Alabama Sketches 
 
Alabama Sketches 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 
 
 Author of "Cap and Bells," 
 "The Golf Girl," etc. 
 
 CHICAGO 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
 1902 
 
Copyright 
 C. McCLURG & CO. 
 1902 
 
 Published 
 February, 1902 
 
TO MY SISTER 
 MRS. LUCY PECK MARTIN 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2014 
 
 https://archive.org/details/alabamasketchesOOpeck 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Trouble at St. James's . . 9 
 Sister Taylor's Registered Letter . 47 
 The Dragon Candlestick 69 
 
 Pap's Mules 91 
 
 The Old Piano 127 
 
 Mrs. McMurtrie's Rooster . . . 143 
 The Maid of Jasmindale . . .171 
 The Political Split in Oakville . 195 
 Under the White Rose-Tree . .219 
 What Became of Mary Ellen . .241 
 Far from the Front .... 285 
 
THE TROUBLE AT ST. JAMES'S 
 
THE TROUBLE AT ST. JAMES'S 
 
 DAN GROBY, the negro sexton, knew 
 more of the unquiet pastorate of the 
 Rev. Mr. Crofton than any one at Oakville. 
 Vibrating in his daily duties between the 
 church and the rectory, he lived in the thick 
 of the fight. It was on the forenoon of the 
 day before Easter that Dan, leaning on his 
 broom in front of the church door, narrated to 
 me the events which had occurred during my 
 long absence. 
 
 "Hit do look peaceful, don't it, sail?" said 
 Dan, gazing up at the little Gothic structure 
 with moss-grown roof shaded by great water- 
 oaks, in whose ivy-draped boughs mocking- 
 birds builded and sang perennially. 
 
 "Dat vine dar's growed a heap since you 
 went away." The negro pointed to a trum- 
 pet-vine which, planted by no hand, but born 
 of the warm Southern soil, had climbed upon 
 the church tower, higher and higher, till its 
 green tendrils festooned the belfry; and in 
 midsummer the lithe, scarlet-throated bios- 
 9 
 
io aiafiama £ttrtcf)e8 
 
 soms peeped in at the old bell, and thrilled 
 with delight at its mellow clang. 
 
 "The old church is prettier than ever, Dan," 
 said I. "Pretty and peaceful are just the 
 words for it." 
 
 "Yes, sah; hit certainly do look peaceful, 
 but hit don't always live up to hits looks. De 
 bishop tole de senior warden dat St. James's 
 Church, Oakville, gived him more trouble o' 
 mind than any other church in de diocese. 
 Says he, 'Mr. Dow, when I'm at home in 
 Mobile I take this parish to bed with me every 
 night. ' I hyern de bishop say dem very words 
 standin' in de vestry-room door. Dat was two 
 years ago, an' we had a tumble time here agin 
 last Easter." 
 
 Here Dan intimated that I would best take 
 a seat, by dusting a place on the doorstep 
 with his old hat. 
 
 "Now dat's some'h'n lak. Now I knows 
 you's comf'table I kin take my time an' begin 
 at de beginnin', wid de comin' o' Mr. Crofton. 
 
 "When Mr. Crofton fust come, some o' de 
 vestry 'llowed dat kaze he was young an' a 
 Englishman, an' kind o' strange-lak, dey was 
 gwine twis' him round their fingers, lak dey 
 done de rest o' de preachers what's been at 
 St. James's Church. But dis nigger knowed 
 
Cfje Croufile at £t Bamt&z it 
 
 better. Soon as he sot eyes on Mr. Crofton, 
 an* seen dat squar chin o' hisn, an' tuck in 
 dem keen blue eyes, an* sized him up, he said 
 to hisse'f, 'Dis man ain't twissable; he ain't 
 lak none o' de ministers afore him; he ain't 
 a-gwine round de woods a-pullin' up weeds 
 an' bottleizin' lak Mr. Netherby; an' he ain't 
 gwine have 'spepsia lak Mr. Hodge; nor he 
 ain't gwine take to fowels, an' hatch aigs in a 
 hot box agin de Lord's will, lak Mr. Single- 
 ton. No! dis man won't give hisse'f to none 
 o' dem vocations; he gwine 'vote his time to 
 his perfession. ' " 
 
 "You thought that the new shepherd would 
 rule the flock, and make his sheep turn their 
 toes out, did you, Dan?" 
 
 "Yes, sah, an' he done it," said the old 
 sexton, with a burst of explosive negro laugh- 
 ter. "Soon as he tole 'em all howd'ye, he 
 begun on de choir. Ain't none o' de preach- 
 ers afore him at St. James's Church had de 
 courage to run agin de choir. You know, 
 sah, dat choirs is always mighty bumptious. 
 De cullurd people's got a sayin', dat when de 
 Devil comes to church he sits in de choir. 
 
 "De very fust Sunday after de minister 
 come, de spranner, she never wait for him to 
 send de hymes, but she pick out de ones she 
 
i2 aiatmtna Sfeetcijea 
 
 want to sing, and sont 'em to de minister; an* 
 I tuck 'em. 
 
 4 4 4 Who sent this to me, sexton?' says Mr. 
 Crofton. He didn't know den dat my name 
 was Dan. 
 
 4 4 4 Mrs. Phillips, de spranner,' an' I started 
 for de door. 
 
 4 4 4 Stop, sexton,' says he, an' when I turned 
 about, bless de Lord, if he hadn't torn up Mrs. 
 Phillips's note! 
 
 4 4 4 Here are the hymns for the choir,' 
 handin' me another piece of paper from his 
 desk. 4 Take them to the organist.' 
 
 44 Next Tuesday at de choir meetin', in come 
 de minister, smilin' lak he belonged dar, an' 
 give 'em a talk. I was washin' de winders 
 an' hyerd ever' word. He tole 'em he liked 
 their voices very much, but dar was some little 
 changes he wanted 'em to make dat would add 
 greatly to de beauty of de service. 'Twas 
 de duty of de choir to set a good example to 
 de rest of de congregation by bein' punctual 
 an' orderly, an' nex' Sunday he wanted 'em 
 all to 'semble 'fore service and walk in de 
 church 'fore him. De minister was very 
 pleasant mannered enjoren de whole talk, but 
 he talked lak— lak— " 
 
 "Like one having authority?" 
 
W$z Croulile at St games'* 13 
 
 44 Yes, sah, dat's hit; an' when he was 
 through, though dey never said nothing I 
 seed dat one of de choir was jest a-bilin\ ,, 
 
 "You mean Mrs. Phillips?" 
 
 44 Yes, sah; she who's been rulin' de roost 
 so long, tarifyin' de organist, an* makin' all 
 de others stan' about. Well, sah, when I 
 seed Mrs. Phillips's eyes a-snappin' an' her 
 body a-swellin', I says to myse'f, 4 Lordy, 
 man! you sholy is a brave man!' 
 
 44 Enjoren de rest o' de week de choir had a 
 mighty miration 'mong demse'ves, but nex' 
 Sunday dey all come to time but Mrs. Phillips. 
 Jes' after de last bell, Mr. Crofton he pertend 
 he ain't missed Mrs. Phillips. 
 
 4 4 4 Are you all here?' he say. 
 
 44 Den de 'tralto, she say, 4 All but Mrs. 
 Phillips. Hadn't we better wait a minute? 
 Mrs. Phillips said she wouldn't come, but per- 
 haps she'll change her mind.' 
 
 4 4 Den Mr. Crofton, he say, 4 No; the service 
 waits for nobody. The second soprano will 
 sing Mrs. Phillips's solos.' An' in dey all 
 marched. Now, sah, I knowed Mrs. Phillips, 
 an' when I seed dis, says I to myse'f, 4 Bless 
 Gawd, some'h'n gwine happen.' 99 
 
 Here Dan paused and took a chew of to- 
 bacco, which he cut from the plug with a vener- 
 
1 4 aiafcama i&ftetcfjes 
 
 able knife. He went through the operation 
 very leisurely to give my fancy time to picture 
 the probable course of the indignant Mrs. 
 Phillips. 
 
 "Well, sah, when de service begin I kep' my 
 neck on de stretch from behind de organ. 
 
 44 Mr. Crofton, he say, 1 Dearly beloved 
 brethren, the Scripture moveth us in Sunday 
 places.' Mrs. Phillips ain't come. Den de 
 choir, dey sung, *0 come let us sing unto de 
 Lord!' An' Mrs. Phillips ain't come yet. 
 Den thinks I to myse'f, if Mrs. Phillips is 
 comin', she gwine be here before de Te Deum, 
 for she won't let nobody sing dem solos but 
 herse'f. 
 
 "Sho 'nough, jes' 'fore de Te Deum, de big 
 door open, an' in walked Mrs. Phillips, dressed 
 in her finest clo'es an' her best bonnet, an' 
 she sailed up de aisle lak a steamboat comin' 
 up de river. When she got half-way up de 
 church, wid her eyes sot on de organ, an' 
 makin' for de choir, Mr. Crofton cotch on to 
 her motions, an' his eyes flashed lak fox fire. 
 But Mrs. Phillips kep' a-sailin' lak she gwine 
 to dat choir spite o' de whole worl'. How- 
 somever, she never got dar. No, bless Gawd! 
 When she lined de last pew, dar stood Mr. 
 Crofton on de top step and dey faced one 
 
W$z Ctoufile at Sbt game's 15 
 
 'nother. 'Twarn't for long, but you could 
 'a' hyerd a pin drap all over de church. De 
 minister never said no word. He jes' looked 
 her in de eye, an* p'inted to a empty seat on 
 de aisle, an' Mrs. Phillips wilted. She took 
 dat seat, an* there ain't been no more trouble 
 wid de choir. 
 
 "Den Mr. Crofton regerlated de Sunday 
 school, an* de Daughters o' de King, an' de 
 Brothers o' St. Andrew, an* de Woman's Aux- 
 illerary. After dat he wrastled wid de Low 
 Church elemun', an' he an' Mr. Welham, de 
 junior warden, had a scrap what made de 
 sparks fly; an' dis was de way hit come to 
 pass. Mr. Welham was de head o' de Low 
 Church party in de congregation, dat wants 
 de church as plain as a country school-house; 
 an' Mr. Crofton is High Church, an' a mighty 
 han' for trimmin's. Dat man, sah, has a 
 diffunt colored ribbin roun' his neck ever' 
 feast day in de year. Mr. Welham he watch 
 dem ribbins a-comin' an' a-comin', an' he say 
 he don't b'lieve in no such flummery. If he 
 had his way, de minister wouldn't wear no 
 surplus at all. But de ribbins kep' a-comin', 
 an' Mr. Welham kep' a-gittin' madder. Den 
 dar was de flowers. Some days dar'd be 
 white flowers on de altar, an' some days dar'd 
 
1 6 Alabama &kttcfit& 
 
 be red, an* Mr. Welham say if he had his way 
 dar wouldn't be no altar at all, but jes' a 
 plain table. An' so hit went on raisin' a 
 powerful stir in de congregation, some sidin' 
 wid de minister, an' some wid Mr. Welham, 
 till fust thing you know, dar was lighted 
 candles on de altar, lighted in de broad day- 
 light, bless Gawd! Now, dat was de last 
 straw for Mr. Welham. He jes' couldn't 
 stand dat. One day after service I come in 
 de church to sweep, an' Mr. Welham was 
 haulin' de minister over de coals for de shines 
 he was cuttin' in de chancel. De minister, he 
 never say nothin'. He listen an' listen till 
 Mr. Welham was clean through an' all out o' 
 breaf. Den Mr. Crofton straightened hisse'f 
 an' answer: 
 
 44 'Mr. Welham, I wish you to understand 
 that I am not responsible to you for anything 
 I do. If you have any charges to make 
 against me, prefer them to the bishop.' 
 
 4 4 Den he walk into de vestry-room." 
 
 4 4 Which party, Dan, did you hold with?" 
 
 44 Well, sah, I didn't 'xactly know de 
 rights of it," hesitated Dan, scratching his 
 head. 
 
 4 4 But you sided with the parson," I laughed. 
 44 You went for High Church." 
 
Croufcie at St gfameg's 
 
 17 
 
 "De parson was my captain in de army of 
 de Lord, an' I never was no wobbler, sah. 
 As for High Church — de higher you gits, de 
 nigher you is to heaven. All de beautiful 
 things tries to rise. Look at de trees. Dey 
 grows upperds. An* de birds builds their nests 
 in de trees; an' de flowers holes up their heads 
 as high as dey kin; an* even de pore little 
 vines what can't stand alone, dey reaches out 
 their weeny-teeny han's for some'h'n to he'p 
 'em up. See dat vine dar on de tower! De 
 higher hit climbs de prettier hit grows; an* 
 when summer-time comes, de brightest blooms 
 is always at de top, swingin' an' laughin' round 
 de ole church bell. 
 
 "Yes, sah, I th'owed in my lot wid de min- 
 ister, an' lay low, lak Brer Rabbit." 
 
 "Did Mr. Welham write to the bishop?" 
 
