broke out. "why, you are the smartest woman in this state, and everybody knows it. come on out to the office and sit with me." sometimes the major, with a pretense of having business to call him away at night, would go over to old gid's house, and together they would chuckle by the fire or nod over roasting potatoes. they talked of their days on the river, and of their nights at natchez under the hill. to be wholly respectable, a man must give up many an enjoyment, but when at last he has become virtuous, he fondly recounts the escapades of former years; and thus the memory of hot blood quickens the feeble pulse of age. sometimes old gid would meet the major at the gin house and joke with him amid the dust and lint, but he always came and departed in a roundabout way, so that mrs. cranceford, sitting at the window, might not be offended by his horse and his figure in the road. a time came when there was an interval of a week, and the old fellow had not shown himself at the gin house, and one night the major went to the cypress log home to invade his retirement, but the place was dark. he pushed open the door and lighted the lamp. the fireplace was cheerless with cold ashes. he went to a cabin and made inquiry of a negro, and was told that mr. batts had been gone more than a week, and that he had left no word as to when he intended to return. greatly worried, the major went home; wide awake he pondered during long hours in bed, but no light fell upon the mystery of the old man's absence; nor in the night nor at breakfast did the major speak of it to his wife, but silently he took his worry with him to his office. one morning while the planter was at his desk, there came a storming at the dogs in the yard. "get down, boys. don't put your muddy paws on me. hi, there, bill, you seven years' itch of a scoundrel, take my horse to the stable." the major threw open the door. "don't come out, john!" gid shouted, coming forward among the prancing dogs. "don't come out, for i want to see you in there." he appeared to have gained flesh; his cheeks were ruddy, and his grasp was strong as he seized the major's hand. "how are you, john?" "why, old man, where on earth have you been?" "i have been in the swamp for many years, but now i touch the ground only in high places." he boldly stepped into the office, and as he sat down the sweep of his coat-tails brushed chattel mortgages and bills of sale from the desk. "only in high places do my feet touch the ground, john. i have just returned from kentucky. and i bring the news that my old uncle is no more to this life, but is more to me than ever." "and you were summoned to his bedside," said the major, striving to be serious, but smiling upon him. "not exactly. you might say that i was summoned by a lawyer to his chest-side. he left me no word of affection, but his money is mine, and on many a half-dollar of it i warrant you there is the print of his tooth. give me your check-book, john." "wait a while, gid. let us accustom ourselves to the situation." "no; let us get down to business. i am impatient to pay a mildewed debt. god's love was slow, john, but it came. how much do i owe?" "i don't believe i'd pay it all at once, gid. leave a part to be met by the next crop." "all right; but it's yours at any time. the only way i can use money is to get rid of it as soon as possible. make out a check for two-thirds of the amount and i'll put my strong hand to it. but you haven't congratulated me." "no," the major replied, with a drawl, "for i felt that it would have too much the appearance of my own greed. i have hounded you--" the old fellow seized him, and stopped his utterance. "don't say that, john. you have kept me out of hell and you ought to complete my heaven with a congratulation." they shook hands, looking not into each other's eyes, but downward; the major pretended to laugh, and old gid, dropping his hand, blustered about the room, whistled and stormed at a dog that poked his head in at the door. then he sat down, crossed his legs; but finding this uncomfortable, sprawled himself into an easier position and began to moralize upon the life and character of his uncle. "he always called me a fool with an uproarious fancy, an idiot with wit, and a wise man lacking in sense. he denied himself everything, and it strikes me that he must have been the fool. i wish he had gathered spoil enough to make me rich, but i reckon he did the best he could, and i forgive him. we must respect the dead, and sometimes the sooner they are dead the sooner we respect them. let me sign that thing. oh, he hasn't left me so much, but i won't quarrel with him now. what was it the moralist said?" he asked, pressing a blotting pad upon his name. "said something about we must educate or we must perish. that's all right, but i say we must have money. without money you may be honest," he went on, handing the check to the major, "but your honesty doesn't show to advantage. money makes a man appear honorable whether he is or not. it gives him courage, and nothing is more honorable than courage. the fact that a man pays a debt doesn't always argue that he's honest--it more often argues that he's got money. accident may make a man honest just as it may make him a thief." "your log fire and your old books haven't done you any harm, gid." "they have saved my life, john. and let me tell you, that a man who grows gray without loving some old book is worse than a fool. the quaint thought of an old thinker is a cordial to aged men who come after him. i used to regret that i had not been better educated, but now i'm glad that my learning is not broader--it might give me too many loves--might make me a book polygamist. i have wondered why any university man can't sit down and write a thing to startle the world; but the old world herself is learned, and what she demands is originality. we may learn how to express thought, john, but after all, thought itself must be born in us. there, i have discharged an obligation and delivered a moral lecture, and i want to tell you that you are the best man i ever saw." "now you are talking nonsense, gid. why, you have been just as necessary to me as i have to you. in a manner you have been the completion of myself." "ah," gid cried, scuffling to his feet and bowing, "i have the pleasure of saluting mrs. cranceford. some time has passed since i saw you, ma'am, and i hope you will pardon my absence." the major sprawled himself back with a laugh. mrs. cranceford, standing on the door sill, gave gid a cool stare. "won't you please come in?" he asked, courteously waving his hand over the chair which he had just quitted. "no, i thank you." "ah, i see you are surprised to see me in here. there was a time when it would have strained my boldness, but now it is a pleasure. i am here on business. to me business is a sweet morsel, and i delight myself with rolling it under my tongue. ma'am, i have just signed a check. my dear old uncle, one of the most humane and charming of men, has been cruelly snatched from this life; and as he found it impossible to take his money with him, he left it to me." "i hope you will make good use of it," she replied, with never a softening toward him. "i am beginning well," he rejoined, surprised that she did not give him a kindlier look. "i am discharging my obligations, and before night i'll call on the rector and give him a check." she smiled, but whether in doubt as to his sincerity or in commendation of his purpose he could not determine. but he took encouragement. "yes, ma'am, and as i have now become a man of some importance, i am going to act accordingly. i am free to confess that my first endeavor shall be to gain your good opinion." "and i'll freely give it, mr. batts, when i believe you merit it." "to desire it, ma'am, is of itself a merit." she laughed at this, and the major laughed, too, for he saw that no longer should he be compelled to defend his fondness for the old fellow. "i am more than willing to confess my mountain of faults," gid went on, smiling, and his smile was not disagreeable. "i am more than willing to do this, and when i have--and which i now do--your christian heart must forgive me." she laughed and held out her hand, and with a gallantry that would have been reminiscent, even in old virginia, he touched it with his lips. "come here, margaret," said the major, and when she turned toward him, smiling, he put his arms about her, pressed her to his breast and fondly kissed her. chapter xviii. mrs. cranceford's surrender was not as complete as gid's fancy had fore-pictured it; he had expected to see her bundle of prejudices thrown down like christian's load; and therefore the dignity with which she looked upon the establishment of his honor was a disappointment to him, but she invited him to stay for dinner, and this argued that her reserve could not much longer maintain itself. with pleasure he recalled that she had given him her hand, but in this he feared that there was more of haughtiness than of generosity. and at the table, and later in the library, he was made to feel that after all she had accepted him merely on probation; still, her treatment of him was so different from what it had been, that he took the courage to build up a hope that he might at last subdue her. to what was passing the major was humorously alive, and, too keenly tickled to sit still, he walked up and down the room, slyly shaking himself. mrs. cranceford asked gid if he had read the book which she had loaned him, the "prince of the house of david," and he answered that when at last he had fallen asleep the night before, the precious volume had dropped beside his pillow. there were some books which he read while sitting by the fire, and some whose stirring qualities moved him to walk about as he gulped their contents; but with a godly book he must lay himself down so that he might be more receptive of its soothing influence. then he reviewed the book in question, and did it shrewdly. with the jewish maiden and the roman centurion going to see the strange man perform the novel rite of baptism in the river of jordan, he looked back upon the city of jerusalem; and further along he pointed out judas, plodding the dusty road--squat, sullen, and with a sneer at the marvel he was destined to see. "i believe you have read it," the major spoke up, still slyly shaking himself. "read it! why, john, i have eaten it. i gad, sir--pardon me, ma'am." with a nod she pronounced her forgiveness. the slip was but a pretense, foisted to change the talk to suit his purpose. "ah," said he, "i have not yet weeded out all my idle words, and it grieves me when i am surprised by the recurrence of one which must be detestable; but, ma'am, i try hard, and there is always merit in a sincere trial." "yes, in a sincere trial," she agreed. "yes, ma'am; and--now there's john laughing at me fit to kill himself; and bless me, ma'am, you are laughing, too. am i never to be taken seriously? are you thus to titter true reformation out of countenance? but i like it. but we are never tired of a man so long as we can laugh at him; we may cry ourselves to sleep, but who laughs himself to slumber? ma'am, are you going to leave us?" he asked, seeing that mrs. cranceford was on her feet. "but of course you have duties to look after, even though you might not be glad to escape an old man's gabble. i _call_ it gabble, but i know it to be wisdom. but i beg pardon for seeming vanity." a dignified smile was the only reply she made, but in the smile was legible the progress his efforts were making. "john," he said, when she was gone, "that sort of a woman would have made a man of me." "but perhaps that sort of a woman wouldn't have undertaken the job," the major replied. "slow, john; but i guess you're right." "i think so. women may be persistent, but they are generally quick to recognize the impossible." "easy. but again i guess you're right. i gad, when the teachings of a man's mother leave him unfinished there isn't a great deal of encouragement for the wife. a man looks upon his wife as a part of himself, and a man will lie even to himself, john." "by the way," the major asked, sitting down, "have you seen that fellow mayo since he came back?" "yes; i met him in the road once, but had no words with him." "it would hardly do for me to have words with him," the major replied; and after a moment of musing he added: "i understand that he's organizing the negroes, and that's the first step toward trouble. the negro has learned to withdraw his faith from the politician, but labor organization is a new thing to him, and he will believe in it until the bubble bursts. that fellow is a shrewd scoundrel and there's no telling what harm he may not project." "then why not hang him before he has time to launch his trouble? there's always a way to keep the cat from scratching you. shoot the cat." "no," said the major, "that won't do. it would put us at a disadvantage." "yes; but i gad, our disadvantage wouldn't be as great as his. nobody would be willing to swap places with a man that's hanged." "that's all very well, but we would be the aggressors, and distant eyes would look upon him as a martyr." "yes, i know; but isn't it better to have one man looked on as a martyr than to have a whole community bathed in blood?" "it might be better for us, but not for our children. a blood-bath may be forgotten, but martyrdom lives in the minds of succeeding generations." "john, there spoke the man of business. you are always looking out for the future. i have agreed with myself to make the most of the present, and so far as the future is concerned, it will have to look out for itself--it always has. was there ever a future that was not prepared to take care of itself? and is there a past that can be helped? then let us fasten our minds to the present. let me see. i wonder if we couldn't train a steer to gore that fellow to death. and i gad, that would do away with all possibility of martyrdom. what do you say?" "nothing more on that subject; but i can say something concerning another matter, and it will interest you more than the martyrdom of all history." "then out with it. i demand to be interested. but don't trifle with me, john. remember that an old man's hide is thin." "i'll not trifle with you; i'll startle you. sixty years ago, the grandfather of admiral semmes made whisky in the tennessee mountains." "but, john, that was a long time ago, and the old man is dead, and here we are alive. but he made whisky sixty years ago. what about it?" "the brother of the admiral lives in memphis," the major continued, "and the other day he sent me a bottle of that whisky, run through a log before you were born." gid's mouth flew open and his eyes stuck out. "john," he said, and the restraint he put upon his voice rippled it, "john, don't tamper with the affections of an old and infirm man. drive me off the bayou plantation, compel me to acknowledge and to feel that i am a hypercrite and a liar, but don't whet a sentiment and then cut my throat with it. be merciful unto a sinner who worships the past." he sat there looking upward, a figure of distress, fearing the arrival of despair. the major laughed at him. "don't knock me down with a stick of spice-wood, john." the major went to a sideboard, took therefrom a quaint bottle and two thin glasses, and placing them upon a round table, bowed to the bottle and said: "dew of an ancient mountain, your servant, sir." and old gid, with his mouth solemnly set, but with his eyes still bulging, arose, folded his arms, bowed with deep reverence, and thus paid his respects: "sunshine, gathered from the slopes of long ago, your slave." mrs. cranceford stepped in to look for something, and the play improvised by these two old boys was broken short off. the major sat down, but gid edged up nearer the table as if preparing to snatch the bottle. upon the odd-shaped flask she cast a look of passing interest, and speaking to the major she said: "oh, that's the whisky you got from memphis. don't drink it all, please. i want to fill up the camphor bottle----" gid sat down with a jolt that jarred the windows, and she looked at him in alarm, fearing at the instant that death must have aimed a blow at him. "camphor bottle!" he gasped. "merciful heavens, ma'am,' fill up your camphor bottle with my heart's blood!" at this distress the major laughed, though more in sympathy than in mirth; and mrs. cranceford simply smiled as if with loathness she recognized that there was cause for merriment, but when she had quitted the room and gone to her own apartment, she sat down, and with the picture in her mind, laughed in mischievous delight. "help yourself," said the major. gid had spread his hands over the whisky as if to warm them in this liquidized soul of the past. "pour it out for me, john. and i will turn my back so as not to see how much you pour." "go ahead," the major insisted. "but i am shaken with that suggested profanation, that camphor bottle, and i'm afraid that i might spill a drop. but wait. i am also bold and will attempt it. gods, look at that--a shredded sunbeam." "don't be afraid of it." "i was waiting for you to say that, john. but it is reverence, and not fear. that i should have lived to see this day is a miracle. shall i pour yours? there you are." they stood facing each other. with one hand gid held high his glass, and with the other hand he pressed his heart. their glasses clinked, and then they touched the liquor with their lips, sipped it, and gid stretched his neck like a chicken. to have spoken, to have smacked his mouth, would have been profane. there is true reverence in nothing save silence, and in silence they stood. gid was the first to speak, not that he had less reverence, but that he had more to say and felt, therefore, that he must begin earlier. "like the old man of israel, i am now ready to die," he said, as he put down his glass. "not until you have had another drink," suggested the major. "a further evidence, john, of your cool judgment. you are a remarkable man. most anyone can support a sorrow, but you can restrain a joy, and in that is shown man's completest victory over self. no, i am not quite ready to die. but i believe that if a drop of this liquor, this saint-essence, had been poured into a camphor bottle, i should have dropped dead, that's all, and peter himself would have complimented me upon the exquisite sensitiveness of my organization. pour me just about two fingers--or three. that's it. if the commander of the alabama had taken a few drinks of his grandfather's nectar, the confederacy would have wanted a blockade runner." "you don't mean to say that it would have softened his nerve, do you?" "oh, no; but his heart, attuned to sweet melody, would have turned from frowning guns to a beautiful nook in some river's bend, there to sing among flowers dripping with honey-dew. i gad, this would make an old man young before it could make him drunk." the major brought two pipes and an earthen jar of tobacco; and with the smoke came musings and with the liquor came fanciful conceits. to them it was a pride that they could drink without drunkenness; in moderation was a continuous pleasure. when gid arose to go, he took an oath that never had he passed so delightful a time. the major pressed him to stay to supper. "oh, no, john," he replied; "supper would spoil my spiritual flow. and besides, i am expecting visitors to-night." he hummed a tune as he cantered down the road; and the major in his library hummed the same tune as he stretched out his feet to the fire. as gid was passing the house of wash sanders, the endless invalid came out upon the porch and called him: "won't you 'light?" "no, don't believe i've got time," gid answered, slacking the pace of his horse. "how are you getting along?" "not at all. got no relish for victuals. don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive. can't stand it much longer." "want to bet on it?" gid cried. "what's that?" "i say i'm sorry to hear it." "glad to know that somebody sympathizes with me. well, drop in some time and we'll take a chaw of tobacco and spit the fire out." nothing could have been more expressive of a welcome to wash's house. to invite a man to sit until the fire was extinguished with the overflow of the quid was with him the topknot of courtesy. "all right," gid shouted back; and then to himself he said: "if i was sure that a drink of that old whisky would thrill him to death i'd steal it for him, but i'd have to be sure; i'd take no chances." a horse came galloping up behind him. dusk was falling and the old man did not at once recognize mayo, the labor organizer of the negroes. but he knew the voice when the fellow spoke: "what's the weather about to do?" "about to quit, i reckon," gid answered. "quit what?" "quit whatever it's doing." "pretty smart as you go along, ain't you?" "yes, and when i stop, too." "strains you to answer a civil question, i see." the old man turned in his saddle and jogged along facing the fellow, and some distance was covered before either of them spoke. "are you trying to raise a row with me?" gid asked. "i want to know for if you are i can save you a good deal of time and trouble." "sort of a time-saver," said mayo. "yes, when i'm not a recruiter for eternity." "i don't believe i follow you." "wish you would, or ride on ahead. now look here," he added, "i just about know you when i see you, and as i don't make friends half as fast as i do enemies--in other words, as i am able to grasp a man's bad points quicker than i can catch his good ones--i would advise