 "If he did, nothin' ever come of it, an' de 
 Low Church folks give up de fight. Dey had 
 to, for Mr. Crofton carried de town, an' filled 
 de church plum full ever' Sunday. He 
 drawed de young well as de ole, for he could 
 ride de bicycle an' box, as well as pray an' 
 preach. He'd put on de gloves an' have a 
 round wid a young man, den he'd go smoke 
 a pipe wid a ole one. 'Twarn't only de 
 church people what filled de church : de other 
 
18 aiafiama Sfeetcfjes 
 
 denominationers tuck to comin' too, for there 
 never had been no man at Oakville what 
 could preach lak Mr. Crofton. Judge Adams 
 an* Ginul Tompkins an* all de lawyers got to 
 drappin' in for de night sermon. 
 
 4 4 One Sunday night, says de Ginul to me 
 comin* out de church: 4 Dan, your preacher's 
 too big a man for Oakville. You've got a five- 
 thousand-dollar man for twelve hundred dol- 
 lars, and you won't keep him long. He'll be 
 a bishop some day.' 
 
 4 4 After de scrap wid Mr. Welham de parish 
 was peaceful so long dis nigger got to thinkin' 
 de wust was over; but jes' 'fore Lent de 
 clouds begin to gather for another storm. 
 'Twas Mr. Crofton's hardest fight, an' 'tain't 
 gwine be easy for me to give you de straights 
 o' dat row. " 
 
 As Dan paused to pull the threads of the 
 story together before weaving the final weft, 
 a small stream of water, which seemed to have 
 its source somewhere in the rear of the church, 
 began to flow along by the sidewalk. Each 
 second it grew, glistening in the dappled light 
 that sifted through the water-oaks, and dan- 
 cing over their gnarled and projecting roots 
 with a merry tinkling laughter; heard with 
 the solemn roll of the organ within, it sug- 
 
Cf)e Cnmfile at J&t. fame's 19 
 
 gested to my fancy a band of little children 
 playing truant from their prayers. 
 
 4 4 See dar, sah!" said Dan, suddenly point- 
 ing to the streamlet, as if it had given him a 
 happy thought. 44 De big row growed right 
 out o' dat water. You never hyern o' fire 
 comin' out o' water, did you? Dat stream 
 runs from de organ motor, an* de organ motor 
 hatched out de biggest trouble de minister 
 ever had to wrastle wid. Hit lasted forty 
 days an' forty nights, an' hit didn't end till 
 de day after Easter. If I live till I die, sah, 
 I never kin forgit dat Lent. But de Lawd 
 brought he'p to de minister in a strange way. 
 You know de ole hyme, sah: 
 
 " ' Gawd moves in a mysterious way 
 His wonder to perform; 
 He plants His foot upon de deep 
 An' rides upon de storm.' 
 
 44 Whenever I looks back upon dat Lent, I 
 always 'members dat hyme. 
 
 4 4 Now hit come to pass dat when de vestry 
 tuck note how Mr. Crofton was a-buildin' up 
 de church, dey cotch de fever, too. One of 
 'em got up an' made a high-falootin' speech 
 in de vestry meetin. ' I was sittin' outside on 
 de doorstep an' hyern it all. Hit was all 
 about progress bein' de order of de day, an 
 
2o aiafiama Stutcfjes 
 
 hit behoovin' de vestry to do their part, as 
 public-sperrited citizens as well as church 
 members, to assist their beloved rector in his 
 noble work. 
 
 44 4 Hi yi!' I says to myse'f ; Mat soun's lak 
 de speeches at de Fo'th o' July barbecue. I 
 wonder what's comin' !' an* I listen agin. 
 Well, sah, hit was what de newspapers call a 
 eloquent effut, dat speech, an* hit ended by 
 movin' dat de vestry put a water-motor in de 
 church to run de organ, an' de motion was 
 seconded an' carried. Mr. Crofton was mighty 
 pleased at what de vestry had done, an* he 
 made a little talk back to 'em, thankin' 'em 
 for their support an' kind feelin', and when de 
 meetin' was over his face was jes' a-beamin' 
 wid happiness. 
 
 4 4 4 Dan,' says he, 4 the vestry are going 
 to put a water-motor in the church, and 
 you won't have to blow the bellows any 
 more. ' 
 
 44 I never said nothin'. 'Twarn't my place 
 to crittercise de doin's o' de vestry, nor I 
 didn't have de heart to spile de minister's 
 pleasure by tellin' him dat de vestryman what 
 made dat fine speech had a goose to cook for 
 hisse'f. I 'spicioned, right den an' dar, dat 
 man owned stock in de water company. 
 
Cfje Croufcle at g>t. James's 21 
 
 "Nex' day a committee went to make 
 'rangement 'bout de water. Now hit hap- 
 pened dat de superintendent of de water- 
 works, Mr. McKennan, was gone off on a 
 long business trip, an' de care o' de works 
 was lef wid de foreman, an Irishman named 
 Higgins, an' Higgins, he say he let 'em have 
 water for so much a quarter. 
 
 6 'Well, sah, de motor was put in de church 
 in Janiwary, an' hit hadn't been dar three 
 weeks 'fore I seed dat trouble was breedin'; 
 an' hit all growed out o' de fact dat de con- 
 tract warn't drawed up on paper. Dat's de 
 best way — to write down what bofe sides is 
 'greein' to. Hit's most trouble at de start, 
 but hit saves trouble in de end. When you 
 puts your money down, an' de goods is deliv- 
 ered, or in de case of a horse trade, dat's 
 another thing. You pays for your jug o' mer- 
 lasses or swaps horses an' rides off. If dem 
 merlasses is sour, or de horse goes lame, you 
 can't blame nobody but yerse'f, for you might 
 ha' 'xamined de horse or smelt de merlasses. 
 But in de case of de vestry an' Higgins hit 
 was diffunt. Pretty soon Higgins raised a 
 talk dat de church was usin' more water than 
 she paid for. He say he understood when 
 de 'rangement was made dat dar'd be two 
 
22 aiafiama Stutdjea 
 
 services on Sunday an' one in de week, an' one 
 choir practice, lak dey had in de Presbyterian 
 church, wid de funerals th'owed in free; an* 
 lo an' behole, de 'Piscopals had three services 
 on Sunday an' three in de week, not countin' 
 de Saints' days. An Higgins, he say he never 
 know when dem Saints' days is comin'; an' 
 den he swear a blue streak. Dis was 'fore 
 Lent. When Lent come, I thought Higgins 
 gwine have apoplexy ever' time he pass de 
 church, for dar was nine services a week, not 
 takin' account o' de choir practices. 
 
 "One day Higgins say to me: 'Dan, when 
 is this revival goin' to stop?' an' he put a 
 strong word jes' 'fore 'revival.' 
 
 " 'Dis ain't no revival, boss,' I say. 'De 
 church is keepin' de holy season of Lent.' 
 
 " 'Holy season of Lent!' snorted Higgins; 
 'I suppose that means that the church intends 
 to borrow water from the company without 
 paying for it. See here, Dan, you tell your 
 Englishman he must stop this Lent business, 
 or pay double!' an' Higgins put in dat strong 
 word agin 'fore 'Englishman.' 
 
 " 'Mr. Higgins,' I say, mighty polite, for I 
 was dead skeered of him, 'Mr. Crofton can't 
 stop Lent if he wanted to. ' 
 
 " 'Why not?' says he. 'The Methodists 
 
W§z Croufile at &L garnet 23 
 
 and Baptists close their protracted meetin's 
 when they want to/ 
 
 " 'Dat's so, boss,' I say back for I wanted 
 to 'gree wid him all I could. 'De Babtises 
 an' de Methodises kin stop when dey likes, 
 kaze dey begins when dey chooses, but hit 
 ain't so wid de Church. Dis Lenten season is 
 as regerlar as de heavenly bodies. Hit begins 
 on Ash Wednesday, de day you plants ash 
 potaters, an' it lasts till de fust Sunday after 
 de full moon, on or after de twenty-fust of 
 March, which is Easter Sunday. If Mr. Crof- 
 ton was to stop Lent 'fore Easter hit would 
 be jes' as scannerlous as if de Methodis' 
 preacher was to dance de German. Hit's 
 jes' so, an' so hit's got to be, 'kaze hit's in de 
 Prayer-book, an' de Prayer-book ain't no 
 political flatform what changes ever' election. 
 De Prayer-book is older an' more to be re- 
 spected than de Constitution of de United 
 States. ' 
 
 " 'Dan,' says Higgins, 'you're a fool,' an' 
 he puts in dat same word 'fore 'fool, ' an' walks 
 off cussin'. 
 
 "When I tole Mr. Crofton about de conver- 
 sation, he said dat Higgins was a ignorant 
 Dissenter. 
 
 "Instid o' gwine to de vestry what made de 
 
24 aiafiama Sftetcfjes 
 
 'rangement wid him, Higgins laid all de blame 
 on de minister; an' nex' day when Mr. Crof- 
 ton was on de way to de post-office, Higgins 
 stopped him in front o' Biggs's bar-room. 
 Dat meetin' o' Higgins an* de minister was de 
 onliest thing I missed through de whole row. 
 I was too far away, an* though I hurried up as 
 soon as I could, I never cotch nothin' but de 
 motions. Higgins come out de bar-room, 
 leavin' Biggs an' his loafers to listen from de 
 door. De meetin* was short, an' Higgins did 
 most o' de talkin*. Mr. Crofton waited till 
 Higgins was through wid his blustering den 
 he kyarved him up lak he done Mr. Welham. I 
 thought Higgins was gwine hit him, an* 
 I b'lieve Mr. Crofton thought so, too, for I 
 seed de minister's hands tighten at his side, 
 an' dar he stood lak a rock till Higgins drap 
 his fist; den he went on his way to de post- 
 office. After Mr. Crofton was out o' hearing 
 Biggs an' his gang raised de laugh on Hig- 
 gins. Dey jes' whooped an' hollered, an* I 
 got behind a tree an' laughed, too, till I most 
 split. De men in de bar-room tole Higgins 
 dat he had to stan' treat for de crowd, an* 
 dey made him do it; but when dey all raised 
 their glasses, Higgins swore a tumble oath, 
 an* tole 'em he was gwine git even wid Mr. 
 
CJje Croufile at Sbt James's 25 
 
 Crofton if he lost his soul a-doin' it. De men 
 axed Higgins how he gwine do hit, an* Hig- 
 gins, he say, 'Jes' wait*; an* he tuck on such 
 a ugly face, I promise myse'f I'se gwine keep 
 my eyes stretched. 
 
 4 4 On de followin' Monday Mr. Crofton 
 'quainted de vestry of his meetin' wid Higgins, 
 an' read 'em a threatenin' letter what de man 
 had sont him through de post-office. For 
 hisse'f, de minister say, he had no fear, but 
 Higgins seemed determined to raise trouble, 
 an' might try to interfere wid de music o' de 
 church, which would cause considerable in- 
 convenience, 'specially just den, when de 
 choir was practisin' de music for Easter Sun- 
 day. To be certain o' de church's position in 
 de question, Mr. Crofton tole de vestry dat he 
 had made some investigations an' had found 
 out dat de church was payin' as much for de 
 use o' de water-power as de broom-factory, 
 or de city fountain, which run day an' night, 
 an' de water company had no moral nor legal 
 right for complaint. Such bein' de case, he 
 didn't think de church should pay any more 
 than she was a-payin' ; an' he wished to ask 
 de vestry if dey didn't deem hit wise to state 
 to Higgins, through a committee, dat de 
 church would not raise its price for de water, 
 
26 aiafiama S&etcfies 
 
 an' dat he must cease his scannerlous talk o' 
 de church's swindlin' de water company, an' 
 keep away from hit's presinks unless he come 
 in de sperrit o' peace. 
 
 4 4 When de minister finish, de vestry sot dar 
 an' gaze at one 'nother, an* hem an' haw; for 
 de water company had money to put in de 
 bank, an' job printin' to let, an' store goods 
 to buy, an' a power o' paternage to 'stribute 
 round de town, an' Higgins had de manage- 
 ment o' hit all while de superintendent was 
 away. 
 
 "Den de minister 'membered dat grand bar- 
 becue speech, an' all de beautiful talk about 
 de sperrit o' progress, an' 'sistin' their beloved 
 rector. Whar was dat 'thusiasm now? Hit 
 hadn't no more enjorance than de cotton-wag- 
 gin's dust blowed through de pines. Mr. 
 Crofton looked round de room, an' I seed de 
 light fadin' out o' his face, and hit was a 
 sight to give you de heartache." 
 
 Dan's face grew sad at the recollection, and 
 I hastened to inquire what action the vestry 
 took in the matter. 
 
 "Dey didn't take no action, sah," replied 
 the old negro, returning to his story. "I 
 knowed dey wouldn't. Jes' as dey was scat- 
 term', de vestryman what owned stock in de 
 
Ef)t QtxouWt at St. SJames's 27 
 
 water company said to Mr. Welham dat he 
 thought de church might pay a little more, 
 an* pacify Higgins, for hit was de best policy 
 for de church to live at peace wid de worl'. 
 But Mr. Welham he say dat he thought de best 
 policy was to let Mr. Crofton an , Higgins 
 scrap hit out. After Higgins foun' out dat de 
 vestry had gone back on de minister, he tuck 
 to comin' round de church an' raisin* more 
 Cain than ever. He thought if he kep' 
 a-kickin', de vestry would pay him any price 
 he ax for de water; an' so hit went on till 
 Passion Week, wid Higgins sendin' sassy mes- 
 sages to de minister, an* hangin' round de 
 church lak a evil sperrit. 
 
 "Now hit happened dat dar was one chune 
 what de choir was practisin' dat made Higgins 
 redder in de face than all de other music, an* 
 dat chune was de Hallelujah Chorus. Hit 
 was Mr. Crofton's plan to have it sung on 
 Palm Sunday, but de choir didn't learn hit in 
 time, so he tole 'em to sing it for de offertory 
 on Easter Day. 
 
 4 4 Did yer ever chance to know dat chorus, 
 sah? Well, sah, hit's de glorifyin'est chune 
 ever I hyerd. De spranners hallelujahed high 
 up in de trebles, den de basses roared hit 
 down low, an* de 'traltos an' de tenors pitched 
 
28 aiafcama &kttt$t$ 
 
 hit back an' forth in de middle; den dey all 
 sot in an* shouted hit together, an' see-sawed 
 an* zig-zagged up an* down de scales, while 
 de organist played wid his all fours, an ever* 
 stop pulled out to de very een. Hit sholy 
 was a sight to see Mrs. Phillips singin' dat 
 song. She patted her foot an' nodded her 
 head an* sung till she got red in de face; for 
 there ain't nobody gwine 'spose, what knows 
 Mrs. Phillips, dat she'd let anybody hallelujah 
 louder'n she did, an' she de fust spranner. 
 An' all de time de choir was a-practisin' dat 
 chorus an' a-hallelujahin' inside, Higgins was 
 outside de church watchin' dat water runnin', 
 an' cussin'. Hit seem lak he thought Mr. 
 Crofton an' de choir was a-crowin' over him; 
 an' to tell de trufe, hit did have dat kind of 
 a soun'. 
 
 "De minister hoped dat after Lent was over, 
 an' Higgins seed de services come less fre- 
 quent, dat he would simmer down, an' de storm 
 would blow over. But, sah, I knowed Hig- 
 gins, an' kep' on de watchout for devilment; 
 an' de mornin' o' Sadday, de very day 'fore 
 Easter, Higgins played it on de minister in a 
 way nobody ever could a-thought o' gyardin' 
 aginst. He struck at Mr. Crofton through de 
 organist, Mr. Marbry; an' till you see Mr. 
 
W$t Croufcle at &L games's 29 
 
 Marbry, sah, you can't noways 'predate de 
 devilment o' Higgins. I don't know whar 
 Mr. Marbry come from, but when ole Miss 
 Maria Prim throwed up de organ 'kaze she 
 couldn't keep up wid de new-fangled High 
 Church music, Mr. Crofton picked him up 
 from somewhar. But wharever he come 
 from, dat little man's been through de mill o' 
 misfortune, an' when you look at his little 
 white face an' weak legs you can see de shad- 
 der of hit still restin' on him. Sometimes 
 when I sees Mr. Marbry I misdoubt if he's 
 got any bones. 
 
 "On Sadday mornin', after de service, Mr. 
 Marbry stayed on to go over de Easter music 
 by hisse'f when nobody was dar; for de ladies 
 was comin' in de afternoon to dress de church 
 wid flowers, an' Mr. Marbry was a nervous 
 little man, an' dis was his last chance. He 
 was a-playin' an' I was a-sweepin', when I 
 hyern a heavy step come in de door. I turned 
 to look, an' bless Gawd, hit was Higgins, an' 
 'twas de fust time he'd been inside de church 
 since de motor was put in. 'Now what you 
 want here, man?' I said to myse'f, an' I 
 leaned on my broom to watch. He marched 
 straight up de aisle, an' stood right behind de 
 organist's back, an' Mr. Marbry war so tuck 
 
3° &lafiama S&etcfjeis 
 
 up wid de music he never seed nor hyerd 
 him. 
 
 " 'Hello!' says Higgins; an* Mr. Marbry 
 nearly fell back'ards over de bench. 
 
 " 'Hello! I say,' says Higgins ag'in, wid a 
 devlish grin on his red face; 'that's very fine 
 music you're makin'.' 
 
 "Mr. Marbry riz up shakin' all over, too 
 skeered to open his mouth. 
 
 " 'Ain't I good enough to speak to?' says 
 Higgins, still grinnin' dat ugly grin. 'I've 
 come in here specially to shake hands with 
 you. ' 
 
 "Den Mr. Marbry put out his little trem- 
 blin' fingers, an' Higgins tuck 'em in his big, 
 rough han', an' de nex' second Mr. Marbry 
 fell on his knees an' fotched a scream what 
 made my hyar twis' up. Mr. Crofton runned 
 in from de vestry-room an' jerked Higgins 
 loose; but de devilment was done, an' Higgins 
 went out de church jes' a-chucklin'. 
 
 "Mr. Marbry's fingers was squez mighty 
 nigh to a jelly. In lesser'n two minutes dat 
 han' had swole twice de size o' de other. Mr. 
 Crofton done what he could for de pore little 
 man. He tuck him down to de rectory an* 
 bathed de han' in cold water, an' hot water, 
 an' arniky, but nothin' wouldn't he'p him, an' 
 
Cfje Croufile at St game's 3 1 
 
 he went home wid his arm in a sling. Well, 
 sah, things looked mighty blue 'bout dat 
 time, for what was Easter Day widout music, 
 an' what was music widout de organ? Hit 
 would be as bad as 'possum widout sweet 
 potaters. 
 
 "I seed dat Mr. Crofton was very sorrowful, 
 an' I thought dat de Devil had sholy won de 
 day. 
 
 " 'Dan,' said de minister, 'keep this matter 
 quiet. The Lord will provide. ' 
 
 " 'How He gwine do hit, sah?' says L 
 'Ain't nobody in dis whole town kin play dat 
 music but de other organists, an' dey all got 
 to play in their own churches to-morrow. ' 
 
 "Mr. Crofton didn't say no more, an' I 
 went back to my work at de church, keepin' 
 a close mouth. I always tried to do jes' what 
 de minister told me, 'kaze I done found out 
 hit was de right thing ever' time. Dat after- 
 noon, when de church was all dressed wid 
 flowers, an' I'd cleaned out de litter, I went 
 up street to buy my Sunday pervisions. As I 
 passed Biggs's bar-room I hyerd Higgins 
 tellin' de gang about de hand-shake he'd give 
 de organist, an' I leaned ag'in de wall to lis- 
 ten. Some o' de men laughed wid Higgins at 
 de way he had sp'iled de music an' got even 
 
3 2 aiafiama £ktit%t$ 
 
 wid de minister, but de rest looked sober, an 1 
 one young fellow turned on Higgins an* tole 
 him 'twas a cowardly trick. All de men 
 jumped when dey hyerd dat word, for dey was 
 all skeered o' Higgins; an* what s'prised 'em 
 de more, de young fellow was Higgins's engi- 
 neer at de water-works. In a minute de scrap 
 was on, an* when dey pulled him off Higgins, 
 Higgins give de young man his walkin' papers, 
 in change for a black eye an' a bloody nose. 
 
 "Well, sah, I never seed anything since I 
 was bcrned dat look half so pretty to me as 
 Higgins wid dat head on him. After supper 
 dat night I felt so good I couldn't keep hit to 
 myse'f, an* I started for de rectory. Hit 
 'peared to me, though Mr. Crofton was a 
 Christian an' a man o' Gawd, he wouldn't be 
 noways human if he didn't draw some comfort 
 from dat black eye an' broke nose o' Higgins. 
 De minister held his mouf straight when I tole 
 him, but he couldn't keep de twinkle out of 
 his eye. 
 
 "When I was through de story, I says to 
 him, 4 Mr. Crofton, has de Lord purvided 
 yit?' 
 
 " 'Not yet, Dan, but He will,' said de minis- 
 ter; an' de words hadn't more'n lef his lips 
 when de door-bell rang. Dat bell rang so 
 
Cjje Croufile at £>t §amt$ f $ 33 
 
 pat I cotch my breaf, an' de minister was 
 startled, too. I started for de door. 
 
 44 'Stop, Dan/ said de minister. 'I'll 
 answer the bell this time/ 
 
 4 4 Now maybe you gwine laugh, sah, but 
 when Mr. Crofton lef me all alone in dat 
 room I felt somehow lak de niggers say dey 
 feels when dey's hoodooed. Yet I knowed hit 
 warn't no sinful spell, 'kaze I seed de cross 
 hangin' over de chimney-place, an* smelt de 
 Easter lilies on de minister's desk. Bime-by, 
 waitin' dar in de place, which was so still I 
 could listen at myse'f a-breathin', I hyerd de 
 front door shet, an' peekin' out de winder, I 
 seed Mr. Crofton go out de gate wid some- 
 body. I couldn't make out who hit was, an' 
 wondered if some sick person had sent for de 
 minister, or if it mought be dat Higgins, not 
 satisfied wid de harm he'd already done to 
 Mr. Marbry, an' mad at de lickin' he'd got in 
 de scrap at Biggs's, was layin' a trap for Mr. 
 Crofton in de dark. When dis last notion 
 struck me, I turned cole all over, an' snatched 
 up my hat to foller. Den I drapped hit ag'in, 
 for dey had got so far hit would be lak s'archin' 
 for a black sheep in de dark, unless I knowed 
 whar dey was a-gwine, which I didn't 'spicion 
 in de least. So I done de nex' best thing, 
 
34 aiafcama &ktUt)t$ 
 
 an' kep' it up till de minister come back. 
 When Mr. Crofton cotch me on my knees, I 
 jumped up kind o' shame-lak. But I forgot 
 all de shame feelin' in de light of de minister's 
 face. 
 
 44 4 Dan, the Lord has provided!' 
 
 4 4 4 What , s dat you say, Mr. Crofton?' I 
 jerked out. 4 Is — is He gwine sen' a angel to 
 play de organ to-morrow?' 
 
 4 4 Hit soun's foolish now, what I said dat 
 night, but I was so glad to see de minister 
 safe an' soun', an' so worked up wid de 
 waitin', an' de prayin', an' de shinin' o' de 
 cross, an' de sweetness o' de lilies, I wouldn't 
 'a' been s'prised at nothin'. 
 
 4 4 Mr. Crofton smiled. 4 No, Dan, not an 
 angel, but the young fellow who gave Higgins 
 the black eye. He is a German.' 
 
 4 4 4 But, sah, kin he play de Easter music? 
 Does he know de Hallelujah Chorus?' 
 
 44 'We have been through all the Easter 
 music at the church, and he renders the chorus 
 with more spirit than Mr. Marbry. It was a 
 German who composed the Hallelujah Chorus. ' 
 
 4 4 4 Well, sah,' says I, grinnin' all over, to- 
 morrow's gwine be Easter an' Thanksgivin' 
 all rolled up together.' An' wid a happy 
 good night to de minister I started for home. 
 
Cfje HLxouMt at £>L games'* 35 
 
 "As I walked by de flower gyardens I seed 
 de white roses an' de lilies all shiny wid de 
 jew, leanin' towards de east to ketch de fust 
 glory of de dawn; an' de sweet smells what 
 can't be seen nor hyerd seem lak dey was 
 strayin' through de starlight, an' shakin' han's 
 for joy. But dar warn't nothin' dat night 
 happier'n me. 
 
 "If Mr. Crofton hadn't been a Christian an' 
 a minister, I would 'a' sholy 'spicioned dat he 
 toted a rabbit's foot, 'kaze ever'thing was 
 a-turnin' out so fine. I felt so good all over 
 dat if I'd been a Methodis' nigger, lak I used 
 to be, I raly b'lieve I would 'a' shouted; but 
 jes' before I got home I felt my faith a-weak- 
 enin'. Hit's a pity, sah, dat a Christian's 
 faith ain't more enjoren. When I lifted de 
 latch I begin to misdoubt de trust I brung 
 from de rectory, an' I said to myse'f, 'If de 
 Lord has purvided, de Devil ain't dead, an* 
 Higgins is still got one eye open, an' dar's 
 plenty of time for him to git in his work.' 
 An' layin' awake in de bed till four o'clock, 
 I worked hit out disway: If so be Higgins 
 was satisfied wid de devilment he'd already 
 done, an' laid abed till noon, nussin' his head 
 an' thinkin' dat when he crippled de organist 
 de music was sp'iled, all was gwine to turn out 
 
36 aiaftama Stutcfies 
 
 well for de minister an' me; but on de other 
 han', if so be Higgins riz early an' see dat 
 Mr. Crofton had got de better o' him, an* 
 worser still, finds out dat de man at de organ 
 was de same fellow what give him de black 
 eye, dar'd be trouble. He could do one more 
 thing widout comin' in reach o' de law; an' if 
 I was foxy enough to drap onto hit in my mind, 
 I knowed hit wouldn't 'scape Higgins. 
 