you not to experiment with me. you haven't come back here for the benefit of the community, and if we were not the most easy-going people in the world, we'd hang you and then speculate leisurely as to what might have been your aim in coming here." mayo grunted. he was a tall, big, stoop-shouldered fellow. he rode with his knees drawn up. he had a sort of "ducking" head, and his chin was long and pointed. he grunted and replied: "i guess this is a free country or at least it ought to be." "yes," gid rejoined, still facing him, "but it won't be altogether free for such as you until the penitentiaries are abolished." "oh, i understand you, mr. batts. you are trying to work up a chance to kill me." "good guess; and you are trying to help me along." "but i want to tell you that if you were to kill me you wouldn't live to tell the tale. i don't want any trouble with you. i'm not here to have trouble unless it's shoved on me. i am going to do one thing, however, trouble or no trouble; i am going to demand that the colored people shall have their rights." "and at the same time i suppose you are going to demand that the white man shall not have his." "no, won't demand that he shan't have his rights, but that he shan't have his way." "not have his way with his own affairs? good. and now let me tell you something. want to hear it?" "i'm not aching to hear it." "well, i'll give it to you anyway. it's this: the first thing you know a committee of gentlemen will call on you and offer you the opportunity to make a few remarks, and after you have made them you will thereafter decline all invitations to speak. at the end of a rope the most talkative man finds a thousand years of silence. long time for a man to hush, eh? well, our roads split here." "how do you know?" "because i turn to the right." "but may be my business calls me over that way." "don't know about that, but i'm going to turn into this lane and i don't want you to come with me. do you hear?" mayo did not answer. gid turned into a road leading to the right, and looking back he saw that mayo was riding straight ahead. "at any rate he ain't afraid to say what he thinks," the old man mused. "got more nerve than i thought he had, and although it may make him more dangerous, yet it entitles him to more respect." his horse's hoof struck into a patch of leaves, heaped beneath a cottonwood, and from the rustling his ears, warmed by the old liquor, caught the first bars of a tune he had known in his youth; and lifting high his voice he sang it over and over again. he passed a negro cabin whence often had proceeded at night the penetrating cry of a fiddle, and it was night now but no fiddle sent forth its whine. a dog shoved open the door, and by the fire light within the old man saw a negro sitting with a gun across his lap, and beside him stood two boys, looking with rapture upon their father's weapon. throughout the neighborhood had spread a report that the negroes were meeting at night to drill, and this glance through a door gave life to what had been a shadow. he rode on, and his horse's hoof struck into another patch of leaves, but no tune arose from the rustle. the old man was thinking. in a field of furrowed clouds the moon was struggling, and down the sandy road fell light and darkness in alternating patches. far away he saw a figure stepping from light into darkness and back again into light. into the deep shadow of a vine-entangled tree he turned his horse, and here he waited until he heard footsteps crunching in the sand, until he saw a man in the light that lay for a moment in the road, and then he cried: "hello, there, jim taylor!" "is that you, uncle gideon?" "yes, gideon's band of one. come over here a moment." "i will as soon as i can find you. what are you doing hiding out in the dark? the grand jury ain't in session." "no, i gad, but something else is," he replied. jim came forward and put his hand on the horn of the old man's saddle, which as an expert he did in spite of the shying of the horse; and then he asked: "well, what is it, uncle gideon?" "you've heard the rumor that the negroes are drilling at night." "yes, what of it?" "it's a fact, that's what there is of it. just now i rode quite a ways with mayo and he was inclined to be pretty sassy; and right back there i looked into gabe little's cabin and saw him with a gun across his lap." "well, what of that? haven't the negroes had guns ever since the war, and hasn't a man got the right to sit with his gun across his lap? uncle gideon, i'm afraid you've been putting too much new wine into an old bottle." "soft, jimmie; it was old liquor, sixty years at least. but i gad, it strikes me that you are pretty glib to-night. you must have heard something." "no, not since mrs. cranceford got the letter, but that was enough to last me a good while." "didn't hear about my bereavement, did you?" "what, you bereaved, uncle gideon? how did it happen?" "at the imperious beck and call of nature, jimmie. my uncle died and inflicted on me money enough to make a pretense of paying my debts, and i've made such a stagger that even mrs. cranceford has admitted me into the out-lying districts of her good opinion. but that's got nothing to do with the business in hand. let's go back yonder and find out why that negro sits there suckling his gun to sleep." "but if he suckles it to sleep there's no harm in it, uncle gideon." "ah, clod-head, but it may have bad dreams and wake up with a cry. let's go back there." "are you in earnest?" "as earnest as a last will and testament." "then let me tell you that i'll do nothing of the sort. you don't catch me prowling about a man's house at night, and you wouldn't think of such a thing if you were strictly sober." "jimmie, you never saw me drunk." "no, but i've seen you soberer that you are now." "an unworthy insinuation, jimmie. but having great respect for your plodding judgment, i will not go to the negro's cabin, but will proceed rather to my own shanty. and i want you to come with me. tom cranceford and sallie pruitt will be there and in the shine of the fire we'll cut many a scollop. what do you say?" "uncle gideon, don't you know how strongly opposed mrs. cranceford is to tom's----" "bah, law-abiding calf. they are going to marry anyway, so what's the difference? jimmie, the most useless man in the world is the fellow that keeps just within the law. but perhaps it isn't your law-abiding spirit so much as it is your fear. in blind and stupid obedience there is a certain sort of gallantry, and in trotting to mrs. cranceford's cluck you may be wise." "it's not that i'm afraid of offending her," the giant said. "the girl is too good for tom any day, or for any of us when it comes to that, but the distress of his mother haunts me, and i don't want that girl's affection for tom to haunt me too. i don't want to see them together if i can help it. one haunt at a time is enough. but i tell you this, if it should come to a question i would decide in favor of the girl." "jimmie, you are improving. yes, i am doing you great good. i found your mind an insipid dish and i have sprinkled it with salt and pepper. you are right. always decide in favor of the young, for the old have already had their disappointments. well, i'll go. lift your paw. my horse can't move out from under its weight." "all right," said the giant, laughing and stepping back. "by the way," he added, "tell tom to be sure and meet me at the landing at two o'clock to-morrow. we are going down to new orleans." "what, alone? i ought to go along to take care of you. i could steer you away from all the bad places and by this means you would naturally stumble on the good ones. i'll see you when you get back." at home the old man had lighted his fire and was listening to its cheerful crackle when his visitors came, laughing. with a boisterous shout tom kicked the door open, and when the girl remonstrated with him, he grabbed her and kissed her. "that's all right," old gid cried. "one of these days the penitentiary doors will open for you without being kicked in. ah, delightful to see you, my dear," he said, bowing to the girl; "refreshing to see you, although you come with a scamp. sit down over there. i gad, you are a bit of sunshine that has lost its way in the night." about her head she had wound a scarf of red yarn, and as she stood taking it off, with the fire-light dancing among the kinks of her flax-like hair, the old man stepped forward to help her. "hands off," said tom. "don't touch her." "wolfish protector of a lamb," the old man replied, "i ought to throw you out; but it is not my mission to cast out devils." the girl sat down on a bench and tom took a seat beside her; and with many a giggle and a "quit that, now," they picked at each other. old gid, in his splint-bottomed chair, leaned back against the wall and feasted his eyes upon their antics. "kittens," said he, "i will get you a string and a button. ah, lord, i was once a delicious idiot." "and you've simply lost your deliciousness," tom replied. "ah, and in its place took up age. but with it came wisdom, thomas." "but didn't it come too late?" "the wise utterance of a foolish youth," said the old man. "yes, thomas, it came too late. wisdom is not of much use to an old codger. he can't profit by it himself and nobody wants his advice. did i ever tell you about the girl i loved? ah, she was glorious. june was in her mouth and october fell out of her hair." "and you didn't marry her because she was poor, eh?" "no, but because she was rich, jimmie. she wanted me not; and she married a wealthy fool and the imbecile made her happy. i could almost forgive her for not loving me, for i was a mate on a steamboat, but to let that fool make her happy--it was too much and i cast her out of my mind. but when is your wedding to take place? in the sweet light of a distant moon or within the sunshine of a few days?" "hanged if i know." "tom!" cried the girl, putting her hands over his mouth, "that's no way to talk." "i said it to make you do that," he replied, his voice latticed by her fingers and sounding afar off. he took her hands and pressed them to his cheek. "a pretty picture, and i'll long remember you as you now sit on that bench," said the old man. "sallie, how old are you?" he asked. "i don't know, sir. pap and mother couldn't put it down 'cause they didn't know how to figger, and when i got so i could figger a little they had dun forgot the year and the day of the month. most of the time when i'm by myself i feel old enough, but sometimes uncle wash calls me foolish and then i'm awful young. but aunt martha never calls me foolish 'cause i help her in the kitchen." there came a scratching at the threshold. the old man got out of his tilted chair and opened the door, and a dog, prancing in, lay down in front of the fire, with his nose between his outstretched paws. "what a pretty dog," said the girl, and with a look out of one eye and with a slight wag of the tail the dog acknowledged the compliment. "oh, he's gallant," gid replied, sitting down. "and he knows when a truth has been told about him." "no good at hunting, is he?" tom asked. "he is not a sportsman," gid answered. "he pays his keep with companionship. i sit here and read him to sleep nearly every night. he tries to keep awake, but he can't. but as long as i read a lively book he'll lie there and look up at me as if he enjoys it, and i believe he does, but 'benton's thirty years in the american senate' will knock him most any time. and old whateley's logic makes him mighty drowsy. i reckon you cubs have been to supper. if you haven't you may make yourselves at home and cook something. old aunt liza cooks for me, out there in the other room, but she's generally away in the service of her church and then i have to shift for myself." "we've been to supper," the girl spoke up, "but if you want something to eat i'll cook it." "bless your life, not a bite," the old man protested. "to eat now would canker a memory. i took sacrament over at the major's. now, i'm going to lean back here and i may talk or i may drop off to sleep, and in either event just let me go. but if i doze off don't wake me, not even when you get ready to leave. just pull the door to and that's all." "ain't you afraid to sleep here all by yourself?" the girl asked. "i'd be afraid somebody'd slip in and grab me." "i could scarcely blame any one for grabbing you, my dear," the old man replied, smiling upon her, "but as for myself, the grabber would get the worst of it." a long time they sat and talked of neighborhood happenings, the death of a burly man who it was never supposed could die before wash sanders was laid away; they talked of the growing dissatisfaction among the negroes, of the church built by father brennon, of the trip to be taken to new orleans by jim and tom. the fire-light died down. a chunk fell and the dog jumped up with a sniff and a sneeze. old gideon took no notice, for leaning back against the wall he was softly snoring. "let us leave him just as he is," said tom. "but it looks cruel," the girl replied. "he suffers from sleeplessness; to wake him would be more cruel. let's do as he told us." the girl put the bench out of the way, that he might not fall over it in the dark; and out of the room they tip-toed and silently they closed the door. by the hand he led her to the road, and with a coo and a song they strolled homeward. the clouds were scattered and acres of light lay on the cleared land; but the woods were dark and the shadows were black, and he walked with his arm about her. they heard the galloping of a horse and stepped aside to let the rider pass, and when he had passed, with his head in the moonlight and his horse in the dark, the young man said: "i know that fellow." "why didn't you speak to him?" she asked. "because it wouldn't do for me to have any words with him. he's the man that's trying to organize the negroes." he left her at wash sanders' gate; he heard her feet upon the steps, and looking back he caught the kiss she threw at him. chapter xix. a steamboat ride to new orleans will never lose its novelty. romance lies along the lower river. the land falls away and we look down upon fields bounded by distant mist, and beyond that dim line one's fancy gallops riotously. not alone the passenger, but the seasoned captain of the boat stands musing and motionless, gazing upon the scene. in his mind he could carry the form and the rugged grandeur of a mountain; upon a crag he could hang his recollection, but this flat endlessness is ever an unencompassed mystery. the wind from the gulf was soft, and the two friends stood on the hurricane-deck, charmed with a familiar view. "it is just as new to me now as it was when i was a boy, coming along here with my father," said the giant. "and yet i don't see what makes it interesting, no woods, nothing but a house here and there." "it always makes me think i'm going over the flat side of the globe, and i catch myself wondering what's just beyond," tom replied. "there's the city 'way round yonder. how long do you want to stay?" "i don't know exactly." "got any particular business down here?" "no," he said, hesitatingly. "none that i know of." "just pleasure, is it?" "well, i reckon we might call it that." "might call it that? but i know why i'm here. i've come because you wanted me to. there is nothing going on that i care to see. what is it you're after?" "oh, just want to look around a little." "all right, old fellow, i'm with you, but as soon as you get tired of looking around i wish you'd let me know. it seems to me that i've been gone a month already. you know why." "yes, i know; but you've got a consolation that i never had--you know what to expect when you get back." "yes, that's true, and may be you'll know what to expect one of these days." from the museful distance the giant removed his gaze and upon the boy at his side he bent a kindly look. "i have been reading a good deal of late," he said, "and old gid has told me that i am improving, but i have found no book to speak a word of comfort to me. i took the heartache away back yonder--but we won't talk about it. we'll poke around down here a day or two and then go home." "but hang it, i thought you came to enjoy yourself and not to conjure up things to make you sad." "you are right, and you shan't hear any more sad talk out of me." it was early in the forenoon when they stepped ashore and stood upon the old levee. the splendid life of the mississippi steamboat is fading, but here the glow lingers, the twilight at the close of a fervid day. no longer are seen the gilded names of famous competitors, "the lee," "the natchez," but unheralded boats are numerous, and the deck-hands' chorus comes with a swell over the water, and the wharf is a jungle of trade. in the french market they drank black coffee, listening to the strange chatter about them, and then aimlessly they strolled away. "what's your programme?" the boy asked. "haven't any." "do you want to call on any of the cotton buyers?" "no, don't care to see them." "all right; i'll walk until you say quit." and thus they passed the day, with strolling about, halting to look at an old tiled roof, a broken iron gate, a wrought iron balcony, a snail-covered garden wall; and when evening was come they went to a hotel to rest; but no sooner had night fallen than they went out again to resume their walk. "look here," said tom, beginning to lag, "i don't want to kick, but i'd just like to know why i am fool enough to walk all day like a mule on a tread-mill?" "you said you'd walk with me." "said i would! haven't i?" "yes," the giant drawled, "in a manner." "if i haven't walked i don't know what you call walking. you have made a machine of me, a corn-planter. would you mind telling me where we are going now?" "i confess i don't know," the giant answered. "then let us look around and find out. right now i'd rather be in old gid's house, sitting with somebody on a bench--and i'm going back to-morrow. what fun is there in poking about this way like a couple of gawks? you even pull me away from the supper table to tramp up and down these streets. hang it, i don't want to see people. every face i see is----" "a disappointment," said the giant. "then why do you take the crowded side of the street? let's go in here and sit down a moment." they had halted in front of a music hall. from within proceeded the husky song of a worn-out negro minstrel. "you may go in but i'll walk on," jim replied. "it's nothing but a dive. i'll go on down to the corner and wait for you. don't stay long." jim strode away and tom went into the beer hall. at the far end was a stage, and on it stood the minstrel, dimmed by intervening tobacco smoke. the floor was covered with damp saw-dust. the place was thronged with a motley crowd, sailors, gamblers, with here and there a sprinkle of wayward respectability. painted girls attended the tables and everywhere was the slopping of beer and the stench of the cigarette. tom was about to turn away when the sight of a company gathered about a table halted him; and through the smoke his vision leaped and rested upon--louise. there was a rush, an over-turning of a table, the toppling over of a tipsy man, and tom stood confronting her. in a loud voice he cried: "what the devil are you doing here?" she got up and held out her hand, but resentment entered her mind and she drew it back. "what are _you_ doing here?" she replied. "i've as much right here as you have." "i'll show you about that!" he roared, his anger lifting his voice high above the grumble and the sharp clack of the place. "i'll drag you out!" beside her sat a solemnly-respectable man, and up he got and quietly said: "your language is most insulting, sir." tom did not wait to weigh the remark; indeed he did not hear it, for like a bull-dog in a fury he lunged at the quiet man's throat, laid hold of his collar, shoved him off to arm's length, and struck him, but the blow glanced and the man jerked away. and then amid loud cries, the over-turning of tables and the smashing of glasses, the furious youngster felt himself seized by many hands. but he was a tiger and they could not bear him to the floor. he broke loose and sprawled one man upon the saw-dust. others rushed upon him and again he was in a tangle and a tug, but he tore himself from their hands, got a square blow at the proprietor of the house and knocked him senseless. for a moment he was free, and this moment was not left unimproved. from an upturned table he wrenched a leg, and swinging it above his head he cleared his way to a side door, and snatching it open, he sprung out into a small court, just as the police were entering at the front of the house. in the court a dim light was burning; at the end, but a few yards away, was a rusty iron gate, and whether or not it was locked he never knew, for throwing down his weapon he laid hold of a bar and with a jerk he tore the gate from its rust-eaten hinges, threw it against a wall and was out in the street. now he ran, through an open space, into another street, and then he walked, panting, looking back. it must have been difficult to explain the cause of the disturbance for the police had not followed him. he halted under a lamp hung above a narrow doorway. his hat was gone, his coat was torn, and the bosom of his shirt was in shreds. the short street was deserted, but he fancied that he heard footsteps, and quickly he walked to a corner, and turning, saw jim standing under a lamp-post not far away. the giant was not looking toward him, and not hearing his easy approach, did not turn his head until tom was almost within the shade-rim of the lamp. "why, what the deuce have you been doing?" the giant cried, reaching him at a stride. "you look like a drowned rat, and your neck is clawed. what have you been doing?" "row," the boy panted. "in that place? come back and we'll clean it out. come on." "no," said tom, "let's get away from here. i've got something to tell you. let's circle round here somewhere and get a hat. i'll tell you when we get back to the hotel, and you won't care to walk any more to-night after i've told you." jim might have been burning to know more, but he said nothing, for dogged patience was a part of his heroism. he took the boy's arm and led him away, to a place where a hat was bought, and thence to the hotel; and not until they were shut in a room did tom attempt to tell his story. and it was even then some minutes before he could proceed. his anger was gone and sorrow was upon him. several times he choked. and then he told his story. with hard steps the giant walked about the room, saying not a word; but he drooped as he halted at the window, as he stood looking out upon the glimmering lights, far below. "you said i wouldn't want to walk to-night, but i must," he spoke, and his voice had a smothered sound. "i am going out to look for her. and now you know why i have been walking all day, gazing at the faces in the crowd." he had turned from the glimmering lights and was looking at tom. "i traced that letter she wrote, and in my mind i settled that it must have come from this place. but i didn't tell your mother what i suspected; i kept it to myself." "if you go out again i'll go with you, jim." "no, i insist upon going alone." he went out; and when he returned, just before the dawn, he found the boy asleep on a chair. he took him up, put him upon a bed and sat himself down at a window; and when tom awoke, along toward ten o'clock, the giant was still sitting there. "jim." "well." "how long have you been in?" "don't know." "you didn't--didn't find her?" "no. i went to the place where you had the fight--wish to the lord i had been with you--but of course couldn't learn anything. i was--was afraid to ask about her. but i tramped around all night, and i went into all sorts of places, looking for her, and all the time afraid that i might find her. god, what am i talking about! afraid of finding her! why, she couldn't be in a place where--where she oughtn't to be." "but she was!" the boy cried, bounding out upon the floor. "she was and--great god, i can hardly believe it, i don't realize it! i have been so swallowed up that i haven't thought about her much lately--she's crazy, jim. oh, she must be. she was the purest-minded girl----" the giant stopped him with an uplifting of his ponderous hand. "don't say any more. don't say she _was_ pure-minded. she _is_ pure-minded. i will find her and she shall tell me----" "she can't tell you anything to clear herself, jim. she's lost--she's crazy." "she's an angel," said the giant. "my dear jim, she's my sister and i loved her, but angels can't go----" "don't say it." "i won't, but don't you be foolish. truth is truth, and we have to look at it whether we want to or not." he walked up and down the room. "who would have thought that such a thing could happen?" he went on. "it's a dream. but why did she leave home when she knew how much we all loved her? what made her run away from you when she knew how you loved her? jim, i'm going home to-day. are you coming with me?" "no, i'm going to stay here and look for her." "and when you have found her she'll treat you as she did me. she'll say she has as much right there as you have. i don't believe it's any use. better come home with me." "no, i'm going to look for her, and if she'll marry me i'll bring her home." "jim, she is my sister, but--i won't say it. i love her, but i would rather have seen her dead than where i saw her last night. i'm going home." "wait a moment." for a time he pondered and then he said: "you may tell your mother, but don't tell the major." "but why should it be kept from him? he ought to know it. we'll have to tell him some time." "some time, may be, but not now, and don't you even hint it to him, and don't you tell sallie. don't tell any one but your mother. do you hear?" "yes, and i reckon you're right. i'll do as you tell me. well, it's time and i'm going." jim went with him to the levee, saw him on a boat and then resumed his search throughout the town. but he asked no questions; and three days later when he went aboard the home-bound boat, he knew no more than he had known the night when the boy had told his story. chapter xx. the night was rainy and a fierce wind was blowing. the major and his wife were by the fire in the sitting-room, when there came a heavy tread upon the porch, but the knock that fell upon the door was gentle. they knew who had come, and the door was opened for jim taylor. quietly he responded to their greeting, and with both hands he took off his slouch hat, went to the fireplace and over the blaze shook it. "put myself in mind of a wet dog," he said. "didn't think to shake outside. how are you all getting along?" he was looking at mrs. cranceford, but the major answered him. "in the same old way. tilt that cat out of the rocking-chair and sit down." "have you heard of the death of mrs. wash sanders?" mrs. cranceford asked, fearing that the major might get ahead of her with this piece of news, but all along determined that he should not. "no, i haven't," he said; but his want of surprise was not satisfying, and mrs. cranceford said: "i mean mrs. wash sanders." "yes, i know; but this is the first i've heard of it. i came from the boat right up here. so the poor woman's dead? she never knew anything but hard work. how long was she sick? shouldn't think she could take the time to be sick long, poor soul." "she was not in bed more than two days. it was awful, the way she suffered. and all the time wash was whining that he couldn't eat anything, as if anybody cared. i never was so provoked at a man in my life. i'd like to know who cares whether he eats another bite or not. actually, i believe he thought the neighbors had come to sympathize with him instead of to nurse his wife. and when she was dead he went about blubbering that he couldn't live but a few days." "he'll outlive us all," said the major. "he told us yesterday that he was threatened with convulsions, and gid swore that a convulsion was about the last thing he ought to fear, that he was too lazy to entertain such an exertion." in this talk jim felt not even the slightest interest. he wanted to talk about louise. but not in mrs. cranceford's manner nor in her eyes when she looked straight at him was there a hint that tom had told her that the girl had been seen. perhaps the boy had decided to elect him to this unenviable office. the major asked him about his trip, but he answered as if he cared not what he said; but when shortly afterward the major went out, taylor's unconcern fell from him and he stood up and in tremulous anxiousness looked at mrs. cranceford, expecting her to say something. surely tom had told her nothing, for she quietly smiled at him as he stood there, awkwardly and distressfully fumbling with himself. "i have a letter from her," she said. taylor sat down hard. "a letter from her!" "yes; received it this morning." "but has tom told you anything?" "yes; everything." "and she has written to you since then?" "yes; i will show you." on a corner of the mantel-piece was a work-box, and unlocking it, she took out a letter and handed it to him. "read it," she said, "and if you hear the major coming, put it away. some references in it would have to be explained, and so i have decided not to let him see it." he took the letter, and standing where the light from the hanging lamp fell brightest, read the following: "my dear mother:--by this time tom must have told you of our meeting. and what a meeting it was. he was worse than an orang-outang, but i must say that i admire his courage, and i struggled to help him when he was in the thick of his fight, but my friends tore me away, realizing that flight was our only redemption. of course you will wonder why i was in such a place, and i don't know that i can explain in a satisfactory manner to you, and surely not to father. i would have introduced tom to my friends had he given me time, but it appears that he was in too much of a hurry to attend upon the demands of politeness. fight was boiling in his blood and it had to bubble out. mother, i was with a slumming party. do you know what a slumming party is? it is a number of respectable people whom curiosity leads into the resorts of crime and vice. society thinks that it makes one wiser, and that to know the aspect of depravity does not make one less innocent. but i know that you will not approve of a slumming party, and i cannot say that i do. the rev. h. markham, whose sermons you must have read, was with me. as the champion of virtue he has planned and executed an invasion of the haunts of iniquity, and his weekly discourses here are very popular, particularly with women. well, he was sitting beside me, and i have since thought that it must have been a great shock to his dignity when tom struck him; but his greatest solicitude was the fear that the occurrence might be spread by the newspapers, and to keep it out was his first care. that night on business i left the city, and i write this in a quiet, arcadian neighborhood. it is with pleasure that i feel myself a success in the work which i have chosen. what work? you naturally ask. but that is my secret, and i must hold it just a little longer." here several lines were erased and a fresh start taken. "i have longed to look upon the dear faces at home; but mingled with my love is a pride. i am determined to make something of myself. simply to be an honest, patient, upright woman, in love with her home, is no longer enough. life demands more than this, or at least woman demands it of life. and to be somebody calls for sacrifice as well as ability and determination. absence from home is my sacrifice, and what my effort is you shall know in due time. it will surprise you, and in this to me will lie a delight. my associates tell me that i am different from anyone else, but this difference they put down as an individuality, and success in my field is won only by the individual. within two weeks from this day i shall be with you, and then my little ant-hill of mystery will be torn to pieces. i am going to show you all how i love you; i am going to prove to you that what has appeared odd and unlady-like were but leadings to my development." more lines were erased, and then the letter thus proceeded: "for some time i have had it in mind to make sallie pruitt a present, but as i have no idea as to what she might like best, i enclose twenty dollars, which you will please give to her. do you see my hero often? i think of him, dream of him, and my heart will never know a perfect home until his love has built a mansion for it." the letter was fluttering in the giant's hand. "who--who--what does she mean?" "she means you, stupid!" mrs. cranceford cried. he looked up, dazed; he put out his hand, he grabbed his hat, he snatched the door open and was out in the wind and the rain. chapter xxi. with rain-soaked sand the road was heavy, and to walk was to struggle, but not so to the giant treading his way homeward. coming, he had felt the opposition of the wind, the rain and the mushy sand, but returning he found neither in the wind nor in the sand a foe to progress. his heart was leaping, and with it his feet were keeping pace. in his hand he held the letter; and feeling it begin to cool in his grasp, he realized that the rain was beating upon it; so, holding in common with all patient men the instincts of a woman, he put the wet paper in his bosom and tightly buttoned his coat about it. suddenly he halted; the pitiful howling of a dog smote his ear. at the edge of a small field lying close to the road was a negro's cabin, and from that quarter came the dog's distressful outcry. jim stepped up to the fence and listened for any human-made noise that might proceed from the cabin, but there came none--the place was dark and deserted. "they have gone away and left him shut up somewhere," he mused, as he began to climb the fence. the top rail broke under his weight, and his mind flew back to the day when he had seen louise in the road, confronted by the burly leader of a sheepfold, for then with climbing a fence he had broken the top rail. he found the dog shut in a corn-crib, and the door was locked. but with a jerk he pulled out the staple, thinking not upon the infraction of breaking a lock, but glad to be of service even to a hound. "come out, old fellow," he called, and he heard the dog's tail thrashing the corn husks. "come on." the dog came to the door, licking at the hand of his rescuer; and jim was about to help him to the ground when a lantern flashed from a corner of the crib. "what are you doing here?" a voice demanded. a white man stepped forward and close behind him a negro followed. "what are you doing here?" the white man again demanded. "getting a dog out of trouble." "getting yourself into trouble, you'd better say. what right have you to poke about at night, breaking people's locks?" "none at all, i am forced to acknowledge. i hardly thought of what i was doing. my only aim was to help the dog." "that will do to tell." "yes, i think so. and by the way, what right have you to ask so many questions? you don't live here." "but he does," the white man replied, swinging his lantern toward the negro. "gabe little lives here." "that you, gabe?" taylor asked. "yas, whut de white folks has left o' me." "all right. you are well enough acquainted with me to know that i wouldn't break a lock----" "but you have, sir," the white man insisted. "not exactly; but i have drawn the staple. by the way, whose dog is this?" the dog had jumped out and was frisking about taylor's legs. "it's a setter and doesn't belong to you, gabe." "dat's fur me ter say, sah," the negro sullenly replied. "that so? well, i guess i'll keep him until i find out his owner." "that's neither here nor there!" the white man almost shouted. "the question is, what right have you got to go to a man's house at night and break his lock?" "none, i tell you; and i'm not only willing to pay all damages, but will answer to the law." "the law!" and this time he shouted. "law to protect a negro's lock? let us hear no more about the law. what we want is justice, and we're going to have it, sooner or later." "who are you, anyway?" the giant asked. "oh, yes, you are mr. mayo, i believe. well, i'll bid you good-night." "wait. you have invaded this man's premises and committed a violence." "that's a fact, and i'm sorry for it." "yes, you are now, but how will you feel about it to-morrow? you'll forget all about it, and that's the way the colored man is treated in this infernal state. no, gabe," he quickly added, taking hold of the negro's arm, "put it up. the time ain't ripe." the negro had drawn a knife, opening it with a spring, and with a loud snap he closed it. "we mustn't be the first to strike, although they break into our houses," mayo said; and then speaking to taylor he added: "you may go." the giant threw back his head and laughed. "i may go. why, if it wasn't for the fact that i'm feeling particularly happy to-night, i'd mash your mouth for that. i should think that your poor fool there would teach you better than to talk to me that way. but i'll be a better friend to you than you have taught him to be--i'll give you some very useful advice. if you should ever see me coming along the road, turn back or climb the fence, for i might not be in as good humor as i'm in now." he whistled and strode away, with the dog trotting at his heels; and by the time he gained the road the occurrence had almost wholly passed out of his mind, so fondly did his heart leap at the thought of the letter in his bosom. upon reaching a gate that opened into his meadow, he looked about and whistled for the dog, but the setter was gone. "you were howling for your master," the giant said, "and the greatest service i could do you was to let you go to him. all right, old fellow, we are both happier for having met." he went into the house, lighted his lamp, sat down, read the letter; he went out and stood under the weeping-willow. "if i am foolish," he said, "it is delicious to be a fool, and god pity the wise. but i don't know what to do with myself. yes, i do; i'll go over and see old gideon." he considered not the increasing rain, the dreariness of the road, the moanful wind in the tops of the trees; he felt that to be alone was to suppress a part of his happiness, that his light and talkative heart must seek a hearing for the babbling of its joy. so off he strode, and as he climbed over a fence, he laughingly jolted himself upon the top rail to see whether it would break. it did not, and he laughed to find a stick of old timber strong enough to support his weight. he called himself a lumbering fool and laughed again, sitting there with the rain beating upon him. a short distance down the road was a wagon-maker's shop, and against the outside wall a ladder was leaned. he thought of the ladder as he bore to the edge of the road to avoid the deep ruts cut by the cotton-wagons, and fearful that he might pass under it and thus invite ill luck, he crossed to the other side. he smiled at this weakness, instilled by the negroes, but he did not recross the road until he had passed far beyond the shop. the old black mammy was lovable and affectionate, but she intimidated man with many a superstition. chapter xxii. in old gid's house a light was burning, and as the giant drew near, he caught a fragment of a flat-boatman's song. he made no noise, but a dog inside scented his approach and announced it with a whimsical bark. gid opened the door. "why, here's jim taylor, as wet as a drowned bear. come in." sitting by the fire was the major, with his coat off and his shirt collar unbuttoned. "why, james," said he, "you are making the rounds to-night. sit down here and dry yourself. and look at you, mud up to your knees. why do you tramp about this way? why don't you ride?" "too heavy," the giant answered. "then, i gad," gid replied, dragging his bench from against the wall and sitting down upon it, "i know i'd ride. do men ride for their own comfort or for the horse's? and what difference do a few extra pounds make to a horse? why, if you were a horse somebody would ride you. you are not fat, jim; you are just big. and a horse doesn't mind a well-proportioned fellow; it's the wabbling fat man that riles him. i owned a horse once that would have been willing to go without corn a whole week for a chance to kick a fat man; and i put it down as an unreasonable cruelty until i found out that he had once belonged to a fellow that weighed three hundred pounds." "and you afterward owned him," said the major, winking at jim. "that's what i said, john." "now, gid, i don't want to appear captious, but are you sure you ever owned a horse?" "i bought that horse, john. i confess that it was with borrowed money, but under the law he was mine. ah, lord," he sighed, "self-imposed frankness will be gone when i am taken from you. and yet i get no credit." "no credit!" cried the major. "credit has kept you from starving." "tip-toe, john; my nerves are tight-strung. would have starved! a befitting reproach thrown at genius. look up there!" he shouted, waving his hand at the shelf whereon were piled his dingy books. "they never owned a horse and they lived on credit, but they kept the world from starving to death. and this reminds me that those sweet potatoes must be about done. your name is among the coals, jim; we've got enough for all hands. wish we had some milk, but i couldn't get any. dogs couldn't catch the cow. you hear of cows giving milk. mine don't--i gad, i have to grab her and take it away from her; and whenever you see milk in my house you may know it's the record of a fight and that the cow got the worst of it." jim sat striving to think of something to say. the presence of the major had imposed a change in his forecast. his meeting of mayo and the negro suddenly recurred to him, and quietly he related the adventure. but the major and gid were not quiet with hearing it. "you ought to have cut his throat!" gid exclaimed. "to-morrow get your gun and shoot him down--both of them, like dogs. who ever heard of such a thing, saying to a gentleman, 'now you may go!' i gad, i'll go with you, and we'll shoot 'em down." "no," said the major, and now with his hands behind him he was slowly pacing the floor. "that won't do." "why won't it do?" gid cried. "has the time come when a white man must stand all sorts of abuse simply because he is white? must he stand flat-footed and swallow every insult that a scoundrel is pleased to stuff into his mouth?" the major sat down. "let me remind you of something," he said. "for the average man, under ordinary circumstances, it is enough to have simple justice on his side, but on our side we must have more than justice. no people in the world were ever situated as we now are, for even by our brothers we shall be deemed wrong, no matter which way we turn." "ah," gid cried, "then what's the use of calculating our turn? if we are to be condemned anyway, what's the----" "hold on a moment," the major struck in, "and i will tell you. sentiment is against us; literature, with