 "I gits up soon, sah, ever' mornin', but 
 nex' day I riz when de east was red, to go an' 
 open de church an' git de sexton's treat what 
 comes ever' Easter an' lasts me for a year. 
 What is it? Well, now, I'm most a-feared to 
 tell you, 'kaze you might come an' rob me o* 
 hit to-morrow mornin'. Hit's de fust smell o' 
 de flowers in de church on Easter Day. Dat's 
 de sexton's treat. 
 
 "When I opened de door all quiet-lak dat 
 mornin', de church was so sweet and peaceful 
 seem lak I cotched de shine of a angel's wing 
 through de lilies on de altar, but hit mought 
 'a' been de light peepin' in de east winder. 
 I stood right still, an' de sweet lonesomeness 
 of de place began to bring back de trust I had 
 at de rectory de night before. But all de 
 same, when de forenoon come an' de bell was 
 rung an' de service was opened, I tuck my 
 
Cf)e QtxouMt at S>t James's 37 
 
 seat outside de church on de little foot-bridge 
 whar I could look four ways for Higgins. 
 About de middle o' de service he turned a 
 corner two blocks off an' come down de street. 
 De minister was jes' gwine to read de Epistle, 
 an' I did hope hit would last till Higgins 
 passed de church. If hit had 'a' been Good 
 Friday 'twould 'a' helt out; but de Easter 
 Epistle is short, an' jes' as Higgins reached 
 de bridge de choir struck up wid de 4 Glory 
 Be to Thee,' an' worst luck of all, dat young 
 German pawed an' cut de pigeon's wing on de 
 organ pedals lak he was dancin' at a ball. 
 
 "Higgins stopped an' pulled his short pipe 
 out of his mouth. 'Who is that at the organ, 
 Dan?' 
 
 44 He looked at me sharp-lak wid his good 
 eye. De other one was jes' beginnin' to peep 
 open, an' wid a black splotch roun' hit, an' 
 his swell-up nose, he sholy was a sight to 
 skeer de crows. 
 
 44 I stood up from de bridge respectful-lak, 
 an' a turrible temptation struck me. Thinks 
 I, 4 Maybe if I say hit's one of de ladies, he'll 
 go on down town after his drink widout 
 raisin' trouble. De service is half through.' 
 Den I thinks, 4 No, I ain't gwine tell no lie 
 on Easter Day.' Hit wouldn't 'a' done no 
 
38 aiafcama Sfeetcfjes 
 
 good, sah, 'kaze I was shore Higgins knowed 
 hit warn't no woman's foot pawin' dem pedals. 
 
 44 'Hit's a man, sah,' says I. All de same 
 I wasn't gwine tell Higgins more'n I was 
 obleege to. 
 
 44 'What man?' 
 
 4 4 4 I don't know his name, sah.' 
 
 44 Dat last word I say was half de trufe. De 
 Dutchman's name was some'h'n lak Swizzle- 
 hammer or Swoxelhimmer, or a mixture o' de 
 two. I never could 'member dem Dutch 
 names. 
 
 4 4 4 Do I know him?' says Higgins. 
 
 44 Den I sorter stammered an' said, 4 You kin 
 go in de church an' see if you know him, sah.' 
 
 44 I knowed dat Higgins wouldn't go in de 
 church wid dat head on him. But soon as I 
 answered I seed dat I'd drapped my water- 
 melon. Higgins had cotch on. 
 
 4 4 4 You black rascal!' said he, grabbin' me 
 by de collar an' shakin' me, 4 who's playin' 
 that organ?' 
 
 44 De game was up den, an' I 'fessed. I tole 
 him hit was de Dutchman, an' ever'thing. I 
 had to, for wid ever' question come a choke 
 an' a shake. When Higgins foun' out dat de 
 choir hadn't sung de Hallelujah Chorus yet, 
 he drapped me an' felt in his pocket. He was 
 
W$t Crcufile at St. §amt* f * 39 
 
 lookin' for his wrench to turn off de water. 
 Dat was what I was feared of. De wrench 
 wasn't dar. He went to the hydrant, which 
 was on de edge of de sidewalk jes' outside de 
 vestry-room, an' tried to work hit wid his fin- 
 gers. He couldn't. He hammered wid a 
 brickbat. Dat wouldn't do. Den he riz wid 
 a swear an' started off to git his wrench. 
 
 4 4 As soon as Higgins turned de corner, I 
 slipped in de vestry-room to tell de minister. 
 When Mr. Crofton come in de room to git his 
 sermon, while de choir was singin' de last 
 hyme, I said, 4 Higgins has gone to git de 
 wrench to turn off de water an' spile de Hal- 
 lelujah Chorus!' An' I trimbled all over. 
 
 4 4 4 Have faith, Dan. Perhaps he won't find 
 it,' said de minister; but he looked troubled. 
 
 44 A thought struck me. I shuffled from de 
 room, an' was back in a minute. 
 
 4 4 4 What have you done, Dan?' asked de 
 minister. 
 
 4 4 4 Dat water ain't gwine be turned off to- 
 day,' I answered, dodgin' de question. 
 
 4 4 4 Dan, what have you done?' said de 
 minister ag'in. 
 
 44 'Higgins, he tuck me by de th'oat an' 
 choked me.' 
 
 44 'Daniel Groby, what have you done?' 
 
4° aiafiama S>ftetcf)ea 
 
 44 De choir started on de last verse of de 
 hyme, an* Mr. Crofton stood wid his han' on 
 de door-knob lookin' me through an* through. 
 
 44 'I ain't done much. I jes' drapped some 
 sand an* grabbel in de hydrant so Higgins 
 can't unscrew it. Is I done wrong, sah?' 
 
 4 4 4 Are you sure Higgins can't turn off the 
 water?' said Mr. Crofton. 
 
 4 4 4 Not if he bust hisse'f. De pipe's got to 
 come up fust. Is — is I done a sin?' 
 
 4 4 4 No, Dan.' 
 
 44 De minister's eye twinkled, an' he went 
 back to preach de sermon. 
 
 44 When de door closed behind him, I stayed 
 dar in de vestry-room, but I lef de outside 
 door on de crack so I could keep my eye on 
 dat hydrant. In a little while Higgins come 
 back, jes' a-puffin', wid de wrench in his han'. 
 He was afeard to be too late, but when he 
 hyerd de minister's voice he drawed a long 
 breaf an' looked all aroun'. I reckon he was 
 lookin' for me, an' I sholy was glad to be in 
 dat vestry-room. 4 Now he gwine take a pull 
 on dat screw,' says I to myse'f, peepin' 
 through de crack of de door. But no. He 
 lit his pipe, an' sat down on a root of de oak- 
 tree wid de wrench in his han'. Den I cotch 
 on to de devilment of de man. 
 
€f)e Croufile at $>t. §am& f & 4 1 
 
 "Well, sah, he sot dar smokin' till de ser- 
 mon was over, an' den he riz an* went to de 
 hydrant, an' fittin' on de wrench, waited for 
 de chorus to begin. Soon as de choir was in 
 full tilt he gave a pull, but de screw wouldn't 
 budge for de sand an' de grabbel. 
 
 " 'Hallelujah!' roared de basses, an' Hig- 
 gins pulled ag'in till his face turned red. 
 
 " 'Hallelujah!' tuck up de 'traltos, an' Hig- 
 gins give another pull, an' by de movin' of his 
 lips I knowed he was cussin' a blue streak. 
 
 " 'Hallelujah! Hallelujah!' shouted de ten- 
 ors an' spranners; den de whole business 
 jined in together as if dey gwine lif de roof 
 off de church, wid Mrs. Phillips spreadin' 
 herse'f an' outdoin' 'em all. Wid ever' shout 
 Higgins got madder an' madder, till in de 
 middle of de chorus he braced his feet an' 
 brought a jerk what busted de wrench, an' he 
 went over back'ards in a turrible fall across 
 de roots of de tree, an' dar he laid wid a 
 broken leg. 
 
 44 In two minutes church was over. 
 
 " 'I'm sorry, Dan,' said de minister, takin' 
 off his surplus; 'but the way of the transgres- 
 sor is hard.' Den he hurried out whar de 
 people was gatherin' about Higgins, an' had 
 him carried to de rectory,— for Higgins didn't 
 
4 2 aiafiama i&futcfjes 
 
 have no home but a boardin'-house, — an' dar 
 he stayed two months. 
 
 "At fust Higgins couldn't understan' dat 
 play of de minister, nor I neither. De 
 mornin' after Easter, when I come in de room 
 to fotch Higgins his breakfuss, he raised his 
 head up for to cuss an' swear; den, all sud- 
 den-lak, he glanced at de minister standin' in 
 de door behind me, an* stopped hisse'f. Mr. 
 Crofton he didn't say nothin\ He jes' 
 walked to de bed an' tuck Higgins's han', an* 
 dey looked at one 'nother 'bout a minute. 
 Den Higgins turned his face to de wall. 
 When de minister seed dat, he put de nice 
 breakfuss on de table by de bed jes' to Hig- 
 gins's han', an' tuck me out de room wid him. 
 
 "Dat finished de man. Lo an' behole, nex' 
 time de bishop come, Higgins was confirmed." 
 
 "Dan," said I, "your story is like a fairy 
 tale." 
 
 "What's dat, sah?" 
 
 "A story where everything is better than in 
 real life." 
 
 "You won't find dat fault wid hit when you 
 hyer de last word, sah," said Dan, with a 
 sigh. "De minister's gwine to leave us." 
 
 "Going away?" 
 
 "Yes, sah ; Ginul Tompkins was in de rights 
 
€f)e Croutile at SbU $ ames'a 43 
 
 o* hit. Mr. Crofton is too big a man for Oak- 
 ville, an' dey have made him a bishop up in 
 de Northwest. Dey needs him out dar, 'mong 
 dem Injuns an' Injun agents. I hyer tell 
 dar's men up dar worser'n Higgins. " 
 
 And the old sexton went into the sanctuary 
 to sweep, very sorrowful. 
 
SISTER TAYLOR'S REGISTERED 
 LETTER 
 
SISTER TAYLOR'S REGISTERED 
 LETTER 
 
 OSIAH, ain't Marthy Taylor come for it 
 
 yet?" asked Miss Eliza Jackson of the 
 
 village postmaster. 
 
 ' 1 No," replied Josiah Bingham to the ear- 
 nest inquiry of the spinster, "and her boy 
 Sam says that she ain't a-comin\ ,, 
 
 It was three o'clock. The July sun slanted 
 through the big-leafed chestnut-oak whose 
 wide-spreading boughs shaded the door, and 
 whenever the drowsy wind stirred the foliage 
 dappled shadows swayed lazily across the 
 threshold. The day was intensely warm, but 
 curiosity can render one insensible to tem- 
 perature, and Miss Eliza was certainly 
 oblivious of the heat. 
 
 A registered letter — the first in the history 
 of Hickory Hollow — had come to the little 
 country post-office, and the Widow Taylor, to 
 whom it was addressed, for reasons sufficient 
 to herself, but vastly irritating to her friends, 
 obstinately refused to go to the office and sign 
 
 47 
 
48 aiaimma j&tutcfjea 
 
 for its receipt. To no one was Marthy Tay- 
 lor's conduct more exasperating than to Miss 
 Eliza, her bosom friend; indeed, so unreason- 
 able was Marthy's behavior, and so outdone 
 her crony, that had not curiosity come to the 
 rescue of affection the lifelong tie which bound 
 them would have been broken. 
 
 "And what are you goin' to do about it, 
 Si?" continued the old brown sunbonnet. 
 
 "Send it back to the person who wrote it," 
 said the piny-woods postmaster, filling his 
 pipe. 
 
 "Josiah Bingham !" exclaimed Eliza in 
 dismay. 
 
 If the letter, whose author Bingham ever 
 since its arrival had declined to divulge, was 
 returned unopened, no one at the Hollow 
 would know its contents. 
 
 "Let me see it again, Josiah. 99 
 
 A yellow envelope, handled by the female 
 denizens of the hamlet till its corners were 
 frazzled, passed over the counter. Fasci- 
 nated, Miss Eliza gazed at the typewritten 
 address, and pressed the wonderful epistle 
 between her forefinger and thumb. Had it 
 been a lemon, or a piece of sugar-cane, how 
 quickly it would have given up its secret! 
 Josiah watched the process over his pipe with 
 
i&teter Caglor'g ^egfeterrt Eetter 49 
 
 an amused smile. Suddenly Miss Eliza 
 started and caught her breath, and he laughed. 
 At the mocking sound she laid the letter down 
 and sighed. Days and nights of baffled curi- 
 osity had made her hollow-eyed, and after the 
 start she had given, a pathetic look came into 
 her thin face, but the heartless beholder 
 viewed the old maid unmoved. 
 