its roots running back into the harsh soil of politics, is against us; and----" "no measured oratory, john. get down on the ground." "wait, i tell you!" the major demanded. "i must get to it in my own way. if your advice were followed, we should never be able to elect another president. the bloody shirt would wave from every window in the north, and from the northern point of view, justly so; and reviewed even by the disinterested onlooker, we have not been wholly in the right." "the deuce we haven't!" gid shouted, his eyes bulging. "no, not wholly; we couldn't be," the major continued. "as self-respecting men, as anglo-saxons, we could not submit to the domination of former slaves. it was asking too much. we had ruled the nation, and though we were finally overpowered, we could not accept the negro as a ruler." "john, i know all that as well as you do; we have talked it many a time, but what i want to get at is this: has a man the right to resent an insult? i was never cruel to a negro. i like him in his place, like him better than i do the average white man, to tell the plain truth, for between him and me there is the tie of irresponsibility, of shiftlessness; but i don't want him to insult me; don't want to stand any more from him than i would from a white man. you spoke of not being able to elect another president. why should we put up with so much merely to say that a democrat is president? it doesn't make much difference who's president, foreign nations keep on insulting us just the same. i'd like to see a chief magistrate with nerve enough to say to the south, 'boys, go over and grab off mexico.' that's me." the major laughed. "that's me, too," he replied. "we ought to sweeten this country with cuba," said jim, with his mind on the letter in his bosom. "yes," gid replied, raising his hand, "that's what we ought to do, and----" his hand fell, and he wheeled about and seized a poker. "i'll bet a thousand dollars the potatoes are burned up," he said. "just look there," he added, raking out the charred remains of what was to be a feast. "that's the way it goes. the devil titters when men argue. well, it can't be helped," he went on. "i did my part. if we had settled upon killing that fellow mayo, everything would have been all right. he has not only insulted us but has robbed us as well." "to tell you the truth," said the major, "i'm glad i'm relieved of the trouble of eating." "john, don't say that, for when a southern man loses his appetite for roasted sweet potatoes, he's a degenerate." the major was about to say something, but looking at his watch he jumped up. "gracious, gid, you not only kill your own time but murder mine. it's nearly two o'clock." "sit down, john. don't be snatched." "snatched! wind-bag, you counsel me to blow my life away. hold your lamp out here so that i can see to get on my horse." when gid returned from the passage wherein he had stood to shelter the light, he found jim on the bench, with no apparent intention of taking his leave; and this he construed to mean that the giant had something on his mind. "out with it, jimmie," he said, as he put the lamp upon the mantel-piece. "i'll sit down here as if it was only early candle-lighting, and let you tell me all about it." "how do you know i've got anything to say, uncle gideon?" "how do i know when a dog itches? i see him scratch. you have been sitting there in an itching silence and now you begin to scratch. you are more patient than a dog, for you don't scratch until you have itched for some time. let the fur fly, jimmie." jim laughed, raised his leg and clasped his hands over his knee. "uncle gideon, i reckon i'm the happiest man in cranceford county." the old man sat leaning back against the wall. his coat was off and under his suspenders he had hooked his thumbs. "go on, jimmie; i'm listening." "she has written another letter--did tom tell you anything?" he broke off. "did tom ever tell me anything? did tom ever tell anybody anything? did he ever know anything to tell?" "she has written another letter and in it she confesses--i don't know how to say it, uncle gideon." "well, tell me and i'll say it for you. confesses that she can be happy with no one but you. go on." "who told you? did mrs. cranceford?" "my dear boy, did mrs. cranceford ever tell me anything except to keep off the grass? nobody has told me anything. confesses that you are the only man that can make her happy. now shoot your dye-stuff." "but that's all there is. she says that her heart will never have a home until my love builds a mansion for it." "jimmie, if the highest market price for a fool was one hundred dollars, you'd fetch two hundred." "why? because i believe her when she talks that way--when she gives me to understand that she loves me?" "no; but because you didn't believe all along that she loved you." "how could i when she refused to marry me and married another man?" "that marriage is explained. you've seen the letter she wrote the night before she went away, haven't you?" "yes, her mother showed it to me." "i didn't read it," said gid, "but the major gave me the points, and i know that she married that fellow believing that she was saving his soul." "yes, i read that," said jim, "but i didn't know whether she meant it or not. i reckon i was afraid to believe it." "well, i know it to be a fact--know it because i know her nature. she's just crank enough----" "don't say that," jim protested, unclasping his hands from his knee and straightening up. "don't call her a crank when she's an angel." "that's all right, my dear boy, but heaven is full of the right sort of cranks. who serves god deeper than the religious crank, and if he's not to be rewarded, who is? by crank i don't mean a weak-minded person; i come nearer meaning a genius." "i reckon you mean all right," the giant agreed; and after pondering in silence he asked: "do you reckon she would marry me?" "i know it. and why not? you are a gentleman and a devilish good-looking fellow. why, any woman interested in a fine stock show would be proud of you." at this the giant rubbed his hands together and softly chuckled; but sobering, he said that he could never hope to equal her in thought and quickness of expression, though by reading he would make an effort to attain that end. "don't worry about that, jimmie; and don't you fool yourself that books are everything. they smooth knots, but they don't make timber. oh, you are smart enough--for a woman." "i'm not an idiot," said the giant. "sometimes i can talk without any trouble, and then again i can't say a thing. it's different with you." the old man's egotism awoke--it never more than dozed. "jimmie," said he, "it is violating no compact to tell you that i'm no common man. other men have a similar opinion of themselves and are afraid to spit it out, but i'm bold as well as wise. i know that my opinion doesn't go for much, for i'm too good-humored, too approachable. the blitheness of my nature invites familiarity. you go to a house and make too much of the children, and the first thing you know they'll want to wallow on you all the time. well, i have made too much of the children of the world, and they wallow on me. but i pinch them sometimes and laugh to hear them squeal. there's only one person that i'm afraid of--mrs. cranceford. she chills me and keeps me on the frozen dodge. i always feel that she is reading me, and that makes me more of a rascal--trying to give her something that she can't read. look here, if we expect to get any sleep we'd better be at it." "you go to bed, uncle gideon; i'm going to sit up." "all right; sit there as long as you please." the old fellow got up, and walking stiffly went to the window, drew aside the red calico curtain and looked out. "don't see much promise of a clear-up," he said. "not a star in sight. i always dread the rainy season; it makes people look sad, and i want to see them bright--i am most agreeable to them when they're bright. still, i understand that nothing is more tiresome than eternal sunshine. i wonder if i locked the smokehouse," he went on, turning from the window. "but, come to think, i don't believe i've locked it since about a week ago, when some rascal slipped in and stole nearly all my hams and a bushel of meal. i gad, my old joints work like rusty hinges. well, i'll lie down now. good night, jimmie. don't slip off before breakfast." the giant did not hear him. he sat leaning forward, gazing at the cliffs, the mountains, the valleys in the fire. the rain had ceased, but now and then came a dashing shower, like a scouting party, a guerrilla band sweeping through the dark. to the muser there was no time; time had dribbled out and reverie had taken its place. the fire was dying. he saw the red cliffs grow gray along the edges, age creeping over the rocks; he saw a mountain fall into a whitening valley, and he looked up. it was daylight. he went to the door and looked out, and far across the river the brilliant morning sun was rising from a bath of steam. "you here yet, jimmie?" the bed loudly creaked, and the giant, looking about, found old gid sitting on the edge of his couch, rubbing his eyes. "don't go, for we'll have breakfast now in a minute. i am always glad to look up and find a picture of manliness and strength. it takes me back to my own early days, when i didn't know the meaning of weakness. but i know now--i can feel it all over me. i do think i can dream more foolish things during three to half a dozen winks of sleep than any man that ever lived. now, what could have put it into my mind to dream that i was born with one leg and was trying at a county fair to swap it off for two? well, i hear the old woman setting the table out there. wait till i jump into my clothes and i'll pour a gourd of water for you to wash your face and hands. had a wash-basin round here somewhere, but don't know what became of it. had intended to get another, but have been so busy. but i'll tell you there's nothing like a good wash under a pouring gourd. how's your appetite this morning?" "i don't know." "well, you may find it when you sniff old liza's corn cakes. now what the deuce became of that other suspender? we used to call them galluses in my day. and now where is that infernal gallus? beats anything i ever saw in my life. ah, there it is, over by the window. but how it could have jumped off i don't know. now let me shove into my old shoes and i'll be with you." out in the yard, in a fabulous net of gilded mist they stood, to bathe under the spouting gourd, the mingling of a new day's poetry and the shiftlessness of an old man. "stream of silver in the gold of a resurrected sun," he said, bareheaded and blinking. "who'd want a wash-pan? i gad, jimmie, folks are forgetting how to live. they are putting too much weight on what they can buy for money, unmindful of the fact that the best things of this life are free. look at that gourd, old, with a sewed-up crack in it, and yet to my mind it serves its purpose better than a china basin. well, let's go in now and eat a bite. i'm always hungry of a morning. an old fellow is nearer a boy when he first gets up, you know; but he grows old mighty fast after he's had breakfast." the giant, saying never a word, followed him, the loose boards of the passageway between the two sections of the house creaking and groaning as he trod upon them; and coming to the door he had to stoop, so low had it been cut. "that's right, jimmie, duck or you'll lay yourself out. i gad, the world's full of traps set for big fellows. now sit down there and fall to. don't feel very brash this morning, do you?" "i feel first-rate," jim answered, sitting down. "youth and love mixed," said the old man, placing himself at the head of the board. "and ah, lord, when we grow out of one and forget the other, there's not much left to live for. i'd rather be a young fellow in love than to be an emperor. help yourself to a slab of that fried ham. she'll bring the coffee pretty soon. here she comes now. waiting for you, aunt liza. have some hoe-cake, jimmie. yes, sir; youth and love constitute the world, and all that follows is a mere makeshift. thought may come, but thought, after all, is but a dull compromise, jimmie, a cold potato instead of a hot roll. love is noon, and wisdom at its best is only evening. there are some quince preserves in that jar. help yourself. thought about her all night, didn't you?" "i think about her all the time, uncle gideon." "and jimmie, it wouldn't surprise me if the world should think about her after a while. that woman's a genius." "i hope not," the giant replied, looking up, and in his voice was a note of distress, and in his eyes lay the shadow of a fear. "and why not, jimmie?" "because if she should turn out to be a genius she won't marry me." "that's where your perception is broken off at the end, jimmie. in the matter of marriage genius is mighty skittish of genius--it seeks the constancy of the sturdy and commonplace. i'll try a dip of those preserves. now let me see. after breakfast you'd better lie down on my bed and take a nap." "no, i must go. the major is going over to brantly to-day and i want him to bring me a box of cartridges. i forgot to tell him last night." "oh, you're thinking about mayo, eh?" "well, i don't know but he did cross my mind. it occurred to me that he might waylay me some night, and i don't want to stand out in the road and dance while he's shooting at me." "that's right," said the old man. "a fellow cuts a mighty sorry figure dancing under such circumstances. i've tried it." he shoved his chair back from the table and jim got up to take his leave. "look out for the door, jimmie. duck as you go under or it will lay you out. traps set all through life for fellows of your size." jim was not oppressed with weariness as he strode along the highway, for in the crisp air a tonic was borne, but loss of sleep had made his senses dreamy, and all things about him were touched with the spirit of unreality--the dead leaves fluttering on the underbrush, the purple mist rising from the fields, the water-mirrors flashing in the road; and so surrendered was he to a listless brooding, forgetful even that he moved along, that he did not notice, up the road, a man leap aside into the woods. the man hid behind a tree, with his eye on the giant and with the barrel of a pistol pressed hard against the bark. jim passed on, with his hands in his pockets, looking down; and when a clump of bushes, red with frost-dyed leaves, hid him from view, mayo came out from behind the tree and resumed his journey down the road. the major had mounted his horse at the gate and was on the point of riding forth when jim came up. "why, good-morning, james," the old gentleman heartily greeted him. "have you just crawled out of that old man's kennel? i see that the old owl must have kept you up all night. why, sir, if i were to listen to him i'd never get another wink of sleep." "i kept myself up," said the giant; and then he added: "i wanted to see you this morning, not very bad, but just to ask you to get me a box of forty-fours when you go to brantly to-day." "i'm glad to find you so thoughtful," said the major. "and i want to tell you right now that you've got to look out for yourself. but staying up all night is no way to begin. go on into tom's room and take a nap." the major whistled as he rode along, not for want of serious reflection, for he could easily have reached out and drawn in trouble, but because the sharp air stirred his spirits. nowhere was there a cloud--a speckless day in the middle of a week that had threatened to keep the sky besmirched. roving bands of negro boys were hunting rabbits in the fields, with dogs that leaped high in low places where dead weeds stood brittle. the pop-eyed hare was startled from his bed among brambly vines, and fierce shouts arose like the remembered yell of a confederate troop. the holidays were near, the crops were gathered, the winter's wood was up, the hunting season open, but no negro fired a gun. at this time of the year steamboatmen and tavern-keepers in the villages were wont to look to titus, eli, pompey, sam, caesar and bill for their game, and it was not an unusual sight to see them come loaded down with rabbits and quails caught in traps, but now they sat sullen over the fire by day, but were often met prowling about at night. this crossed the major's mind and drove away his cheerful whistling; and he was deeply thinking when someone riding in haste reined in a horse abreast of him. looking up he recognized the priest. "why, good morning, mr. brennon; how are you?" "well, i thank you. how far do you go?" "to brantly." "that's fortunate," said the priest, "for i am selfish enough to let you shorten the journey for me." "i can't do that," the major laughed, "but we can divide it. i remember overtaking a man one miserable day out in the indian territory. he was ignorant, but he was quaint; he couldn't argue, but he could amuse, and he did until he called me a liar, and there our roads split. don't think, from my telling you this, that i am in the least doubt as to the desirability of your company on the road to brantly. been some time since i've seen you, mr. brennon." "yes; i have been very busy." "and successfully so, i suppose." "i am not in a position to complain," said the priest. "by the way, will you answer a few questions?" "gladly, if they're answerable." "i think they are. now, the negroes that come into your communion tell you many things, drop idle gossip that may mean much. did any of them ever drop a hint of preparations which their brethren may or may not be making to demand some unreasonable concession from the white people of this community?" "what i have seen i am free to relate to you," the priest answered, "but as to what has been told--well, that is quite another matter. i have seen no preparations, but you doubtless remember a conversation we had some time ago, and on that occasion i think we agreed that we might have trouble sooner or later." "yes, we were agreed upon that point," the major replied, "but neither of us professed to see trouble close at hand. for some time i have heard it rumored that the negroes are meeting at night to drill, but i have paid but little attention, giving them credit for more sense than to believe that their uprising could be more than a short, and, to themselves, a disastrous, struggle; but there is one aspect that impresses me, the fact that they are taking no notice of the coming of christmas; for when this is the case you must know that the negro's nature must have undergone a complete change. i don't quite understand it. why, sir, at present they can find no possible excuse for revolt. the crops are gathered and they can make no demand for higher wages; no election is near and they can't claim a political cause for disaffection. if they want better pay for their labor, why didn't they strike in the midst of the cotton-picking? that would have been their time for trouble, if that's what they want." "perhaps they hadn't money enough to buy equipment, guns and ammunition," the priest suggested. "perhaps they needed the money that the gathering of the crops would bring them." the major looked at him. "i hadn't thought of that," he said. "but surely the negroes have sense enough to know that the whites would exterminate them within a week." it was some time before father brennon replied. his deliberation led the major to believe that he would speak from his abundant resources; and the planter listened eagerly with his head turned to one side and with his hand behind his ear. "it is possible," the priest began, "that the negro had been harangued to the conviction that he is to begin a general revolt against capital, that labor organizations everywhere will rise up when they hear that he has been bold enough to fire his gun." the major's shoulders stiffened. "sir, if you have known this, why haven't you as a white man and a southern gentleman told us of it? why haven't you warned us?" the priest smiled. "your resentment is just," said he. "but the truth is, it was not formulated as an opinion until late last night. i called at your house this morning and was told that you had set out for the county-seat. and i have overtaken you." the major reined up his horse. both horses stopped. "mr. brennon, you are a gentleman, sir. my hand." they shook hands and rode on. the major was deep in thought. "it has all been brought about by that scoundrel mayo," he said at last. "he has instilled a most deadly poison into the minds of those people. i will telegraph the governor and request him to send the state militia into this community. the presence of the soldiers will dissolve this threatened outbreak; and by the blood, sir, mayo shall be convicted of treason against the state and hanged on the public square in brantly. and that will be an end of it." the priest said nothing, and after a time the major asked: "how are you getting on with your work?" "i am greatly encouraged, and i wish i had more time." "what do you mean by that?" "i have told you that the church can save the negro. do you know a negro named bob hackett?" "yes; he was a worthless politician, but they tell me that he has withdrawn from active politics and gone to work. what about him?" "he is now a communicant of the church," the priest answered. "he acknowledges a moral authority; and i make bold to say that should trouble come, he will take no part in it. and i make still bolder to say that the church, the foster mother of the soul of man, can in time smooth all differences and establish peace and brotherly regard between the white man and the negro. the ethiopian cannot change his skin, but true religion whitens his soul and makes him our brother." "your sentiment is good," replied the major, "but religion must recognize an impossibility. the white man and the negro can never hold each other in brotherly regard. never." "don't say never, major. men pass from fixed prejudices; the church is eternal in its purpose. don't say never." "well, then, sir," cried the major, standing in his stirrups, "i will not say never; i will fix a time, and it shall be when the pyramids, moldered to dust, are blown up and down the valley of the nile." he let himself down with a jolt, and onward in silence they rode. and now from a rise of ground the village of brantly was in sight. the priest halted. "i turn back here," he said. "mr. brennon," the major replied, "between you and me the question of creed should not arise. you are a white man and a gentleman. my hand, sir." chapter xxiii. brantly long ago was a completed town. for the most part it was built of wood, and its appearance of decay was so general and so even as to invite the suspicion that nearly all its building had been erected on the same day. in the center of the town was the public square, and about it were ranged the business houses, and in the midst of it stood the court house with its paint blistered and its boards warping. it was square, with a hall and offices below. above was the court room, and herein was still heard the dying echo of true oratory. on the top of this building, once the pride of the county, was a frail tower, and in it was a clock, always slow. it was never known to record an hour until that hour had long since been due. sometimes it would save up its strokes upon the bell until fifty or more were accumulated, and then, in the midst of an intense jury trial, it would slowly turn them loose. a mathematician, a man who kept the dates of late and early frosts, had it in his record that the hammer struck the bell sixty-eight times on the afternoon when john maffy was sentenced to be hanged, and that the judge had to withhold his awful words until this flood of gathered time was poured out. once or twice the county court had appropriated money to have the clock brought back within the bounds of reason, but a more pressing need had always served to swallow up the sum thus set aside. a stone planted at one corner of the public square marked the site of a bit of bloody history. away back in the fifties a man named antrem, from new england, came to brantly and, standing where the stone now stands, made an abolition speech. it was so bold an impudence that the citizens stood agape, scarcely able to believe their ears. at last the passive astonishment was broken by a slave-owner named peel. he drew two pistols, handed one to the speaker, stepped off and told him to defend himself. the new englander had nerve. he did defend himself, and with deadly effect. both men were buried on the public square. a railway had skipped brantly by ten long and sandy miles, and a new town springing up about a station on the line--an up-start of yesterday, four-fifths of it being a mere paper town, and the other fifth consisting of cheap and hastily built stores, saloons, boarding houses, a livery stable, a blacksmith shop, and a few roughly constructed dwellings--clamored for the county seat; and until this question was finally settled old brantly could not look with confidence toward any improvement. indeed, some of her business men stood ready to desert her in the event that she should be beaten by the new town, and while all were bravely willing to continue the fight against the up-start, every one was slow to hazard his money to improve his home or his place of business. whenever a young man left brantly it was predicted that he would come to no good, and always there came a report that he was gambling, or drinking himself to death. the mere fact that he desired to leave the old town was fit proof of his general unworthiness to succeed in life. the major rode into town, nodding at the loungers whom he saw on the corners of the streets, and tying his horse to the rack on the square, went straightway to the shop of the only hardware dealer and asked for cartridges. "my stock is running pretty low," said the dealer, wrapping up the paste-board box. "i've sold more lately than i ever sold in any one season before, and yet there's no game in the market." the major whistled. "who has been buying them?" he asked. "come to think of it i have sold the most to a frenchman named larnage--lives over on the potter place, i believe. and that reminds me that i'll have a new lot in to-day, ordered for him." "do you know anything about that fellow?" the major asked. "not very much." "well, don't let him have another cartridge. keep all you get. we'll need them to protect life and property." "what! i don't understand." "i haven't time to explain now, for i'm reminded that i must go at once to the telegraph office. come over to the court-house." the major sent a dispatch to the governor and then went to the county clerk's office where he found the hardware dealer and a number of men waiting for him. the report that he was charged with serious news was already spread about; and when he entered, the clerk of the county court, an old fellow with an ink-blot on his bald head, came forward with an inquiry as to what had been meant when the major spoke of the cartridges. the major explained his cause for alarm. then followed a brief silence, and then the old fellow who kept the records of the frosts and the clock, spoke up with the assertion that for some time he had expected it. "billy," he said, speaking to the clerk, "i told you the other day that we were going to have trouble mighty soon. don't you recollect?" "don't believe i do, uncle parker." "but i said so as sure as you are standing there this minute. let me try a little of your tobacco." the clerk handed him a plug, and biting off a chew, the old man continued: "yes, sir, i've had it in mind for a long time." "everybody has talked more or less about it," said the clerk. "oh, i know they have, billy, but not p'intedly, as i have. yes, sir, bound to come." "the thing to do is to over-awe them," said the major. "i have just telegraphed the governor to send the militia down here. and by the way, that fellow mayo ought to be arrested without delay. billy, is the sheriff in his office?" "no, major, he's gone down to sassafras to break up a gang of negro toughs that have opened a gambling den. he'll be back this evening and i'll have the warrant ready for him by the time he gets back. any of us can swear it out--reckon all our names better go to it." "yes," the major agreed, "we'd better observe the formalities of the law. the militia will undo all that has been done, and as for the fellow that brought about the inquietude, we'll see him hanged in front of this door." old man parker, who kept the records, nudged his neighbor and said: "inquietude is the word. i told my wife last night, says i, 'nancy, whenever you want the right word, go to john cranceford.' that's what i said. major; and i might have said go to your father if he was alive, for he stood 'way up among the pictures, i tell you; and i reckon i knowd him as well as any man in the county. i ricollect his duel with dabney." "he was to have fought a man named anderson green," replied the major, "but a compromise was effected." "yes," said parker, "green's the man i was tryin' to think of. it was shelton that fought dabney." "shelton fought whitesides," said the major. the men began to titter, "well, then, who was it fought dabney?" "never heard of dabney," the major answered. "well, i have, and somebody fought him, but it makes no difference. so, in your father's case a compromise was effected. the right word again; and that's what makes me say to my wife, 'nancy, whenever you want the right word go to john cranceford;' and, as i said a while ago, your father either, for i knowd him as well as any man, and was present at the time he bought a flat-boat nigger named pratt boyce." "my father was once forced to sell, but he never bought a negro," the major replied. "that so? well, now, who was it bought pratt boyce? you fellers shut up your snortin'. i reckon i know what i'm talkin' about." the county judge and several other men came in and the talk concerning the threatened negro outbreak was again taken up. "it seems rather singular," said the judge, "that we should worry through a storm of politics and escape any very serious bloodshed and reach a climax after all these years. of course when two races of people, wholly at variance in morals and social standing, inhabit the same community, there is always more or less danger, still i don't think that the negroes have so little sense----" "ah, the point i made," the major broke in. "but you see a labor plank has been added to their platform of grievance." parker nudged his neighbor. "i says, says i, 'nancy, john cranceford for the right word.'" "there's something in that," the judge replied. "nothing can be madder than misled labor. we have been singularly free from that sort of disturbances, but i suppose our time must come sooner or later. but i think the militia will have a good effect so far as the negroes themselves are concerned. but of course if the soldiers come and the trouble blows over without any demonstration whatever, there will be considerable dissatisfaction among the people as to why such a step should have been taken. uncle parker," he added, turning to the record-keeper, "think we'll have much cold weather this winter?" parker did not answer at once. he knew that glibness would argue against due meditation. "i see a good many signs," he slowly answered. "hornets hung their nests on the low limbs of the trees, and there are other indications, still it largely depends on the condition of the wind. sometimes a change of wind knocks out all calculations, still, i feel assured in saying that we are goin' to have a good deal of frost first and last; but if the militia don't get here in time we are mighty apt to have it hotter before we have it colder. last night while i sat at home by the fire a smokin' of my pipe, and nancy a-settin' there a-nittin' a pair of socks for a preacher, i looks up and i says, 'there's goin' to be trouble in this community before many changes of the moon,' i says, and i want at all surprised to-day when the major here come a-ridin' in with his news. don't reckon any of you ricollect the time we come mighty nigh havin' a nigger uprisin' before the war. but we nipped it in the bud; and i know they hung a yaller feller that cost me fifteen hundred dollars in gold." the old man was so pleased to find himself listened to by so large a company that he squared himself for a longer discourse upon happenings antedating the memory of any one present, but attention split off and left him talking to a neighbor, who long ago was weary of the sage's recollections. wisdom lends its conceit to the aged, and parker was very old; and when his neighbor gave him but a tired ear, he turned from him and boldly demanded the major's attention, but at this moment the telegraph operator came in with a dispatch. and now all interests were centered. the major tore open the envelope and read aloud the following from the governor: "troops are at competitive drill in mississippi. have ordered them home." the major stood leaning with his elbow on the top of the clerk's tall desk. he looked again at the dispatch, reading it to himself, and about him was the sound of shuffling feet. "well, it won't take them more than twenty-four hours to get home," he said, "and that will be time enough. but billy, we'd better not swear out that warrant till they come." "that's wise," said the judge, a cautious man. "his followers would not stand to see him taken in by the civil authorities; it's not showy enough." and parker, speaking up, declared the judge was right. "i ricollect the militia come down here once durin' the days of the carpet-baggers, and----" "but let no one speak of the dispatch having been sent to the governor," said the judge. "billy, when the sheriff comes back you'd better tell him to appoint forthwith at least a hundred deputies." "in fact," the major replied, "every law-abiding man in the county might be declared a deputy." old parker found his neighbor and nudged him. "i says to my wife, 'nancy,' says i, 'whenever you want the right idee, go to john cranceford and you'll get it.'" "that's all right, uncle parker," the irritated man replied. "i don't give a continental and you needn't keep on coming to me with it." "you don't? then what sort of a man are you?" "you boys quit your mowling over there," the county clerk commanded. "major," said the judge, "the troops will doubtless come by boat and land near your place. don't you think it would be a good idea for you to come over with them? the truth is you know our people are always more or less prejudiced against militia, and it is therefore best to have a well-known citizen come along with them." "i don't know but that you are right," said the major. "yes, i will come with them." he bade the men good day and turned to go, and out into the hall the judge came following him. "by the way, major," said he, "you are of course willing to take all responsibility; and i'd a little rather you wouldn't mention my name in connection with the militia's coming down here, for the ordering out of troops is always looked upon as a sort of snap judgment." "i thought you said that you were not going to run for office again," the major bluntly replied. the judge stammered and though the hall was but dimly lighted, the major saw that his face was growing red. "i have reconsidered that," confessed the politician, "and next season i shall be a candidate for re-election." "and i will oppose you, sir." "oppose me? and why so?" "because you've got no nerve. i believe, sir, that in your smooth way you once took occasion to say that gideon batts was a loud-mouth and most imprudent man. but, sir, there is more merit in the loud bark of a dog than in the soft tread of a cat. i will oppose you when the time comes, but i will shoulder the responsibility of martial law in this community. good day, sir." "major----" "i said good day, sir." the old gentleman strode hotly out to the rack where his horse was tied, and thereabout was gathered a number of boys, discussing the coming danger which in their shrewdness they had keenly sniffed. among them he distributed pieces of money, wherewith to buy picture books, he said, but they replied that they were going to buy powder and he smiled upon them as he mounted his horse to ride away. in the road not far distant from the town he met larnage, the frenchman. the day before he would have passed him merely with a nod, as he scarcely knew him by sight and had forgotten his name; but the hardware dealer had recalled it and upon it had put an emphasis; so, reining up his horse, he motioned the man to stop. "how long have you been in this neighborhood?" the major asked. at this abruptness the frenchman was astonished. "i do not understand," he replied. "yes you do. how long have you been here?" "oh, i understand that, but i do not understand why you should ask." "but can't you tell me?" "i can be so obliging. i have lived here two years." "and how long in the united states?" "ten years. and now will you have the goodness to tell me why you wish to know? will you be so kind as i have been?" "well, to be frank, i don't hear a very good report of you." "but who is appointed to make a report of me? i attend to my own business, and is this a bad report to make of a citizen of the country? if you will have the goodness to pardon me i will ride on." "wait a moment. why are you buying so many cartridges?" the frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "has not the citizen of the country a right to spend his money? i have heard that the major is polite. he must not be well to-day. shall i ride on now? ah, i thank you." onward the frenchman rode, and gazing back at him the major mused: "the frog-eater gave me the worst of it. but i believe he's a scoundrel all the same. i didn't get at him in the right way. sorry i said anything to him." chapter xxiv. upon reaching home shortly after nightfall the major found visitors waiting for him in the library--wash sanders, old gid, jim taylor, low, and a red bewhiskered neighbor named perdue. a bright fire was crackling in the great fire-place; and with stories of early steamboat days upon the mississippi, gid was regaling the company when the hero of the yarn opened the door and looked in. getting to their feet with a scuffle and a clatter of shovel and tongs (which some one knocked down) they cried him a welcome to his own house. "gentlemen," said the major, "just wait till i eat a bite and i'll be with you. have you all been to supper?" "we have all been stuffed," gid took the liberty to answer, "all but wash sanders and he----" "don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive," sanders struck in. "wish i could eat with you, major, but i ain't got no relish for vidults. but i'm glad to know that other folks ain't that bad off. jest go on and take your time like we want here waitin' for you." while the major was in the dining-room, gid came out and told him that the priest had said to him and to others that it might be well to call at the major's house immediately upon his return from brantly. "he's all right," said the major, getting up and taking the lead toward the library. and when he had sat down in his chair, bottomed with sheep-skin, he told his friends of his fears of a negro insurrection, of the dispatch and of the answer from the governor; and he related his talk with the frenchman, whereupon low, the englishman, spoke up: "i know that chap. it wouldn't surprise me to learn that he put some rascally black up to the trick of punching that hole in my bath. for a time he came about my place quite a bit, you know, but i gave him to understand one day that i vastly preferred to choose my own associates. and you may rest with the assurance that he will be against the whites. ah, with a frenchman it is never a question as to which side he shall take. by jove, he always finds out which side the englishman is on and then takes the other. i have brought with me a bit of scotch whisky and i shall be pleased to have you gentlemen join me." "wait a minute," said the major. "i have some liquor that was distilled sixty years ago by the grandfather of the commander of the alabama. we'll try that first." "good!" cried the briton. "i can't deny the alabama claim, you know." and then he added: "most extraordinary, i assure you." "just wait till you smack your mouth on it," said gid. "why, sir, there's the smile of a goddess in each drop and a 'paradise regained' in a swallow. sit down, wash sanders--a swig of it would shoot you into the air like a rocket." "but really, mr. gid, i think a little of it would help my appetite," sanders replied, looking anxiously toward the major. "appetite!" gid cried. "you can eat the hind leg of a rhinoceros right now." "do you mean to insult me, sir?" sanders retorted, weakly bristling up; and the major turning from the sideboard, with the odd-shaped bottle and several glasses in his hands, looked at batts and said: "don't, gid." "all right, but i was joking," the old rascal declared. "wash and i always prank with each other. you can take a joke, can't you, wash?" "with the best of them," sanders answered. "yes, sir, and before the doctors proved to me that i couldn't get well i was joking all the time." he raised his hand and with his long finger nail scratched his chin. "but they showed me that i couldn't get well and if that ain't enough to sadden a man's life i don't know what is." "now, gentlemen," said the major, "i want you to help yourselves, and not be afraid, for the glasses are shallow and the bottle is deep." the red bewhiskered man perdue, who had said nothing, took out his quid of tobacco and with a loud "spat," threw it against the chimney-back. "i'll join you," he said, grinning. "never saw any liquor too old for me." they stood and touched glasses. gid walled his eyes like a steer, and with a rub of his breast and an "ah-hah," he nodded at low. "what do you think of that?" he cried. "isn't it a miracle?" "ah, it is very smooth," low answered, sipping. "most uncommon i should think." "smooth," said gid. "did you say smooth? it is as silk woven in the loom of a dream. wash, how does it strike you?" "i think it will help me," sanders answered. "help you!" and under his breath gid added: "ought to kill you." "what did you say?" sanders asked. "said it wouldn't kill you." "oh, i think not. really, after a while i might be tempted to go out and eat something. how are you gettin' along, perdue?" "shakin' hands with my grandfather in the speret," perdue declared, and running his fingers through his fiery whiskers he laughed with a hack that cut like the bleat of a sheep. "jim," said the major, turning to taylor, who had not left his seat, "you'd better try a little. it won't hurt you." "no, thank you, major, i'm afraid of it." "let him alone," gid spoke. "one drink of this and he'd carry off the gate, posts and all and leave them on the hill. don't tempt him." "gentlemen," said perdue, "i have always made it a rule never to repeat anything that my children say, for i know how such a thing bores folks, but i will tell you what