 "Josiah," she said, "Marthy Taylor's had 
 a power o' trouble. Her husband, Jim Tay- 
 lor, got in debt, and lost half his land. Then 
 he had the rheumatism for six months, and 
 when he got up again nothin' would do but he 
 must go across the Mississippi to look for his 
 brother Tom, and on the way he was took 
 down with the fever and died, and Marthy had 
 to sell the rest of the land to pay his doctor's 
 bill and funeral expenses. Seems to me, 
 Josiah, you'd be sorry for Marthy Taylor." 
 
 "I am sorry for Marthy — I'm sorry she's so 
 stubborn. But what's that got to do with it?" 
 said Josiah, glancing toward the letter which 
 Eliza's eyes had never left. 
 
 "It's got this much, Si Bingham: If you 
 was truly sorry for Marthy, you'd go take the 
 letter to her and — " 
 
 "Take it to her!" interrupted Josiah, "why 
 she sent me word by Sam that she wouldn't 
 
5° aiatiama 5feetcJ)e0 
 
 have it if it was handed her on a silver 
 waiter. " 
 
 "Josiah Bingham, listen till I'm through. 
 What I propose is that you carry it with the 
 receipt to Marthy, and make her think that 
 the law requires her to take it and sign — that 
 she'll be sent to jail if she don't. Do it, 
 Josiah, and I'll go ahead and help you to per- 
 suade her. Who knows there ain't a fortune 
 inside instead of the bad news she's expectin'. " 
 
 "No, Miss Eliza," said Josiah, resolutely, 
 "the post-office regulations can't be broke for 
 a woman's whim-whams; and if Marthy Tay- 
 lor don't come sign for it before to-morrow 
 night, that letter's goin' back to the one who 
 sent it, by the next post." And the object of 
 contention disappeared in the postmaster's 
 iron safe. 
 
 When Miss Eliza heard the lock click she 
 left the store. Josiah was hopeless. But a 
 great deal may be done in twenty-four hours, 
 and she did not despair. 
 
 Hidden from the postmaster's eyes by a 
 bend in the road, she turned up a little lane. 
 In spite of Josiah's provoking prudence, un- 
 known to him Eliza had made a great dis- 
 covery, which concerned her quite as much as 
 Marthy, and with the perturbation caused by 
 
it, came an irresistible craving for sympathy 
 and counsel. Running over the women of the 
 Hollow hastily, she thought that Mary Jane 
 Higgins would be least likely to abuse her 
 confidence — at all events, for twenty-four 
 hours. At the end of that time, if the con- 
 tents of the mysterious letter were not known 
 to her, her misery would be too great for her 
 to care whether Mary Jane told or not. 
 
 Reaching her destination, ere she was 
 seated something in Miss Eliza's manner 
 made Mrs. Higgins aware of the momentous- 
 ness of the visit. 
 
 " Has Marthy got the letter?" exclaimed 
 Mary Jane. 
 
 "No, but I've found out who wrote it," 
 replied Miss Eliza. 
 
 "Did Josiah tell you?" 
 
 "Not he," replied Eliza, resentfully. "I 
 found it out by accident. I asked Josiah to 
 let me see the letter again, and while I had it 
 in my hand, a corner of the stamp rose up, 
 and I saw the missing part of the postmark. 
 You see, the stamp wasn't well stuck on, and 
 the missing letters got printed underneath." 
 
 "And the letter came from — " 
 
 "Texas." 
 
 "But who wrote it?" 
 
52 &latmma gfctttyw 
 
 u Tom Taylor,"' and Miss Eliza blushed. 
 The heart of an old maid faithful to her first 
 love is like a jar of rose leaves. The exterior 
 may be forbidding, but, ah, what fragrance 
 hides within! Though a score of years had 
 passed since Tom Taylor had bidden Miss 
 Eliza good-bye, when she came to suspect 
 that he was the author of the wonderful letter 
 the old love surged up in her heart, and the 
 hope of her youth blossomed anew. 
 
 "I thought that Tom went to Arkansas," 
 said Mary Jane. 
 
 4 4 So did everybody else. But when father 
 forbade him the house, and he went away, he 
 wrote me a letter/' 
 
 "What was in it, Eliza?" 
 
 44 1 never knew. Father burned it — all but 
 the envelope. That was postmarked 'Texas. ' " 
 
 44 And you've never told anybody all these 
 years — not even after your father died," said 
 Mary Jane, solemnly. 4 4 Now I know, Eliza 
 Jackson, why you never married!" 
 
 Miss Eliza silently wiped her eyes, and 
 there was a long pause. 
 
 4 4 Mary Jane," said the old maid, tearfully, 
 44 if I had known Tom Taylor's address, I'd 
 have answered him. If Marthy Taylor would 
 only receive that registered letter I might 
 
write to him now. But Marthy won't have it, 
 and Josiah's going to send it back to-morrow 
 night — and, oh, Mary Jane, what shall I do?" 
 
 4 4 It's a shame," said Mary Jane, indig- 
 nantly. "Marthy's standin' in her own light; 
 Tom may be sending her money, or," and the 
 speaker's eyes shone, "he may be writin' to 
 find out if you are still single!" 
 
 The latter possibility made Miss Eliza's 
 heart leap, and started her tears afresh. 
 
 4 4 Seems to me, ' ' continued Mary Jane, 4 4 that 
 Marthy's troubles have gone to her head and 
 unsettled her mind. Every woman in the 
 Hollow's been and talked to her, and it's only 
 made her more stubborn." 
 
 44 Yes," said Miss Eliza, <4 but we've all 
 gone separately. Maybe, Mary Jane, if we 
 went together, and — " 
 
 4 4 To be sure," interrupted Mary Jane, with 
 flashing eyes, 44 I never thought of that! Let's 
 all go in a body, and take Elder Lawton 
 along. If she won't listen to us women, she'll 
 never be able to stand out against the elder. 
 We'll go this afternoon; it ain't too late." 
 
 The newly formed plan met the indorsement 
 of every one; not a woman refused to go, not 
 even old Granny Summerfield, who was eighty 
 years old, and nearly deaf and blind, and was 
 
54 &ia6ama Stftetcfje* 
 
 asked by Mary Jane to show Marthy how 
 serious was the matter in hand. So ener- 
 getic was Mary Jane that in less than an hour 
 the party, sixteen strong, walking two and 
 two like a funeral procession and led by 
 the elder's high hat, approached Marthy's 
 door. 
 
 She received them grimly, and when all had 
 taken their seats in a semicircle, sat down, 
 with her boy Sam standing behind her chair, 
 and waited for developments. The impor- 
 tance of the occasion, as Eliza and Mary 
 Jane had hoped, was fully impressed upon 
 her. She had battled separately with every 
 woman present in regard to the unwelcome 
 letter, and had come off victorious, and she 
 felt that she could fight them all together; but 
 the elder — that was taking an unfair advantage 
 of her. 
 
 It had been agreed that Eliza should make 
 the first assault, but Marthy's look of anger 
 was not lost upon Eliza, and she furtively 
 signed to Mary Jane to begin. 
 
 "Marthy," said the latter, thoroughly 
 frightened by the honor unexpectedly thrust 
 upon her — 4 4 Marthy, we are all your friends, 
 and we hate to see you a-standin' in your own 
 light, so we've come around — we've come — 
 
i&feter Caglot's lElegt^teretr Uttttt 55 
 
 we've come — " and inspiration failing her, 
 Mary Jane looked at the elder and the other 
 women panic-stricken. 
 
 "Yes, Mary Jane," said Marthy, smiling 
 acidly, "I see you are all here; there ain't 
 none o' you missin'." 
 
 "What did she say?" asked Granny Sum- 
 merfield, looking from Marthy to the others, 
 with her hand to her ear. "Is she a-goin' to 
 get the letter?" 
 
 "No, Granny," exclaimed Marthy, raising 
 her voice, "and nobody can make me go." 
 
 Granny advanced her chair and strained her 
 ears, delighted to be addressed personally. 
 
 "I know what they are all come for, 
 Granny," continued Marthy, ignoring every 
 one but the old woman, "and I know it's all 
 Eliza Jackson's doin's. Eliza is makin' a 
 cat's paw o' Mary Jane Higgins, and Mary 
 Jane ain't got sense enough to see it." 
 
 And Marthy's eyes glared back and forth 
 between Eliza and Mary Jane till the latter 
 burst into tears. 
 
 A group of women gathered around her and 
 attempted consolation. * * There — there — Mary 
 Jane! Don't take on so. She don't mean 
 what she says," they cried, patting the hysteri- 
 cal woman on the back to little purpose. 
 
56 aiafiama &ktttf>t$ 
 
 4 4 Yes, I do mean it — every word!" said 
 Marthy, her eyes snapping. 
 
 "Marthy Taylor" — Miss Eliza could re- 
 strain herself no longer — "you always were 
 stubborn and headstrong, and maybe that's 
 why Providence has punished you in the past. 
 If you'd a-listened to Mary Jane instead o' 
 insultin' us both, she'd a-told what the elder 
 and all of us think. You are countin' on that 
 letter bringin' you bad tidings, but it's our 
 idea that it may hold the best news you ever 
 had." 
 
 "Good news for me!" exclaimed Marthy, 
 bitterly. "I ain't never had any good news 
 since I was born. It's liker to bring me more 
 debts o' Jim's for me to pay; or else that 
 worthless brother o' his has got into some 
 scrape and wants me to help him out of it." 
 
 "Shame on you, Marthy!" said Miss Eliza, 
 indignantly. "It's a foul bird that bewrays 
 its own nest." 
 
 "Tom Taylor never came from my nest. 
 And if I was you, Eliza Jackson, I wouldn't 
 take up for a man that made an old maid o' 
 me," retorted Marthy. • 
 
 "Come — come, sisters," said the elder, 
 thinking it time to interpose; "don't speak in 
 wrath." Then he turned to Marthy. 
 
Stetn: Cantor's 2&egteterrtr Hetter 57 
 
 "Sister Taylor, you've been sorely afflicted, 
 we all know, but your troubles have been sent 
 for your good, and not to harden your heart. 
 Now regarding this letter, which is the cause 
 of our presence, it is your duty to receive it 
 in a Christian spirit, whether its message be 
 one of joy or sorrow. But it's my belief, and 
 that of all your friends, that the clouds are 
 a-liftin'. If such be the case, think how sin- 
 ful it would be to blind your eyes to the light 
 that's breakin' through. Should you persist 
 in your present course, you will grieve the 
 hearts of all your friends, act against the 
 interest of your orphan boy, and defraud 
 the author of the letter of the sum of twelve 
 cents. Reconsider, Sister Taylor, I beg of 
 you, before it's too late." 
 
 The elder looked pleadingly at Marthy, but 
 she remained steadfast, and seeing that his 
 appeal had been uttered in vain, the old man 
 addressed the disappointed women: "Sisters, 
 let us unite in prayer." 
 
 For the elder and all to assume that they 
 were right and she wrong was beyond measure 
 irritating to Marthy; to be prayed over was 
 more than she could bear. But she waited till 
 the pious petition was ended, and then in 
 the midst of the fervent amens abruptly 
 
58 aiafiama g&titty* 
 
 left the room, and the assembly broke up in 
 confusion. 
 
 When the gate closed behind them, the 
 women gathered in knots and proceeded 
 slowly homeward, discussing Marthy's scanda- 
 lous behavior; for like the industrious bee 
 which sucks honey from every flower, gossip 
 finds matter for discourse in all things, and 
 plucks solace even from defeat. 
 
 But for Miss Eliza there was no comfort - 
 anywhere. She had given up all hope con- 
 cerning the letter, and unnoticed by the 
 other women, hurried home. It was nearly 
 dark ere she arrived, and, picking up a pail, 
 she was going out to milk the cow, when she 
 heard the sound of bare feet trotting behind 
 her. 
 
 4 'Sam Taylor !" Miss Eliza leaned against 
 the cowshed. 
 
 "Don't be scared, Miss Eliza." 
 
 "Your mother ain't sick, or nothing" 
 
 "No, I've come to tell you some'h'n," said 
 the boy, out of breath. "Don't you mind 
 what mammy said. She's worried nearly to 
 death because we're so poor. We're mighty 
 nigh starvin', Miss Eliza, but mammy's proud, 
 and that's what makes her act so con- 
 
trary. Miss Eliza, do you think that letter 
 might be from Uncle Tom, and have money 
 in it?" 
 
 "Sam, I'm sure it's from your uncle. 
 Whether or not it's got money in it, I don't 
 know; but I believe it brings good news of 
 some sort. " 
 
 4 ' Then mammy's got to have it," said the 
 boy, his eyes shining in the dark. 
 
 "It's no use, Sam," sighed Miss Eliza, 
 gloomily. "You've talked to her?" 
 
 "Yes," admitted Sam. 
 