my son ab said the other night. his mother was gettin' him ready for bed--just a little more, major. there, that's a plenty. mother was gettin' him ready for bed and he looked up----" "i feel the blood of youth mounting from the feet of the past to the head of the present," gid broke in. "i can jump a ten rail fence, staked and ridered." "and i'm pretty jumpy myself," the major declared. "but what were you going to say, perdue?" "i was goin' to say that i always make it a rule never to repeat anything that my children say, for i have often had fellers bore me with the smart sayin's of their children--and i know that most every man thinks that his children are the brightest in the country and all that--but the other night as my wife was gettin' ab ready for bed he looked up----" "we never had any children at our house," said wash sanders, scratching his chin with his polished finger-nail, "but i jest as good as raised one nephew. you remember dan, don't you, major?" "mighty well. went to texas, didn't he?" "yes, and got to cowboyin' around and was killed." "i recall that he was a very bright young man," said the major. "but what were you going to say, perdue?" "i was goin' to say that i always make it a rule never to tell anything that my children say, knowin' how it seems to pester folks, for i have been nearly bored to death by fellers breakin' in and tellin' what they of course thought was a powerful smart thing, said by one of their children--so i am mighty keerful about such things, makin' it a rule never to repeat anything said by my children, but the other night as my wife was gettin' ab ready for bed----" "somebody's hollering helloa at the gate," said jim. "hush a minute. there it is again." the major went out and presently returned, bringing with him a large blue envelope. "it's from the county clerk," he said, sitting down and breaking the seal. "brought by a deputy sheriff, and he said that he had ridden hard all the way and was in a great hurry to get back. let's see what old billy has to say." and now having put on his spectacles, he read aloud the following: "marcus t. berry, sheriff of this the county of cranceford, in the state of arkansas, did on this day seek to break up a den of negro gamblers at sassafras, in the before mentioned county of cranceford, and state as above set forth, and while in the discharge of his duty, was then and there fired upon and so desperately wounded that in his home in the town of brantly, seat of the said county of cranceford, state as before mentioned, he now lies at the point of death. the negroes claimed that they were not gambling, but engaged in lawful merchandise; but be that as it may, the sheriff and his posse were there and then fired upon, and besides the wounding of the sheriff, two men were killed outright, to-wit, one james mattox and one leon smyers, and the same were left there. the sheriff managed to make his escape, albeit he was followed and repeatedly fired upon. and be it known that the report now reaches here that the atrocity did not cease with the firing on of the sheriff's posse, but that a sharp fight afterward took place between negroes and white men near by; and we are now informed that a strong force of negroes, at the instance of one mayo, is now gathering in the southwestern part of the county, preparatory to a march upon this, the seat of the county of cranceford. therefore, it behooves all good citizens to meet in the before mentioned town for the defense of life and property, as it is here that the blow is to fall. william n. haines, clerk of the county of cranceford, in the state of arkansas." scarcely observing a pause the major had read the letter, and no word of surprise had been spoken by his listeners; and now in silence they looked at one another, gid with his mouth open, sanders with an expression of pain. "well," said the major, "that settles it." "by jove," the englishman burst out, "i should rather say unsettles it. i can't conceive of a settlement on that basis, you know. those blacks are positively annoying. first they punch a hole in my bath and then they fire on a sheriff's party. i should call it a most extraordinary approach toward the settlement of a difficult problem. but now, gentlemen, if you'll join me we'll take a bit of scotch whisky." old gid looked hard at him. "what?" said he, "insult old semmes' liquid music with a hot breath of peat smoke! never, sir. and consequently i'll take another glimpse at this mountain sunrise." the englishman laughed. "you have a most extraordinary way of boasting, you know. you may take your sunrise on the mountain, but i prefer this moonlight in the heather. a glass about half full of water, please. thank you, very kind i assure you." the briton sat and sipped his scotch while the major paced up and down the room, hands behind him, deep in thought. but soon he took his chair again, a proof that what now was to come was not a speculation but the outline of a plan of action. "where's tom?" he asked, nodding at gid, but with an eye upon wash sanders. "over at my house," wash sanders answered. "well, when you go home, take this message to him. say that i said go at once to the neighbors for five miles below your house, along the county road, and tell them that trouble of a serious nature has come--tell them to meet, men, women and children, at my house by daylight in the morning. have him remind them that his house, on account of its situation high above the river, is the easiest to defend, and that it will accommodate more people than any other house in the neighborhood. tell the men, of course, to bring their arms and all the ammunition they have. explain that a sufficient number of men will be left here to protect the women and children, while the large majority of us will make all possible haste to the county seat. tell the men to come mounted. now is it clear to you?" "major," wash sanders spoke up with more than his usual show of spirit, "the doctors have condemned my body but they hain't condemned my mind. it is clear to me, sir, and i will go now." "all right," said the major. "and jim," he added, "you do the same with the upper end of the road." the giant was smoking. he stood his pipe against a corner of the fire-place, got up and without saying a word, strode away. wash sanders was soon gone, after halting at the door to say that he might not be able to eat enough to keep a setting hen alive, but that he reckoned he could pull a trigger with any man that ever came over the pike. and now the major, old gid and the englishman sat looking into the fire. "war time, gid," said the major. "yes, without banners and without glory," the old fellow replied. "you are right. in the opinion of the majority of americans, bravery on our part will be set down as a cruelty and a disgrace. the newspaper press of the north will condemn us. but we can't help that, for a man must protect his home. mr. low, there is nothing so unjust as politics." "we have had many examples of it in england, sir." "yes," said the major, "there have been examples of it everywhere. in this country political influences have narrowed some of the broadest minds." "in england political prejudices have killed poets," the englishman said. "and now," gid put in, "while you are discussing the evil i will try a little more of the good. john, have another peep at the blue dome above?" "no, i must go and give mrs. cranceford old billy's letter." "won't it alarm her?" the englishman asked. "oh, not in the least," the major answered, and old gid smiled. "you couldn't scare her with a bell-mouth blunderbuss," he declared. the major now had reached the door, but turning back he said: "you gentlemen better sleep here to-night." in a state of apparent alarm the englishman sprang to his feet. "my bath," he cried. "no, i can't stop. i must have my bath." "but you can bathe here." "oh, no, i must have my own tub, you know. but i shall be here early at morning. i must go now. good night," he added, reaching the door. "you are very kind, i assure you." and when thus he had taken his leave, the major, pointing at a lamp, said to gid: "end room down the porch. go to bed." chapter xxv. early at morning, just as the dawn began to pale the sandy bluffs along the shore, and while the cypress bottoms still lay under the blackness of night, there came the trampling of horses, the low tones of men, the sharp, nervous voices of women, and the cries of children untimely gathered from their trundle-beds. the major and his wife were ready to receive this overflow of company. a spliced table was stretched nearly the full length of the long hall, and a great kettle of coffee was blubbering on the fire. there were but three negroes on the place, one man and two women--the others had answered a call at midnight and had gone away. but the remaining ones were faithful; at a drowsy hour they left their beds and with no word of complaint took it upon themselves to execute a new and hurried task. "bill," said the major, "i want you and your wife and polly to understand that i never forget such faithfulness as you are now showing, and when i come back--but now is the best time. here are ten dollars apiece for you and you must remember that as long as i live you shall never want for anything." fifty men arrived before the east was flushed with the sun. it was decided that ten of these, including wash sanders, should be left to protect the women and children. the least active were chosen. all but the younger ones had followed lee through the dark days of his last campaign. the major took command and martial law prevailed. he buckled on no sword but he looked like a soldier; and short, sharp sentences that he had forgotten at the close of the war now came back to him. "make ready, men. time passes. mount." there were pale faces in the hall and at the gate where the men sat their horses, ready to ride, but there was bravery and no tears. the command was drawn up; the major, not yet mounted, stood talking to wash sanders, when suddenly down the road a chant arose. all eyes were turned that way, and strange to them was the sight they beheld--the catholic priest, with slow and solemn pace, treading the middle of the road, holding high aloft a black crucifix; and behind him followed the negro members of his church, men, women and children. he was leading his people to the hills--out of danger. as the head of this weird procession came opposite the gate, where now the major stood with folded arms, the priest gravely smiled and higher held his crucifix. and then, silently, and looking neither to the right nor to the left, came out the three negroes who had remained at home; and taking up the chant they joined their brothers and sisters. they marched solemnly onward, turned into a road that led to the hills, the wind hushing their chant, but the black cross still seen high above their dusky, upturned faces. for full five minutes the major stood in silence, gazing, and then hastily mounting, he shouted: "forward!" and his troop swept down the road. he chose the nearest course and it lay by the old house wherein louise had lived; and again he heard the wind moaning in the ragged plum thicket. along the road the scattered houses were deserted, and in many a cabin the fire-place was cold, and many a door stood open. not a negro was seen--yes, one, an old man drawn with rheumatism, sitting on a bench, waiting for the sun to warm his joints. when the major and his troop rode into the town they found it quiet--under the weight of a heavy dread. they were looked upon from windows, where men were posted, waiting; and obeying a shouted instruction, the major led his men to a long, low shed not far from the scene of expected blood-flow, to stable their horses. following them came old billy, the county clerk; and when the horses had been put away, he came up and thus addressed the major: "you are to take command." "all right. what has been done?" "not much of anything. nothing could be done except to wait." "how many men have we?" "it is surprising how few," old billy answered. "we didn't realize how weak the white population was until danger came. we have about three hundred, and more than a thousand negroes are marching on the town. we held a sort of council this morning and agreed that we'd better post as many as we can in the court-house. it commands all the streets and besides we must save the records." they were now marching toward the court-house. "where are the women and children?" the major inquired. "in the brick warehouse with a force of men near." "well, i suppose you've done all you can. it would be nonsense to engage them in the open, but with our men posted about the square not more than two-thirds of them can get action at once. those poor devils are as well armed as we and are wrought upon by fanaticism. it is going to be desperate for a time. at first they'll be furious. has any one heard of mayo?" "he's at their head and the frenchman is with him." "how is the sheriff?" "dead." they filed into the court-house, where a number of men were already gathered, posted above and below. "bring an axe and cut loop-holes," the major commanded. "when the fight begins you can't very well fire from the windows. how are you, uncle parker?" "able to be about, major. you wan't old enough for the mexican war, was you? no, of course not. but i was there and this here fightin' agin such odds puts me in mind of it." "good morning, major." it was the voice of the county judge. "good morning, sir. i see you have a gun. don't you think it impolitic? but pardon me. this is no time for ill-humored banter." the judge bowed. "now i recall john cranceford, the soldier," said he. "this is a great pity that has come upon us, major," he added. "worse than that," the major replied. "it is a curse. the first man who landed a slave in america ought to have been hanged." "and what about the men who freed them?" "they were american soldiers, sir, as brave a body of men as ever trod the face of the earth. captain batts, what are you trying to do there?" "thought i'd take a nap," old gid answered. "you can wake me up when the fight begins--don't want to miss it." "if you go to sleep i will court-martial you, sir. superintend the cutting of the loop-holes." "all right, don't believe i'm very sleepy anyway;" and as he shuffled away the englishman turned to the major and asked: "and is he game, sir?" "as a lion," the major answered. "but he blows, you know," said the englishman. "and so does a lion roar, sir," the major rejoined. the major inspected the other posts, to the right and left of the square, and then took active command of the lower floor of the court-house; and when the holes had been cut gid was told to command the floor above. tom cranceford was ordered to serve on the floor above. at this he began to grumble, pouting that he couldn't be in the rush if one should come; but the major stormed at him. "it is more dangerous up there if that's what you want, and i'll be with you now and then to see that you are kept busy. march this instant or i'll drive you to home duty under wash sanders." from the windows and the loop-holes guns could be seen bristling everywhere, and the minutes that passed were slow and weary with waiting. directly across from the court-house was a broad and low brick store house, with but a single window above, facing the square; and the major looking at it for a time, turned to the old clerk and said: "that building is the strongest one in town, but no men appear to be posted in it. why so?" "the rear wall is torn out and the men would be unprotected from behind," the clerk answered. "the wall was pulled down about a month ago. evans was going to have the house built deeper into the lot so he could use it as a cotton shed, but hasn't." "bad that it was left that way. how long since the last scout came in?" "about an hour and a half." "and where was the enemy then?" "in the neighborhood of gum springs." "that's bad. the militia won't have time to get here." the major went above, where he found gid's men posted at the windows and the loop-holes. "how is everything?" he asked. "lovely, john." "don't call me john." "all is well, major." "good." and after a time he added: "the south road is so crooked that we don't command it very far, therefore look sharp. back to your post!" he stormed as perdue looked up from his loop-hole. "this is no time for idleness." "i wonder what time we eat," said gid. "you may never eat another bite," the major answered. "then i don't reckon there's any use to worry about it, john, or major, i mean." the major returned to the floor below. "this is getting to be quite a lark," said the englishman. "it's beastly cruel to fight, but after all it is rather jolly, you know." "i'm glad you think so, sir; i can't," the major replied. "i regard it as one of the worst calamities that ever befell this country." "do you think there will be much pillage by the blacks--much burning of houses?" "possibly, but to sustain their cause their commander will hold them in some sort of check. he is looking out for the opinion of labor unions, the scoundrel. he is too sharp to give his war a political cast." "ah, but to butcher is a beastly way to look after good opinion. what's that?" the englishman cried. from afar, through the stillness that lay along the south road, came the popping of rifles; and then all was still. then came the sounds of hoofs, and then a riderless horse dashed across the square. "steady, men, they are upon us!" the major shouted, and then all again was still. from the windows nothing could be seen down the road, and yet the advance guard must be near, for a gun was fired much closer than before. now upon the square a rider dashed, and waving his hat he cried: "they are coming through the fields!" he dismounted, struck his horse with his hat to drive him out of danger and ran into the court-house. the major met him. "they will be here in no time," the man said. "but how they got so close without my seeing them is a mystery to me. but of course i expected to see them in the road and didn't look for them in the fields. and that ain't all. they've got a cannon." "what!" the major exclaimed, and the men at the loop-holes looked back at him. "yes," the scout went on, "and i know all about it. just before the war ended an enormous gun was spiked, dismantled and thrown into a well way down on the dinkler place. it was got out a good while afterward and the spike drilled out, and since then it has been used for a christmas gun. well, they've got that thing on an ox wagon, but they've got no way to fire it for----" the guns to the right and left of the square blurted out, then came a roar and a yell, and in an instant the opposite side of the square was black with negroes pouring out from behind the low brick building. with a howl and a rush they came, but from three sides volley after volley was poured into them, the white men using their shot guns. the effect was terrible, and soon the square was cleared of all but the dead and the wounded. a cessation fell, and mayo's voice could be heard, shouting at his men. he saw that to attempt to take the house by storm was certain death, so to comparative safety behind the house and into a deep-cut road a little farther back he withdrew his men. he had not expected so early to find such opposition, and his aim was to crush with the senseless weight of force, but the shot-guns were too deadly. now he was cool and cautious. the fire from the whites was straggling. suddenly out from behind the brick building rushed three black giants, torches in hand, making desperately for the court-house. it was indeed a forlorn hope, for one by one they fell, the last, so death-defying was he, that he fell upon the steps and his torch flew from his hand into the hallway and crackled on the floor. a man reached out to grasp it, but a shattered arm was drawn back. "not you, major!" cried old parker. outward he leaned, grabbing at the torch, but mayo's guns swept the hall. and when they drew the old man back, he brought the snapping pine, but left his life. they laid him out upon the floor, stood for a moment sadly to view him; and through a hole a bullet zipped and beside him fell a neighbor. "back to your places!" the major commanded. now the guns on the opposite side of the square were silent. "they are lying low and our men can't reach them," said the major. "what are they up to now? preparing for another charge?" "worse than that," said the man who had seen them in the fields. "they have hoisted that cannon up into the brick building and are going to poke it through the window. see there! see that big log up-ended? that's to brace it. from where i lay i saw them just now breaking up an old stove out in the lot and they are going to load with the fragments. i killed two of them, but they got the stove away. listen, don't you hear them pounding it up?" "and this house will afford no more protection that so much paper," said the major, speaking low. "we have badly planned our defense. we are ill protected from bullets, and a cannon will blow us into the air." and then, moving from one to another, he looked through the loop-holes. "train every gun on that window," he commanded, "and shoot if a finger is seen." up the stairs he bounded. old gid was walking up and down the room, softly whistling. "pretty peppery, major," he said, pointing to three bodies stretched upon the floor. "yes," the major replied, "and it will be worse. we are doomed." "how so? keep on rushing till they wear us out? i reckon not. it would take five thousand men. god, but look at them lying out there. they were desperate, but they are toned down." "they've got a cannon loaded with the fragments of a stove and will fire it from that window," said the major. gid whistled and resumed his walk. the firing about the square was slow and steady. from across the way there came no gun shot. "got a cannon, eh?" old gid mused. "i wondered why they were so still," and then to the major he said: "they'll shell us out and mow us down at their leisure. who built this infernal court-house?" "i don't remember," the major answered, "but he ought to be in here now. train your guns on that window." the major went below. just as he reached the bottom of the stairway he leaped forward with a cry. he saw jim taylor jump from a window out upon the square. the major ran to a loop-hole, pushed a man aside and looked out. and now there was a belching of guns on the other side. jim taylor caught up a child in his arms, and with bullets pecking up the dirt about him and zipping against the wall, he dodged behind a corner of the house. then he ran across the protected side of the square. near by, in the door of a warehouse, a woman stood, shrieking. when she saw the giant with her little boy in his arms she ran out to meet him, breaking loose from the hands that strove to hold her, and snatching the little fellow, she cried: "god bless you for this. i have so many little ones to see to that he got out and went to look for his grandpa parker. god bless you, sir." the giant had seen old parker lying dead on the floor, but he said nothing; he turned about, and entering the court-house from the protected side, was soon at his post. the major stormed at him. "you've lost all your sense," he cried. "you are a bull-calf, sir. now see that you don't leave your post again. did they hit you?" he anxiously asked. "don't believe they did," the giant grimly answered. "well, they will in a minute. look there!" the mouth of the cannon showed above the window, shoved through and now rested on the ledge; and behind it arose an enormous log. from the loop-holes in the court-house the gun was raked with buck-shot, but all the work was done from below and no one stood exposed. once a hand, like a black bat, was seen upon the gun, but instantly it flew away, leaving a blotch of blood. and now the old bell, so quiet all the morning, began to strike--one, two, ten, thirty--slowly, with dread and solemn pauses. "look!" the major cried. a red-hot poker glowed above the cannon. buckshot hailed from a hundred guns, and the poker fell, but soon it came again and this time flat upon the gun. the hand that held it was nervous and fumbling. suddenly the breech of the gun slipped lower down the upright log. up went the muzzle, and then came a deafening boom. there was a crash over-head. the cupola of the court-house was shattered, and down came the bell upon the roof, and off it rolled and fell upon the ground with a clang. out surged mayo's men, but a fearful volley met them, and amid loud cries and with stumbling over the dead and the dying, torn and bleeding, they were driven back. but they set up a yell when they saw the damage their gun had wrought. they could foresee the havoc of a better managed fire. now the yells were hushed. the major's men could hear a black vulcan hammering his iron; then a lesser noise--they were driving the scraps into the gun. "it will be worse this time," said the major. "they have cut a deeper niche in the log to hold the breech and there'll be no chance of its slipping. these walls will be shattered like an eggshell. steady, they are at it." again the gun lay across the window ledge. the red-hot poker bobbed up, glowing in the dim light, but there was a crash and a rain of shot and it flew back out of sight; and it must have been hurled through the rear opening of the wall, for they were a long time in getting it. but it came again, this time sparkling with white heat. the guns about the square kept up an incessant fire, but over the powder the poker bobbed, and then--the whole town shook with the terrific jar, and windows showered their glass upon the street, and through the smoke a thrilling sight was seen--the roof of the brick building was blown into splinters and in the air flew boots, hats and the fragments of men--the gun had exploded. "out and charge!" the major shouted. "forward, captain batts!" he cried at the foot of the stairs, and the men came leaping down. the cry was taken up, and from every building about the square the men were pouring. mayo had no time to rally his force; indeed, it was beyond his power, for his men were panic-smitten. into the fields and toward the woods they ran for their lives. it was now a chase. bang, to right and the left, and in the fields the fleeing blacks were falling, one by one. once or twice they strove to make a stand, but hell snorted in their faces--and death barked at their heels. in their terror they were swift, but from afar the rifles sucked their blood. the woods were gained and now they were better protected in their flight, dodging from tree to tree; some of them faced about and white men fell, and thus was caution forced upon the pursuers. so much time was gained that mayo rallied the most of his men, but not to stand and fight. he had another plan. in a small open space, once a cotton patch, stood a large church, built of logs, and thither he hastened his men, and therein they found a fortress. the major called in his scattered forces. they gathered in the woods about the church. "are you going to charge them?" old gideon asked. "no, sir, that would be certain death to many of us. hemmed in as they now are they'll be deadly desperate. we'll have to manage it some other way." a shower of buck-shot flew from the church. "i gad, major, they've got buck-shot," said gid. "and they could mow us down before we could cross that place. they still outnumber us two to one--packed in there like sardines. don't you think we'd better scatter about and peck at 'em when they show an eye? i'd like to know who built that church. confound him, he cut out too many windows to suit me." "dodge down, men!" cried the major. "mr. low, get back there, sir!" "be so kind as to oblige me with the time," said low. "the rascals have smashed my watch. punch a hole in my bath and then ruin my watch, you know. most extraordinary impudence, i assure you." "it is half-past three," said the major. "and what a day it has been and it is not done yet." jim taylor came forward. "look out," said the major. "they'll get you the first thing you know. why don't you pick up a few grains of sense as you go along?" "why don't some one scatter a few grains?" "hush, sir. i want no back talk from you." "but i've got an idea," said the giant, with a broad grin. "out with it." "why, right over yonder is the nelson plantation store-house," said jim, "and at the front end is the biggest door i ever saw, double oak and so thickly studded with wrought-iron nails that their broad heads touch. and my idea is this: take that door, cut a round hole in the center with a cold-chisel, cut down a good-sized cypress tree, round off one end, fit it in the hole, with about five feet sticking through; let a lot of us strong fellows gather up the tree and, protected by the door, use it for a battering ram and punch that house down. then we can work them freely, as the fellow says." "jim," the major cried, "you are learning something. this day has developed you. i believe that can be done. at least it is worth trying. but, men, if it should be effective, let there be as little unnecessary slaughter as possible. we are compelled to kill--well, we can't help it. however, take mayo alive if you possibly can. i want to see him hanged on the public square. now get the door. here, tom, you and low cut down a cypress tree. here, lacy, you help. low doesn't know how to handle an ax. we'd better begin operations over there on the left. there are fewer windows on that side. we can batter down the door. no, there is a high window above the door and they could shoot down upon us. that won't do. we'll take the left side. see, there are but two windows, both close together near the end. look out, boys. keep behind the trees. i wonder how solid those logs are. when was that church built, captain batts?" "don't remember the exact time, but not so very long ago. i recollect that there was talk of a probable extension, the time that new revivalist was having the house built, and that must account for the few windows toward this end on the left. they've got a first-rate place to shoot from, but what astonishes me is that mayo should want to make a stand when he must know that we'll get him sooner or later." "that's easily explained," said the scout who had dashed upon the public square. "they are looking for a large body of reinforcements from the south, and mayo knows what to expect if he should run, panic-stricken, into them. his only hope was in making a stand." "where is perdue?" the major asked, looking about, from one tree to another. "he fell back yonder in the field," old gid answered. "i ran to him, but he must have been dead by the time he hit the ground." the major said nothing. he stood leaning against a tree looking toward jim and four other men coming with the heavy door. "and old billy," said gid, "is----" the major turned about. "well," he broke in. "you know," said gid, "we used to say that he always had a blot of ink on his head. but now he's lying back yonder with a spot of blood where the ink was." the major called to jim: "put it down there." and then speaking to gid he added: "that scoundrel must pay for this. don't shoot him--don't even break his legs--i want to see them dangle in front of the court-house door." with a chisel and a hammer the giant worked, on his knees, and it was almost like cutting through solid iron. the echo of his heavy blows rumbled afar off throughout the timber-land. the detail of men came with the log, the body of a cypress tree, one end smoothly rounded. jim took his measurements and proceeded with his work. once he had to drag the door to a better-sheltered spot. bullets from the church were pecking up the dirt about him. three times the piece of timber was tried, to find that the hole in the door was not quite large enough, but at last it went through and the giant smiled at the neatness of the work. and now the ram was ready. the firing from the church had fallen and all was silent. "it will take about eight men, four on a side--all strong young fellows," said taylor. "you old men stand back. major, order captain batts to let go the log." "captain batts, turn loose," the major commanded. "you are too old for such work." with a sigh old gid stepped back, and sadly he looked upon the young men as they took their places. "yes, i'm getting old, john, but you needn't keep telling me of it." "sir, didn't i tell you not to call me john?" "yes, but i thought you'd forgotten it." taylor and the englishman were side by side, the log between them. auger holes had been bored in the shaft and strong oak pins had been driven in to serve for handles. "remember to keep a tight grip on your handle," said jim. "i warrant that," the briton replied. "are we all ready? really quite a lark, you know." a stable had stood at the left boundary of the field, and one wall, cut down, was now a part of the fence. circling about to avoid the undergrowth and at the same time to keep out of mayo's range, the men with the ram came up behind the old wall; and here they were halted to wait until the major properly placed his marksmen. he made the circuit of the field, and coming back, announced that all was ready. a score of shot-guns were trained upon the two windows that looked out upon the space between the stable wall and the church. over the wall the door was lifted, and the shot-guns roared, for the negroes had opened fire from the windows, but necessary caution marred the effect of their aim. without a mishap the ram was lowered into the field. and now forward it went, slowly at first, but faster and faster, the men on a run, the lower edge of the door sweeping the old cotton stalks. faster, with a yell, and the men about the field stood ready to charge. shot-guns blazed from the windows, and shot like sharp sleet rattled off the heavy nail-heads in the door. faster, and with a stunning _bim_ the ram was driven against the house. but the logs lay firm. back again, thirty feet, another run and a ram, but the logs were firm. from the windows, almost directly in front, the buck-shot poured, and glancing about, plucked up the dirt like raindrops in a dusty road. once more, back still further, and again they drove with head-long force. the house shook, the roof trembled, but the logs were sound and stubbornly lay in place. back again, but this time not to stop. "to the fence," jim ordered. a shout came from the church. the major stamped the ground. "keep your places and wait for me," said jim to his men. he leaped the stable wall. "here, young fellow," he called, "run over to that store-house and bring a can of coal-oil. i was a fool not to think of this before. why, even if we were to batter down the house they would kill us before our men could get there. where is that axe?" he seized the axe and began to split a dry pine log. every one understood his plan; no one spoke. he split his kindling fine, whittled off shavings with his knife, and gathering up his faggots waited for the oil. the young fellow returned, running. jim snatched the can and sprang over the fence. the englishman smiled when he took his place. "really you have quite an odd fancy, you know," he said. "once more and easy," jim commanded. "and may the lord have mercy on them. but it has to be done." onward they went, leaning inward, treading slowly, and shot was sleeted at them from the windows. but there was no quickening step as the house was neared--it was a dead march. at a corner of the church they halted, and jim, putting down his oil can, close to the wall, piled his faggots about it, and then, striking a match, set fire to the shavings. "back!" he commanded. they reached the stable wall and stood there. the guns were silent. eagerly every one was gazing. was the fire dying down? one long minute, and then a dull explosion. a column of flame shot high into the air, a rain of fire spattered down upon the church, and the roof was ablaze. the white men, ready with their guns, heard a trampling and the smothered cries of horror; and then the church door flew open and out poured mayo and his men. three times they charged an opening in the line about the fence, but unseen foes sprang up and mowed them down. but at the last, fighting, desperate, yelling, they broke out of the slaughter-pen and once more were in the woods. and now it was not even a chase. it was a still-hunt. chapter xxvi.--conclusion. late in the afternoon, the news of the rout and the slaughter was received at the cranceford home. all day wash sanders and his men had been sitting about, speculating, with but one stir of excitement, the boom of mayo's cannon. but this soon died away and they sat about, swapping lies that were white with the mildew of time. but when news came they sprang astir for now they knew that each man must look after his own home, to protect it from fire. some of them offered to remain, but mrs. cranceford dismissed them, assuring them that her house, being so public, was in no danger. so she was left, not alone, but with a score of women and children. afar off the guns could be heard, not in volleys, but the slow and fatal firing of men taking aim. the sun was nearly down when a man climbed over the fence and cautiously walked toward the house. in his hand he held a pine torch. mrs. cranceford grabbed a gun and ran out upon the porch. "what are you doing there?" she demanded. larnage, the frenchman, looked up at her and politely bowed. "what are you doing there?" she repeated. "ah, is it possible that madam does not suspect?" he replied, slowly turning his fire-brand, looking at the blaze as it licked the stewing turpentine. "yes, i do suspect, you villain, and if you don't throw down that torch this instant i'll blow your head off." she brought the gun to her shoulder. he saw her close one eye, taking aim, and he stepped back and let his torch fall to the ground. "it shall be as madam wishes," he said. "now you get out of this yard." "madam has but to command." he passed through the gate and turned down the road; and upon him she kept a steady eye. she saw him leave the road and go into the woods. not far away was a potato-house, built over a cellar. to this frail structure he set fire. the dry timbers soon fell into the pit, and he stood there as if to warm himself. night was his time for real work and he would wait. the sun was almost down. he turned away, and looking along the road that wound through the woods, he saw old gideon coming. quickly he hastened to the road-side and stood behind a tree, with a knife in his hand. gid came slowly along. and just as he came abreast of the tree, his pop-eyes saw the fellow. he threw up his arm and caught the knife on the barrel of his gun; then leaping, with the gun clubbed, he struck at the frenchman, but the fellow was too quick for him. "oh, if i only had a cartridge!" the old man said with a groan, running after him. "i'd rather have a load of shot right now than a mortgage on jerusalem. but i'll follow you--i'll get you." larnage was running, looking back, expecting to be shot; and stubbing his toe he fell--head-long into the potato-cellar, into the pit of red-hot coals. ashes and a black smoke arose, and with frightful cries he scrambled out, and with his charred clothes falling off him, he ran to the bayou and plunged headforemost into the water. gid saw him sink and rise; saw him sink again; and long he waited, but the man did not rise again. * * * * * down along the bayou where negro cabins were thickly set, fires were springing up; and there, running from place to place, following white men who bore torches, was father brennon. "don't burn this house!" he cried. "it belongs to the church." "damn the church!" a man replied. "but this house belongs to an innocent man--he would not seek to kill the whites--he's gone to the hills." "i reckon you are right," said the man, and onward he ran, waving his torch, the priest keeping close behind him. * * * * * from the woods the men were coming, and as gid drew near to the cranceford house he saw jim taylor passing through the gate; and a few moments later, turning a corner of the porch, he found the giant standing there with his arm about--louise. "ho, the young rabbit!" the old man cried. "frog," she laughed, running forward and giving him both her hands. "why, how did you get here?" he asked. "i heard that the militia had been ordered home and i got here as soon as i could. i have been home about two hours and mother and i--but where is father?" "hasn't he come yet? why, i thought he was here. we've all been scattered since the last stand." "i will go and look for him," said the giant, taking up his gun from against the wall. "i'm going with you," louise declared. "go on in the house, uncle gideon, and don't tell mother where i'm gone. now, you needn't say a word--i'm going." down the road they went, and out into the woods. far away they saw the cabins blazing, on the banks of the bayou, and occasionally a gun was heard, a dull bark, deep in the woods. "you'd better go back," said jim. "no, i'm going with you. oh, but this must have been an awful day--but let us not talk about it now." and after a time she said: "and you didn't suspect that i was doing newspaper work. they tell me that i did it well, too." "i read a story in a newspaper that reminded me of you," he said. "it was called 'the wing of a bird.' it was beautiful." "i didn't think so," she replied. "probably you didn't read it carefully," said he. "i didn't read it carefully enough before i handed it in, i'm afraid," she replied. "oh, and did you write it?" he looked down at her and she nodded her head. "yes, and i find that i do better with stories than at anything else," she said. "i have three accepted in the north and i have a book under way. that was the trouble with me, jim; i wanted to write and i didn't know what ailed me, i was a crank." "you are an angel." he was leading her by the hand, and she looked up at him, but said nothing. just in front of them they saw the dying glow of a cabin in coals. a long clump of bushes hid the spot from view. they passed the bushes, looking to the left, and suddenly the girl screamed. not more than twenty yards away stood the major, with his back against a tree--gripping the bent barrel of a gun; and ten feet from him stood mayo, slowly raising a pistol. she screamed and snatched the giant's gun and fired it. mayo wheeled about, dropped his pistol, clutched his bare arm, and with the blood spouting up between his fingers he turned to flee. two white men sprang out in from of him, and the major shouted: "don't kill him--he is to be hanged on the public square. i was trying to take him alive--and had to knock down two of his men. tie him." he held out his arms to louise, and with her head on his breast and with mischief in her eyes, she looked up and said: "i have more than a daughter's claim on you. i have the claim of gallantry and upon this i base my plea." he rebuked her with a hug and a kiss, saying not a word; but big jim, standing there, turned about, laughing. "what are you