 "I've talked to her. Everybody's argued 
 with her, and at last we took the elder. It's 
 no use. " 
 
 "I tell you, Miss Eliza, mammy's got to 
 have that letter. Talkin' ain't everythin'. 
 I've talked, but I ain't done." 
 
 "What can you do, poor child?" exclaimed 
 Miss Eliza, compassionately. 
 
 "That's my secret; but if mammy don't 
 read that letter before to-morrow night, I'll 
 eat my hat," laughed Sam, and he disap- 
 peared in the night. 
 
 "Sam! Sam!" called Miss Eliza, "come 
 back!" She was alarmed. Suppose Sam, 
 trying to enter the store to abstract the letter 
 
6o aiaiama S>ftetcfje* 
 
 should be shot by Josiah for a thief! She 
 wished she had told him it was locked up in 
 Bingham's safe. 
 
 She waited a moment, hoping that Sam 
 would return, then going to the fence she 
 looked down the road, but he was gone, and 
 she came back to the cowshed with another 
 anxiety upon her troubled soul. 
 
 Early next morning she sought Mary Jane 
 again, and discussing Sam's visit, they agreed 
 that the boy's wild scheme must be prevented, 
 or Josiah informed of his design. While they 
 were yet debating the matter, Sam passed the 
 door and was called in. 
 
 "I never said nothin' about breakin' in 
 Josiah Bingham's store," said Sam, regarding 
 Miss Eliza reproachfully. 
 
 "But we know you were goin' to, Sam," 
 said Miss Eliza. 
 
 Sam meditated a moment. 
 
 He had supposed that Miss Eliza would 
 keep her counsel. But since she had told 
 Mary Jane he well knew that unless he threw 
 the latter off the track the whole village would 
 speedily be made aware of his resolution, and 
 every woman in it might watch him so closely 
 that it would endanger the execution of the 
 cunning stratagem which he had devised. 
 
"Well, Miss Eliza, don't fret. If the 
 letter's locked up in Josiah Bingham's safe, 
 it'll have to stay there for all of me," and 
 Sam walked away with well-simulated de- 
 spair. 
 
 "Them women!" said he, disgustedly. 
 "Can't none of 'em keep a secret. It's me 
 ag'in the Hollow," he continued, sauntering 
 along, whistling softly. "And the first thing 
 is to fix Josiah. " 
 
 "Mr. Bingham, mammy's weakenin'," he 
 said, a few moments later, leaning over the 
 counter. 
 
 "She's comin' for the letter?" 
 
 " 'Twouldn't no ways s'prise me if she did. 
 We had a big time at our house yesterday. 
 The whole settlement was there, — I mean all 
 the women folks, — and they brought Elder 
 Lawton. But mammy was game. They 
 talked to her, and mammy talked back and 
 give 'em as good as they brought, as long as 
 they fit fair." 
 
 "How?" queried Josiah. 
 
 "Why, when mammy'd cleaned out all the 
 women, and got the best o' the elder, too, he 
 ups and prays over her. I think it was a 
 durned mean trick." 
 
 A pause. 
 
62 Alabama S&etcfjes 
 
 4 'Mr. Bingham I want you to promise me 
 some'h'n. ' ; 
 
 "What is it, Sam?" 
 
 "Mr. Bingham, if mammy comes down here 
 for that letter, don't say nothin' to her, nor 
 ask no questions, 'cause she feels powerful 
 sore. Just let her sign and get away as quick 
 as you can." 
 
 Josiah consented. "I won't say a word, 
 Sam, but hand her the letter and receipt as 
 soon as she comes in." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Sam, and left the 
 store. 
 
 For the women of the Hollow the day was 
 one of unalloyed gloom. Many were the dis- 
 consolate glances cast in the direction of 
 Marthy Taylor's gate, but nobody dared to 
 enter. Neither did any one repair to the post- 
 office for a parting look at the document 
 whose arrival had so perturbed the village. 
 But the calm was deceitful. Little dreamed 
 the inhabitants that they were sleeping, so to 
 speak, over a mine whose explosion would 
 cause an excitement beside which all previous 
 emotions were destined to sink into nothing- 
 ness. 
 
 It was the happy fate ot Mary Jane Higgins 
 to discover the lighted fuse; perhaps as a 
 
Sbtottz Castor's lUgfatm* Uttttx 63 
 
 reward for the philanthropic errand on which 
 she was engaged at the time. It happened in 
 this wise. 
 
 Toward sunset it occurred to Mary Jane's 
 kind heart that it would be a good deed to 
 visit Miss Eliza and aid her in bearing up 
 against her heavy disappointment. On this 
 worthy mission, just as she was about to enter 
 Miss Eliza's gate she saw Marthy's door 
 open and the widow peer furtively down the 
 road as if to see if the coast was clear. 
 
 At the vision, Mary Jane slunk out of view 
 within the gateway, and beheld Marthy make 
 her way rapidly in the direction of the post- 
 office. 
 
 14 Eliza, she's gone for the letter!" ex- 
 claimed Mary Jane, wildly, and in a jiffy the 
 two women were out of the gate. 
 
 In the road they were speedily joined by 
 other women, for Mary Jane's eyes were not 
 the only ones to spy Marthy set forth, and 
 before the latter had reached the store, the 
 whole village, with the elder in the van, were 
 on Marthy's trail. 
 
 "It's the Lord's doing, sisters. But don't 
 follow her too close," exclaimed the elder, 
 still keeping ahead. 
 
 Josiah was evidently true to his word, for 
 
64 ailafiama &fctit%t$ 
 
 Marthy remained scarcely half a minute within. 
 When she came out, she tore open the envel- 
 ope and, gazing at the contents a moment, 
 gave a yell that almost froze the blood of all 
 the spectators, and then turned a series of 
 somersaults in the road. 
 
 4 4 The Lord have mercy upon her, " said the 
 elder. * 4 She's lost her mind. ,, 
 
 4 4 What is it? What is it?" cried Granny 
 Summerfield. The yell had entered even her 
 deaf ears. 
 
 4 4 She's gone crazy," answered Mary Jane. 
 
 4 4 Poor thing! Poor thing!" chorused the 
 other women. 
 
 4 4 We must catch her and get the letter 
 before she destroys it," said the elder, and all 
 hurried after Marthy, who had started home- 
 ward at the top of her speed. 
 
 Just as pursued and pursuers reached the 
 widow's gate the door of the house opened, 
 and in the rays of the setting sun a second 
 Marthy stood before them and faced her 
 double running up the walk. 
 
 44 0h, mammy! mammy! I've got the letter!" 
 called Sam, tossing off his mother's bonnet. 
 44 It's from Uncle Tom. He's just heard 
 about pap's death, and how poor we are, and 
 he's sent us two hundred dollars — and he's 
 
Stater Caglor's ^Ugfetmlr %tittx 65 
 
 comin' home to buy back the land! Read it, 
 mammy!" 
 
 For a moment Marthy stared like one in a 
 trance, then she sat down on the step and 
 buried her face in her apron, sobbing. 
 
 " Shall I read it to you, Sister Taylor?" said 
 the elder. 
 
 Marthy nodded assent. 
 
 It was even as Sam had said. 
 
 When the elder finished, he added: "That's 
 all that concerns you, Sister Taylor. There's 
 a postscript, but that is for Sister Eliza 
 Jackson." 
 
THE DRAGON CANDLESTICK 
 
THE DRAGON CANDLESTICK 
 
 HOW came it, this strange object of Old 
 World art, suggestive of lithe fingers 
 and bizarre fantasies, and breathing of Italy 
 and the Renaissance, in a West Alabama 
 mansion in the year 18 — ? Though the skies 
 were as blue and the winds were as soft as 
 those of Italy, and though the harrying hand 
 of civil war had given the house a look of 
 premature antiquity, made pathetically beau- 
 tiful by embowering trees and old-fashioned 
 flowers, yet the eerie bit of rococo did not 
 seem at home in its New World surround- 
 ings. 
 
 In the late afternoon of a drowsy Southern 
 June, it stood between Dorothy Randall and 
 her mother on the table by the window; and 
 under a glass case similar to those that are 
 sometimes placed over small clocks and wax 
 flowers to protect them from the dust, it 
 looked quaint and beautiful. The design was 
 that of a mediaeval dragon, with scales and 
 wings of varicolored metal. In the dragon's 
 69 
 
7° aiafiama S&rtcfjw 
 
 mouth, which formed the socket, was a candle 
 of pink wax, the sides of which were embel- 
 lished by a delicate tracery of vines and flow- 
 ers; and the bit of wick at the tip of the 
 candle, which had never been lighted, had 
 grown yellow with age, so that it looked as if 
 it were of silk. 
 
 From the manner with which it was re- 
 garded by mother and daughter it was clear 
 that the table by the window was not its usual 
 resting-place, but that it had been recently 
 brought forth from safe-keeping for an espe- 
 cial reason. 
 
 "It is marvellously beautiful/' said the 
 young girl, after a deep-drawn breath; and 
 with a wondering look in her pretty gray eyes 
 she carefully lifted the glass case from the 
 curio. "See, mother, see!" she added, clasp- 
 ing her hands in admiration, as the wind, softly 
 shifting the rose-vine that clambered over the 
 western window, let in a tiny sunbeam, which 
 gayly flickered and danced upon the dragon's 
 wings and scales of many colors. 
 
 The two women were attired in black, and 
 the shadow that lingered on their pale South- 
 ern faces, and subdued even the young girl's 
 tones of admiration, showed that they had 
 recently suffered some heavy affliction. 
 
44 Mother, why have you never let me see it 
 before?' ' 
 
 Mrs. Randall sighed. 
 
 4 4 For the reason, my child, that your father 
 would never suffer it to be shown, and but 
 rarely mentioned it, because it brought to 
 mind his Cousin Tom, of whom he was very 
 fond; and since your father died the thought 
 of the dragon candlestick has not occurred to 
 me till to-day/' 
 
 4 4 Did it belong to Cousin Tom?" asked 
 Dollie, for so most people continued to call 
 the girl despite her increased inches and 
 her eighteen years. 
 
 44 Yes," said Mrs. Randall, and her glance 
 passed quickly from the candlestick to an old 
 yellow envelope sealed with green wax which 
 she held in her lap. So interested was Dollie 
 in the candlestick that she had not observed 
 this latter object. 
 
 "I've heard it hinted that Cousin Tom 
 was not in his right mind; is it true, 
 mother?" 
 
 4 4 No!" Mrs. Randall said, decidedly. Then, 
 after a short pause, she continued with some- 
 what less decision: 4 4 Tom Randall was never 
 out of his mind. He was merely different 
 from other people." 
 
72 aiafiama &ktttf>t$ 
 
 4 4 In what way did he betray his eccentri- 
 city?" 
 
 44 I prefer that you should not use the word 
 eccentricity in connection with your Cousin 
 Tom, my dear. It does not seem quite the 
 appropriate word, and jars upon me." 
 
 4 4 People say that the wound in his head — M 
 
 "I know what people say," interrupted Mrs. 
 Randall. 4 4 Tom was no queerer with the 
 bullet in his head than before." 
 
 4 4 How did Cousin Tom come into possession 
 of the candlestick?" the girl went on, with 
 growing interest. 
 
 4 4 We never knew. When the war was over 
 and Tom came back from the army, he said 
 he could not begin life again in the midst of 
 so much desolation; so he sold his property 
 and went abroad, and we heard nothing of him 
 for seven years." 
 
 44 Where did he go?" 
 
 44 I don't know. When he came back he 
 didn't give any detailed account of where he 
 had been or what he had done. Indeed, so 
 reserved was he that we did not know he pos- 
 sessed the dragon candlestick till the day 
 before he died; and the facts connected with 
 this candlestick constitute, in my opinion, the 
 only evidence against poor Tom's sanity. 
 
Cfie JBragon ©antolesti'cft 73 
 
 When he was near his end he made this bit of 
 bric-a-brac the centre of a mystery which is 
 still unsolved. 99 
 
 Mrs. Randall began again to finger the 
 green-sealed envelope in a nervous manner, 
 looking the while at the yellowed paper and 
 its unbroken seal with a kind of curious eager- 
 ness. But Dollie continued to be engrossed 
 with the candlestick, on which her eyes fixed 
 themselves in a dreamy gaze. Outside the 
 window the fluting of the breeze sank to a 
 mournful cadence, and the rose-vine again 
 shifted its position, shutting out the little sun- 
 beam which had danced about the candlestick, 
 making the little dragon glimmer with an eerie 
 lustre. 
 
 "Oh, mother, there's a letter, too! Where 
 did you get it?" said Dollie, waking from 
 her reverie and reaching eagerly for the time- 
 yellowed document on her mother's knee. 
 
 Mrs. Randall, with a little start, moved it 
 out of her reach. 
 
 "Wait, my dear. Be patient with me. I 
 feel a little unnerved this afternoon. The 
 sight of these things makes poor Tom's mem- 
 ory so vivid it almost seems as if I could 
 see — 99 The quivering voice broke and could 
 not finish. 
 
74 aiafiama Sftetcf)** 
 
 A new thought thrilled Dollie. Had her 
 Cousin Tom been her father's rival? It re- 
 quires something more than the desolation of 
 his country to make a strong man a silent 
 exile for seven years. 
 
 "Let us put the candlestick and envelope 
 by till to-morrow, or another day when you 
 feel stronger, mother. " 
 
 "No!" said Mrs. Randall, with piteous reso- 
 lution. "I must open the envelope to-day. 
 You do not know all that it means to me. It 
 is my last hope, and the future is so dark! 
 It seems as if the claims arising from your 
 father's failure would never cease. The 
 executor tells me now that our home must be 
 sold, for it also is mortgaged, and the note 
 falls due in a month. " 
 
 "Yes, mother, I know; but what do you 
 expect from the candlestick and envelope?" 
 
 4 4 1 hardly know. Tom was strongly opposed 
 to your father's mercantile venture, and tried 
 to prevent it, so I can't help hoping that his 
 kind foresight may come to our rescue, even 
 after his death, in some way through this 
 envelope or candlestick." 
 
 Mrs. Randall looked at her daughter with 
 more of fear than hope in her troubled 
 face. 
 
W$z JBtagon (ttantilesti'cfe 75 
 
 Dollie drew a little footstool to her side, 
 and sitting down, took her mother's hand in 
 both her own. 
 
 "Mother," she said, "we have been through 
 much together; don't let us be down-hearted. 
 Something will turn up, be sure." 
 
 4 4 Oh, my child, I don't know. Everything 
 seems to be failing us. If I could only believe 
 what Tom said the day before he died! But 
 suppose the people are right who think that 
 he was deranged!" 
 
 Dollie's heart ached for her mother, but it 
 was clear to her that the story must be told 
 and the envelope opened before Mrs. Randall 
 could be restored to calmness. 
 
 4 4 What did Cousin Tom say the day before 
 he died?" 
 
 44 Tom's health failed gradually," Mrs. Ran- 
 dall began. 4 4 It came to us slowly and with- 
 out being told that he could not get well. 
 For several days he had lain almost in a 
 stupor, when one afternoon he brightened up 
 and called your father and me to him. He 
 told us he knew he could not live many days, 
 perhaps not many hours, and there was some- 
 thing he wished to do before it was too late. 
 In obedience to his direction, I brought him a 
 carefully tied package from a chest he had. 
 
76 aiafiama &ktttttt& 
 
 He opened the package and took from it the 
 candlestick and this sealed envelope. Then 
 he remarked that what he was about to say 
 was of the utmost importance, though it might 
 not appear so. 
 
 4 4 4 1 know you both so well/ said he, 4 and 
 love you so dearly, that I feel sure you would 
 observe my wish, even if it were not the last 
 injunction of a dying man. You must never 
 part with this candlestick, nor remove the 
 candle which it holds. This bit of bric-a-brac 
 is the most valuable of all my small posses- 
 sions. It has some worth as a work of art, 
 but it is not for that reason that I wish you to 
 prize it. Take it and this sealed envelope, 
 and guard them carefully. The world is going 
 well with you now. I hope it may continue to 
 do so.' Then he looked at me and sighed, 
 and I knew he was thinking of your father's 
 business enterprises. 
 
 4 4 4 But if the tide should turn/ he resumed, 
 'and trouble mount upon trouble till sorrow 
 and disaster seem about to engulf you, then, 
 after every expedient has been tried, and tried 
 in vain, and all seems hopeless, then bring 
 forth this candlestick and envelope and break 
 the seal/ " 
 
 "How queer, mother I" said Dollie, breath- 
 
Cfje mtagon Otanlilesttcft 77 
 
 lessly. 44 Did he add nothing to throw light 
 on this strange injunction?' ' 
 
 44 Nothing. In a few moments delirium set 
 in, — if it had not already begun, — and he died 
 at daybreak. " 
 
 44 What did father think?' ' 
 
 44 He did not know what to think. Several 
 times after his business troubles began I urged 
 him to open the envelope, but each time he 
 replied that the hour specified by poor Tom 
 had not come, and refused to break the seal. 
 But now it seems to me that the time has 
 arrived. " 
 
 4 4 It certainly has," said Dollie, emphati- 
 cally, for a slight tone of doubt in her 
 mother's conclusion showed a desire for rein- 
 forcement. 
 
 The sun was almost down. The slanting 
 rays glided through the window and played 
 upon the opposite wall, limning quaint fres- 
 coes of dappled light and shade in the form of 
 leaves and roses, which replied like echo pic- 
 tures to the flowers and foliage swaying in the 
 breeze. Some of the beams fell upon the 
 candlestick, making the little dragon's eyes 
 twinkle with expectancy. 
 
 It was a momentous hour to the two women 
 in black. Dollie could not guess the contents 
 
78 aiafiama &kttt$t& 
 
 of the envelope, and vainly endeavored to sur- 
 mise what connection it could have with the 
 candlestick. Her mothers hopes were more 
 definite. Mrs. Randall mentally set aside the 
 candlestick, and placed her faith in the time- 
 yellowed, green-sealed document. A sealed 
 envelope with a mystery attached to it may 
 contain almost anything — titles to real estate, 
 railroad bonds, or even delightfully prosaic 
 bank bills; and in her excitement it seemed 
 as if she dared not break the seal of the dead, 
 for, with Dollie's eager eyes following each 
 tremulous motion, she took her well-worn 
 scissors and timidly clipped an end of the 
 envelope and drew out the contents. A 
 glance told her they were neither titles, 
 bonds, nor bank bills. A single sheet was all, 
 but being of parchment it had given the envel- 
 ope a deceptive thickness. 
 
 44 Take it, Dorothy, take it!" Mrs. Randall 
 exclaimed, her eyes dimmed by suppressed 
 tears. "Take it, and tell me what it is." 
 
 The parchment crackled in the girl's im- 
 patient fingers. 
 
 "Why, mother, it is a bit of verse in some 
 foreign language — Italian, I think; yes, it is 
 Italian, and the writing is very indistinct. 
 That doesn't matter, however, for Cousin 
 
W§t Dragon (Kantrleattcft 79 
 
 Tom, or some one, has added below it an Eng- 
 lish translation." 
 "Read it!" 
 
 " When fortune jeers, 
 
 And full of tears, 
 Hope limps on leaden sandal, 
 
 Be not downcast, 
 
 But hie thee fast 
 And light the Dragon Candle." 
 
 "Is there no more?" 
 
 "That is all," said Dollie, gazing at the 
 parchment, thoroughly mystified. 
 
 "Then we are ruined!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Randall, despairingly, through her tears. 
 
 "Mother, I am going to light the candle," 
 said Dollie, striking a match. 
 
 "Stop!" Mrs. Randall cried. "You have 
 the faith that would move mountains. To 
 me, all is now as clear as day. Your Cousin 
 Tom must always have had a streak of insan- 
 ity, and doubtless while abroad he was imposed 
 upon by some swindling fakir, and induced to 
 give an extravagant price for the candlestick 
 on account of the absurd legend accompanying 
 it. It is just the kind of story to captivate 
 poor Tom's fancy." 
 
 Dollie gazed at the little dragon in silence, 
 unconvinced. 
 
8o aiafiama Sfcetcije* 
 
 "My dear child, can't you see that the 
 whole affair bears the stamp of fraud or insan- 
 ity? Do you attribute to the candlestick the 
 properties of Aladdin's wonderful lamp, and 
 believe that the lighting of the candle will 
 evoke a marvellous genius with power to 
 make us rich and great?" 
 
 "No, mother, I don't think that. I don't 
 know what I think. But I'm going to light 
 the candle. " 
 
 "Dorothy, stop! I command you. I feel 
 that should you do as you wish it would be 
 using a dead man's weakness to mock his 
 memory. In our affliction let us bear our- 
 selves with becoming dignity. Take the 
 candlestick away; the sight of it is painful to 
 me. " 
 
 When Mrs. Randall finished speaking the 
 little dragon looked very sorrowful, or so 
 Dollie thought, and after a brief reverie the 
 girl carried him away. 
 
 Meantime the sun had set, and dusk began 
 to gather around the old house. The negro 
 plough hands, returning from the cotton-fields, 
 went by on their mules, with trace chains 
 clinking time to their plantation songs. Dusk 
 thickened to darkness, through whose cooling 
 folds, damp with dew, the cowbells in the lane 
 
W$t 29ragon Otantiieattcfc 81 
 
 rang softer and slower, till all were hushed in 
 sleep beneath the low-boughed oaks. So the 
 long evening dragged itself away in sadness, 
 almost in silence; and after her mother had 
 retired, nothing was left to keep Dollie com- 
 pany but a clear-voiced mocking-bird singing 
 on the crest of a tall magnolia. 
 
 After the girl had gone to bed she remained 
 a long time awake, her head full of distracting 
 fancies. 
 
 Dollie felt keenly the money troubles that 
 harassed her mother and threatened to make 
 them homeless. Was there nothing she could 
 do, she asked herself, to earn the money with 
 which to pay off the horrible mortgage? She 
 might grow strawberries for the Northern 
 markets. She had heard there was money to 
 be made in that way. But alas! it would take 
 a year to raise berries, and the mortgage was 
 due in a month. A lottery ticket? Her heart 
 sank, for the suggestion made more real their 
 desperate circumstances. Then her mind 
 reverted to the dragon candlestick, and the 
 green-sealed envelope, and her mother's bitter 
 disappointment, from which, by a natural 
 transition, her thoughts passed to her Cousin 
 Tom. Poor Cousin Tom, faithful to the 
 grave! Would any man ever love her as well? 
 
82 aiafcama &kttti}t$ 
 
 she questioned herself, and in the utterly 
 unfathomable, the chain of her meditation 
 became broken, and she seemed to be think- 
 ing of many things at once. She wondered if 
 she was asleep. She tried to move, and found 
 she could not stir. How strange to be asleep 
 and yet thinking of so many things! She was 
 sure that her eyes were open, for did she not 
 see the dragon candlestick on the mantel, 
 where she had placed it in the afternoon? 
 How queerly the little dragon was acting, 
 shaking his wings and winking his eyes! She 
 thought she ought to be frightened, but she 
 was not. 
 
 Suddenly she felt as if some one were in the 
 room. It was her Cousin Tom. How could 
 he be there, when she knew he was dead? He 
 glided through the moonlight to the bed, and 
 bent over and whispered: 
 
 " Hie thee fast 
 And light the Dragon Candle." 
 
 Then his figure faded out through the win- 
 dow, and she saw nothing but the little dragon 
 waving his wings, dancing and beckoning to 
 her in the most extraordinary manner. As 
 she watched it she felt as if she must get out 
 of bed. Finally, after a mighty effort, she 
 
83 
 
 found herself sitting on the side of the bed, 
 with her blood tingling and her heart beating 
 violently. She looked around nervously. 
 The room was perfectly still, and every object 
 was clearly outlined, for the moonbeams shin- 
 ing opaquely through the thin muslin curtains 
 filled the place with a soft and silvery light. 
 All was silent within, but below in the garden 
 the katydids nicked the stillness with their 
 serrated notes, and whenever the night wind 
 stirred the curtain, the room was filled with 
 the breath of flowers. 
 
 Gradually her heart beat more calmly, and 
 soon she heard the town clock strike two. 
 She had slept longer than she thought. She 
 looked toward the mantel where stood the 
 dragon candlestick. The little dragon was 
 behaving quite decorously now, yet so vivid 
 had been her vision it was difficult to believe 
 that the little creature had not been dancing, 
 winking, and beckoning to her a few moments 
 before. 
 
 Rising from the side of the bed, she ap- 
 proached the mantel, lifted the glass cover 
 from the candlestick, and placed the dragon 
 upon a table near the window. For a moment 
 she paused, thrilled by a feeling that resembled 
 awe more than fear. Then, with beating 
 
84 &lafiama i&feetcfiea 
 
 heart, she struck a match and held it to the 
 candle. It did not ignite immediately, but by 
 and by, when she came to the end of a second 
 match, the yellow wick began to burn with a 
 thin, bluish flame. By this time Dollie was 
 trembling so she could scarcely stand; she 
 seated herself where she could watch the 
 candle as it burned. 
 
 She had a singular feeling. A sense of ex- 
 pectancy possessed her. She felt sure that 
 something strange was about to happen, yet 
 she had no idea what it would be. It was in 
 vain that her reason told her that her mother 
 was right. She could not rid herself of an 
 eerie emotion of prescience. 
 
 The candle began to burn more brightly. 
 Still the flame remained azure-tinted, and the 
 peculiar radiance, blending with the opaque 
 moonlight from the curtained window, illumi- 
 nated the room with an uncanny light. As 
 the flame increased, a slight aromatic odor 
 arose from the candle, and it seemed to 
 Dollie that the little dragon smiled. 
 