snorting at, goliath? has a david at last sunk a joke into your head? come, let us go to the house." "father," said louise, "i am going to show you how much i love you. and oh, how i longed to rest in your arms the time you held them out to me, in that desolate hall, the night of death; but i knew that if i yielded i would go back to the nest with my wings untried. i had to go away. i will tell you all about it, and i know that you will not be ashamed of me." silently they took their way homeward, choosing a shorter route; and coming upon an oozy place in the woods, jim said to louise: "i'm going to carry you in my arms." he did not wait for her to protest, but gathered her in his arms, and her head lay upon his shoulder. "do you want my love to build a mansion for your heart?" he whispered. she put her arm about his neck. they came out into the hard road, and still he carried her, with her arms tight about his neck. the major looked on with a sad smile, for the sights of the day were still red before his eyes. but banteringly, he said: "first time i ever saw this hard road so muddy." louise laughed, whispered to jim and he eased her to the ground. "why, they've burnt wash sanders' house!" the major cried. "see, over there?" they came opposite the place where the house had stood, and the major suddenly drawing back, said to jim: "lead her around that way. she mustn't see this and she mustn't ask what it is." jim led her away, and the major looked at wash sanders. across a low rail fence his body lay, his hands drooping to the ground, and in front of him lay a gun that had fallen from his grasp; and a short distance away the major found a mulatto, lying dead beside the road. at the major's house the women were preparing supper. the hungry men, some of them bleeding, had assembled in the yard. darkness had fallen. "father," said tom, coming forward, leading sallie pruitt by the hand, "mother says that this girl shall live with us." "yes," said the old man, putting his hands on sallie's cheeks and kissing her. "yes, my dear, you shall live with us." and turning to low, he said: "you are a brave man. my hand, sir." and low, grasping the old man's hand, replied: "i am an englishman, and my father is a gentleman." "gid," said the major, "my name is john, god bless you." down the road arose sharp words of command, and the burning top of a tall pine snag threw its light upon bayonets in the highway. the soldiers were come. "i wonder what is to be the end of this day's beginning," said the englishman. "god only knows," the major replied. the end. internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 51118-h.htm or 28711-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28711/28711-h/28711-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28711/28711-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/monksmissouri00willrich transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). [illustration: colonel monks and wife.] a history of southern missouri and northern arkansas being an account of the early settlements, the civil war, the ku-klux, and times of peace. by william monks west plains, mo. west plains journal co. west plains, mo. 1907 copyright 1907 by william monks introduction. now the author was born in the state of alabama, in jackson county, on the north side of the tennessee river, near huntsville. he was the son of james monks and nancy monks. the father of james monks came over from ireland during the revolutionary war and served in that war until the independence of the united states was acknowledged. afterwards he married a lady of english descent and settled down in the state of south carolina. his father died when he was but an infant. his mother removed to the state of tennessee, being left with five children, james being the youngest. growing up to manhood in that state, he removed to the north part of the state of alabama and there married nancy graham, who was a daughter of jesse graham. they were originally from the state of virginia. james monks enlisted in the united states army and served in the indian war that was known as the seminole war, in the state of florida. after his term of service had expired he returned home and sold his farm and had a flatboat built and placed in the tennessee river near gunters landing, with the intention of moving to the state of florida. taking his brother-in-law, a mr. phillips, on the boat with him, they went down the river by decatur, were piloted through the mussell shoals, and at the foot of the shoals at what is known as tuscumbia, the writer remembers seeing a part of the cherokee indians that were being removed from the state of alabama to their present location. the writer can remember seeing the cherokee indians before they were removed from the state of alabama. on reaching southern illinois, eight miles from paducah, my father landed his boat and looked over the country and came to the conclusion that that country was good enough, and located in what was then pope county. afterwards they cropped a piece off of pope and a piece off of johnson, and created a new county and named it massack, after the old government fort, and located the county seat, named metropolis. my father resided nine years in that state, then sold out and started to move to the state of texas. on arriving in fulton county, arkansas, he concluded to locate in that county. soon after his arrival, in the latter part of june or july, 1844, the writer was employed to carry the united states mail from salem, the county seat of fulton county, to rockbridge, then the county seat of ozark county, missouri. my father and mother taught me to be loyal to my government from my earliest remembrance, and i don't think that two persons more honest than they ever lived. they taught me from my earliest recollection to be honest and upright, and i have tried, and believe i have lived up to their teaching to the very letter; and no man or woman before the war, during the war, nor since the war, can say anything else and tell the truth. religiously, my father and mother were baptists, and i believe that they were christians. early settlements. in the year 1844 father sold out and in may started to move to the state of texas; crossed the mississippi river at green's old ferry, came by the way of jackson, missouri, and traveled the old military road made by the government troops in removing the cherokee indians from the state of alabama to their present location--only road leading west--and in july of the same year (learning that it was very dangerous for a man to take his family into the state of texas on account of the indians), he concluded to locate in fulton county, arkansas, purchased an improvement and located on what is known as bennett's river, about 25 miles from where west plains is now located. the family at that time consisted of six persons, to-wit: father, mother and four sons, the author then being in his fifteenth year; father, being a farmer by occupation, went to work on the farm. the country at that time was very sparsely settled. the settlements were confined to the creeks and rivers, where were found plenty of water and springs. no place at that time was thought worth settling unless it had a spring upon it. the vegetation was luxuriant, the broom sedge and blue stem growing as high as a man's head--and he upon an ordinary horse. the table lands, which were thought at that time to be worthless, had very little timber growing on them, but were not prairie. there were what were known as post oak runners and other brush growing on the table lands, but the grass turf was very heavy and in the spring of the year the grass would soon cover the sprouts and the stranger would have taken all of the table lands, except where it was interspersed with groves, to have been prairie. the country settled up--some of the settlements being 15 miles apart--yet the early settlers thought nothing of neighboring and assisting each other as neighbors for the distance of 15 miles. at that time fulton county contained all of the present territory that now includes baxter, fulton and a part of sharp counties; and but a short time previous to the organization of fulton, all of the territory that now embraces fulton, baxter and sharp; izard belonged to independence county and batesville was the county seat. my father located about five miles from the state line. ozark county, in missouri, joined fulton county on the state line and all of the territory that now comprises ozark, douglas and the west half of howell, belonged to ozark county and rockbridge, its county seat, being located on bryan's fork of the north fork, about 50 miles from the state line. oregon county contained all the territory that now comprises oregon, shannon, and the east end of howell; and a short time previous all of the territory that now comprises ripley, oregon, carter and shannon belonged to ripley county; and all of the territory that now comprises texas, dent, wright and crawford counties belonged to crawford county. the country at that time abounded in millions of deer, turkeys, bears, wolves and small animals. i remember as my father was moving west and after he had crossed white water near what was known as bullinger's old mill, that we could see the deer feeding on the hills in great herds like cattle, and wild turkeys were in abundance. wild meat was so plentiful that the settlers chiefly subsisted upon the flesh of wild animals until they could grow some tame stock, such as hogs and cattle. this country then was almost a "land of honey." bees abounded in great number and men hunted them for the profit they derived from the beeswax. there was no such thing known as a bee moth. honeydew fell in such quantities as to completely kill the tops of the grass where it was open. i have known young turkeys, after they were large enough for use, to have their wings so gummed with honeydew that they could not fly out of the way of a dog--have known lots of them to be caught with dogs when they wanted to use them. there was no question in regard to there being honey when you cut a bee tree, if the hollow and space in the tree were sufficient and the bees had had time to fill it. i have known bee trees being cut that had 8 and 10 feet of solid comb that was candied and grained. when my father first located, beeswax, peltry and fur skins almost constituted the currency of the country. i remember that a short time after my father located, a gentleman came to my father's house and wanted to buy a horse and offered to pay him in beeswax and peltry, and as i had been accustomed to paper currency in the state of illinois, i asked my father what kind of money peltry was. he laughed and remarked, "well son, it is not money at all; it is deer skins." a man thought nothing of buying a horse or a yoke of oxen, or to make any other common debt on the promise of discharging the same in beeswax and peltry in one month's time. the immigration consisted mostly of farmers and mechanics. among the mechanics were coopers who would make large hogsheads for the purpose of holding the honey after it was separated from the beeswax, and a man then had his choice to use either candied honey or fresh honey. i knew whole hogsheads that were full of candied honey. when men would make a contract to deliver any amount or number of pounds of beeswax, and within a given time, especially in the fall of the year, they would either take a yoke of cattle or two horses and a wagon and with their guns and camp equipage go out from the settlements into what was then termed the "wilderness," and burn bee comb. in a short time the bees would be working so strong to the bait that they could scarcely course them. in the morning they would hunt deer, take off pelts until the deer would lie down, then they would hunt bees and mark the trees until the deer would get up to feed in the afternoon, when they would again resume their hunt for deer. after they had found a sufficient number of bee trees and marked them, the morning following they would go out and kill nothing but large deer; case-skin them until they had a sufficient number of hides to contain the honey that they expected to take from the trees, take the hides to the camp, tie a knot in the fore legs of the hide, take dressed buckskin and a big awl, roll the hide of the neck in about three folds, run two rows of stitches, draw it tight, then go to their wagons with ridgepole and hooks already prepared, knot the hind legs of the skins, hang them over the hooks, take their tub, a knife and spoon, proceed to the trees, stop their team a sufficient distance from the tree to prevent the bees from stinging the animals, cut the tree, take out the honey, place it in the tub, and when the tub was filled carry it to the wagon where the hides were prepared, empty their tubs into the deer skins, return again to another tree and continue cutting until the hides were all filled with honey; then they would return home, take the hides from the hooks on the ridge pole on the wagon, hang them on hooks prepared for the purpose in the smokehouse and then the men's work was done. the labor of the women then commenced. they would proceed to separate the honey from the beeswax, pouring the honey into hogsheads, kegs or barrels prepared for it, and running the beeswax into cakes ready for the market, while the men were stretching and drying the deerskins. as soon as the deerskins were dried and the honey was separated from the beeswax, they were ready for the market and took their place as currency, while the flesh of the deer, sometimes, when bread was scarce, took the place of both bread and meat, with a change, whenever the appetite called for it, to turkey and other wild game. at night they would hunt for fur animals, such as raccoon, fox and mink, and stretch their hides; a first-class raccoon hide would sell for 40 to 50 cents; fox, 25 and 30 cents; mink, from 65 to 75c. i have often known the people to pay their taxes, when the collector came around, with fur skins, such as raccoon and fox. the collector would take the hides right at the house and give them a clear receipt for their taxes, both state and county. i have seen collectors leading a horse for the purpose of carrying his fur skins. i have seen the horse completely covered with fur skins, so you could see no part of him but his head and his hoofs and tail--one could not have told there was a horse beneath the load unless he had known it. the people then had many advantages that they are deprived of now, in the way of wild meat, abundance of honey and fine range. a man could raise all the stock in the way of horses and cattle that he could possibly look after; the only expense was salting and caring for them--didn't have to feed, winter nor summer, except the horses in use and the cows used for milking purposes. while, on the other-hand, they labored under a great many disadvantages, in the way of schools and churches. during the residence of my father in the state of illinois, we had a very good common school system, and we had three months of school every fall. my father being a farmer, sent me only the three months' term in the fall. i had acquired a limited education before his removal to arkansas, yet he was interested in giving his children an education. at that time there were no free schools, only subscription schools; teachers generally were incompetent and employed through favoritism, and not upon their qualifications to teach. in a year or two after my father located, the settlement got together and located a school-house site, took their teams, hauled round logs, built them into walls, made a dirt floor, cut out a large window in the side, split a tree and made a writing desk, split small trees, hewed them and made benches for seats, cut a hole in one end of the house, erected a wooden chimney, what was then known as a stick and clay chimney, chinked and daubed the cracks, made a clapboard roof, hung the door with wooden hinges, then the house was considered ready for the school and had the name of teaching a three-months' subscription school; and very often half of the pupils were better scholars than the teachers. all they gained in their education was by attention to study. as the country improved in population, the people improved in the erection of school-houses and church-houses and constructed, in place of the round log school-house and dirt floor, hewed log school-houses with puncheon floors, stick and clay chimneys. those pioneer settlers took a great interest in each other's welfare, and the different settlements met together from a distance of 15 to 40 miles and adopted rules and customs binding each other to aid and assist in helping any person who met with any misfortune in the way of sickness, death or other causes that might occur, and i must say that there was more charity and real religion practiced among those pioneer settlers, although many of them were looked upon as being crude and unlettered. there was a great deal of sickness along the streams, especially chills and fever. immigrants came in, generally in sufficient numbers to form a settlement; and i have known them, very often, after they had located and opened out 10 to 15 acres and put it in cultivation and broke the ground and planted their corn, for the whole family to be taken down at one time with chills and fever, not able even to help each other or administer to their wants. as soon as the information reached the other settlements for a distance of 15 miles or more, the different settlements would set a day to meet at the place with their horses, plows, hoes, wagons, etc.; also provisions, such as bread-stuff and salt. on meeting, they would ascertain the condition of the family or families and learn what they needed in the way of provision, medicine, nursing, etc.; they would then and there agree that the different settlements should divide up the time, set the day for each one to furnish waiters to wait upon them in their sickness, such medicine as they needed, provisions and everything that was necessary to render comfort, and in the morning before breakfast they would go out and kill a deer and as many turkeys as they needed, dress them, prepare them for the cook, who had been brought with them, go into the field after breakfast, plow and hoe the corn, clean out the garden, leave the families in charge of nurses and return again to their respective settlements. those families, as soon as they were well, not being acquainted with the customs and rules, would meet them and inquire as to what amount they owed them for what they had done for them during their sickness. they would be readily informed, "_nothing._ you are not acquainted with our rules and customs. now, we have obligated and pledged ourselves together not to let any sick or other disabled person suffer for the want of necessary attention, and the only thing we require of you is, if any other person should move into the country and locate, and should be taken down and confined through sickness or any other cause, that you help in furnishing such aid and necessaries as they may need until they are able to again take care of themselves." now, i have just remarked that there was more real charity and religion practiced among pioneers than there is in the present day. the people then all appeared to be interested in bettering the condition of society. as soon as it was possible, the different settlements erected church-houses built of hewed timber, floored with puncheons, hewed seats, size of house generally from 18 by 20 to 22 by 25 feet, chinked and daubed. the churches or denominations then were baptists and methodists. there didn't appear to be any antagonism or hatred existing between the denominations; the doors were thrown wide open for any minister that might travel through and they all turned out, and you heard nothing said then in regard to "my church" or "your church." they appeared to recognize the fact that it was the lord's church and that they were the lord's people. in going to church, sometimes from 1 to 10 miles, they would see flocks of turkeys and herds of wild deer, both going and coming. as soon as the crops were laid by, they would agree among the different settlements as to where a camp-meeting should be held; they would then erect camps or huts, make boards to cover them, erect an arbor, fill the center of it with straw, and to the distance of 25 to 35 miles they would all turn out, irrespective of denomination, and all appeared to enjoy themselves, and the love of christ appeared to dwell in each heart, and they appeared to be proud of the privilege of meeting each other and worshiping together. if any member belonging to either of the denominations defrauded, or in any way wronged his brother, he was at once waited upon and requested to make reparation to his brother and acknowledge to his brother and to the church, or he was withdrawn from or turned out of the church. the immigration was chiefly from the middle states, some from the southern states and very few from the northeastern states. they were frugal, energetic, honest, intelligent and industrious. as the country increased in population, the facilities of both schools and churches improved. the customs and habits were entirely different from those existing now; the wearing apparel was entirely home-made; they would raise their cotton, pick it out with their fingers or a hand gin, women would spin their warp, spin their filling, get their different colors from different barks for men's wear; the women used