 Gradually the perfume grew more intense 
 and filled the entire apartment. With her 
 gaze still fixed upon the candle, a delicious 
 drowsiness stole over her, which she knew was 
 caused by the smell of the burning wax. In 
 
GTfje JBragon (Eantrlesttcfe 85 
 
 another moment all care, all anxiety had 
 passed from her. She was asleep. 
 
 When Dollie awoke, the birds were singing 
 gayly in the garden below, the sun was high in 
 the heavens, and her mother was standing at 1 
 her side. 
 
 44 Dorothy, daughter, why are you sleeping 
 in your chair?' ' asked Mrs. Randall, with 
 amazement in her patient gaze. 
 
 Dollie rubbed her eyes, only half awake. 
 
 "What is it, mother?' ' 
 
 44 You did not come to breakfast, and I 
 feared you were ill, and — dear me, Dollie," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Randall, interrupting herself, 
 4 4 what a singular odor there is in the 
 room!" 
 
 This remark cleared the drowsy cobwebs 
 from the girl's brain, and as the occurrences 
 of the night came back to her she looked 
 toward the table. 
 
 4 4 It is the perfume of scented wax, mother. 
 I had a strange dream, and when I woke in 
 the night I lighted the dragon candle. But 
 see, mother, how queer it looks!" 
 
 Mrs. Randall's eyes followed Dollie's glance, 
 and they both approached the little dragon. 
 
 The candle was only a third consumed, but 
 
86 aiafiama Sfeetcf)^ 
 
 the wick had disappeared, and in its place was 
 a circular disk of tin or some other metal. 
 
 "What can it be?" said Dollie, excitedly. 
 
 "Whatever it is, it is not a candle," replied 
 her mother. 
 
 Dollie's eyes were flashing, and Mrs. Ran- 
 dall's patient eagerness was pathetic. 
 
 "I am going to see what it is," said the 
 girl, and she began to peel the wax from the 
 false candle, which proved to be a small cylin- 
 drical box, about an inch in diameter and six 
 inches long. 
 
 With growing wonder the two women passed 
 the strange box back and forth between them, 
 and marveled over it and its unknown con- 
 tents, treating it much as they would have 
 done a strange letter in an unfamiliar hand, 
 making divers surmises as to what was within, 
 when an inappreciable muscular effort would 
 instantly have opened it and revealed all. 
 
 The humor of the situation occurred first to 
 Dollie. 
 
 "How absurd, mother, to be guessing what 
 is inside, when we can open it at once and 
 see!" 
 
 "Wait!" said Mrs. Randall, with quivering 
 lip. "Wait a moment ; I cannot bear a second 
 disappointment." 
 
W$z HBragon Olantrlejsttctt 87 
 
 Dollie looked at her mother, and felt that 
 she had not realized how much the last few 
 months of grief and distress had worn and 
 aged her. 
 
 "I was wrong, Dorothy. I cannot wait.. 
 Open the box at once!" she cried, wringing 
 her thin, white hands in a nervous tremor. 
 
 Without an instant's further delay the girl 
 removed the top, and inverting the box, 
 poured out upon the table what seemed to be 
 a shower of twinkling dewdrops, which laughed 
 in the morning light with all the tints of the 
 rainbow. The effect was dazzling. 
 
 "Diamonds, mother!" cried Dollie, and in 
 the sudden revulsion from anxiety and fear 
 the two women fell sobbing into each other's 
 arms. 
 
 After their tears had subsided and they 
 came to examine the glittering heap, it was 
 found to contain fifty large diamonds of the 
 purest water. Mrs. Randall could not esti- 
 mate their value, and sent for her legal 
 adviser. 
 
 When the old lawyer had heard the story 
 and inspected the gems he congratulated Mrs. 
 Randall. 
 
 "These will put an end to all your financial 
 difficulties," said he. "I am not an expert in 
 
88 Alabama gbtttfyts 
 
 precious stones, but I know these diamonds 
 will suffice to pay off the mortgage on your 
 home, redeem your plantation that has been 
 sold for debt, and still leave a handsome sum 
 for a safe investment. 
 
 Then the old man and Dollie fell to debat- 
 ing the question whether her cousin knew of 
 the existence of the diamonds, or if he had 
 bought the dragon candlestick on account of 
 the legend. Dollie turned and appealed to 
 her mother, but the latter did not hear. She 
 had glided to the window and was gazing far 
 away where Tom Randall's grave lay green on 
 the hillside. 
 
PAP'S MULES 
 
PAPS MULES 
 
 THE Widow Barbour stood on the edge of 
 the throng which had gathered under the 
 big oak in front of the corner store, and 
 listened with growing consternation to the 
 great news of the impending battle. Fortu- 
 nately she had disposed of the contents of her 
 basket before the arrival of the stage, or her 
 butter and eggs would have remained unsold, 
 so great was the excitement that convulsed 
 the village. As the widow's rustic mind 
 gradually apprehended the tale of the ap- 
 proaching carnage which threatened Oakville, 
 her thoughts reverted to her home at Hickory 
 Hollow, and an irresistible desire seized her 
 to communicate the fearful tidings to the 
 benighted denizens of that mountain hamlet. 
 If there was to be a battle at Oakville, and 
 blood was to flow in the streets, Nancy Bar- 
 bour did not wish to see it, so she mounted 
 old Sorrel and started at speed for home. 
 
 But it was far to Hickory Hollow, and with 
 her heart beating time to Sorrel's cantering 
 
 9 1 
 
92 aiafiama Sfcetcfje* 
 
 feet, Nancy soon recognized the impossibility 
 of surviving four hours without telling the 
 news to some one, so she resolved upon a 
 diversion up Blackberry Lane for the purpose 
 of terrifying the family of Susan Cline, a crony 
 of hers, who had formerly dwelt at Hickory 
 Hollow. 
 
 " 'Tain't likely Susan's heard the great 
 news," murmured the widow as she galloped, 
 "an* if I don't tell somebody soon I'll jes' 
 bust." 
 
 The trees around John Cline's log cabin 
 were in half leafage, although it was but 
 April, and the foliage afforded considerable 
 protection against the West Alabama sun. 
 The tide of war was rapidly engulfing the 
 doomed Confederacy, but there was no hint 
 of conflict in Cline's dooryard. True, there 
 was smoke, but it was not the sulphurous 
 fumes of battle, smelling of burned powder 
 and carnage, but the incense of peace curling 
 gracefully from the fire about Susan Cline's 
 soap-pot, and redolent of the spicy scent of 
 pine knots and hickory boughs. The south 
 wind at intervals blew the pungent smoke into 
 the peach-trees that hung over the garden 
 fence, and the bees that were rifling the pink 
 blossoms rose with an indignant hum, to 
 
lap's Mult* 
 
 93 
 
 return to their toil when the gust had 
 passed. 
 
 Susan stirred the steaming caldron medi- 
 tatively with a long soap-stick. Sometimes 
 she made a brief remark to guide the labors of 
 her two daughters, Betsy and Judith, the first 
 of whom bent over a wash-tub, while the other 
 churned a turn of milk; sometimes she looked 
 across the field to where her husband was 
 ploughing with a pair of bay mules; or her 
 glance fell tenderly upon Johnny, her little 
 boy of ten, who made it his duty to keep the 
 fire burning about the pot of soap. 
 
 A messenger of ill to this peaceful scene 
 might well lament his errand. But no com- 
 punction visited Nancy Barbour's brain, as 
 she galloped up the lane. With her brown 
 skirt sailing in the wind and her sunbonnet 
 flapping from side to side, the widow's appear- 
 ance was well calculated to excite the anxious 
 fear of the little group in the dooryard. 
 
 t4 Lan' sake! Nance, what's the matter?" ex- 
 claimed Susan, as Nancy drew rein at the gate. 
 
 Has anything happened to my kin at the 
 Hollow?" 
 
 With a breathlessness, partly real, but 
 largely assumed, Nancy shook her head 
 negatively, and asked for a gourd of water, 
 
94 ailafiama Stfutcfjw 
 
 and it was not till after repeated solicitation 
 that she proceeded to unfold her tale of terror. 
 Time was precious, yet the widow could not 
 deny herself the enjoyment of her friend's 
 suspense. 
 
 "The day o' wrath's at han', Susan Cline," 
 she finally began, "an' you pore critters 
 are washin' clo'es, churnin' milk, an' bilin' 
 soap!" 
 
 Susan threw a quick, questioning glance at 
 Nancy as if she suspected her sanity. 
 
 "Nance, have yer come gallopin' up the 
 lane jest to norate about Judgment Day?" 
 
 "No, Suse, I've come from Oakville; the 
 Yankees are a-comin'; thar's goin' to be a 
 battle thar, and blood's goin' to run in the 
 streets. " 
 
 "The Yankee Raiders a-comin' at last!" ex- 
 claimed Susan. "Are yer shore the news is 
 true, Nance?" 
 
 "Yes, Suse; the news was brought by stage, 
 and it's a sartin' fact. The mayor, the alder- 
 men, and the one-armed and the one-legged 
 soldiers have helt a meetin' under the big oak 
 front of Brown's sto'. The soldiers 'How it's 
 no use to put up a fight, for thar's no able- 
 bodied men left to fight; but the mayor and 
 t'others say it would be a dessgrace to sur- 
 
lap's Muh& 
 
 95 
 
 render without a gun pinted or a lick struck. 
 It was a great meetin', Suse. His honor 
 stood on a barrel and made a grand speech.' ' 
 
 Nancy paused to enjoy the sensation she 
 was creating. Meanwhile, to brace her nerves, 
 she took out a box of snuff from her flat bosom, 
 and, inserting her brush, she mopped up a 
 brown ball and put it between her thin lips. 
 
 "His honor's a fool, and the old soldiers are 
 in the right," said Susan, gesticulating with 
 her soap-stick. "Thar's been enough blood 
 and tears shed in this pore country." 
 
 "Well," resumed Nancy, "his honor out- 
 talked 'em and carried the people with him. 
 I tell yer, Suse, thar's goin' to be a battle, 
 shore. The mayor's organized a company, 
 and named it the Oakville Home Guard, and 
 appinted Abner Wilkins cap'n. And you 
 know the old cannon on the bluff which used 
 to be fired on the Fourth o' July, and ain't 
 been fired in nigh on to four year? Well, 
 they've drug it down to the bridge and 
 loadened it with scrap iron. But thar's some 
 folks agin' the cannon, sayin' she's too old 
 and rusty to shoot; an' if she do shoot, 
 nobody knows which end's a-goin' off." 
 
 A stronger gust shook the peach trees, driv- 
 ing out the bees, shattering the blossoms and 
 
96 aiafcama 3&tit%t% 
 
 flaking Judith's yellow hair with pink. After 
 it there came a hush as if the wind had sud- 
 denly stopped and held its breath, like a 
 frightened child. Then it fled furtively down 
 the lane. One could trace its feet by little 
 eddies of dust. Then came a bit of April 
 cloud, no larger than one's hand, and floated 
 under the noontide sun, casting a shadow 
 over the little group. 
 
 Susan glanced at her frightened children, 
 and a feeling of resentment toward the bearer 
 of ill tidings who had alarmed them rose in 
 her heart. 
 
 4 4 We are much obliged to you, Nance, for 
 comin , out of yer way to bring us bad news, 
 but we're not beholden to you for namin' us 
 pore critters jes' because we are washin' our 
 clo'es and bilin' our soap. Livin' or dead, a 
 body needs soap and clean clo'es. Further- 
 moah, if the Raiders be a-comin', we can't 
 hender 'em." 
 
 Susan's affected calmness vexed Nancy, 
 who vaguely felt herself defrauded. She had 
 expected more of a panic. 
 
 "I'm powerful glad to see you so reesigned, 
 Suse, for it's a Christian's duty. Howsomever, 
 in Oakville they 'llowed the Raiders 'ud skin 
 the county, and thar wouldn't be a four-legged 
 
lap's JWules 
 
 97 
 
 critter left to milk or plough. What are you- 
 uns goin' to do when yer mules is gone?" 
 
 "It would be a hard case to lose our mules, 
 for they are our main support, Nance, but the 
 ground's broke and planted, and we could 
 make out to work it with a hoe." 
 
 Having parried Nancy's final effort to create 
 dismay, Susan ordered her little flock back to 
 their labors; and the widow, fearing to be 
 forestalled as a messenger of ill to the dwell- 
 ers on Little Creek, declined Susan's invita- 
 tion to dinner, and giving Sorrel a blow with 
 her switch, departed at a brisk pace for Hick- 
 ory Hollow. 
 
 When Nancy's lank figure had disappeared 
 down the lane, a sigh from his mother filled 
 Johnny's face with gloom. 
 
 44 Mammy, do yer reckin' the Yanks'll take 
 pap's mules?" asked the little boy, anxiously. 
 
 44 I don't know, son; they mought, and then 
 agin they moughtn't. But go tell yer pap to 
 come to the house, and take Tige with you; 
 I'm feard he'll git scalted with this soap." 
 
 44 Don't you be skeered, sonny," said Cline, 
 as he saw a tear roll down the little boy's thin 
 cheeks while he helped to ungear the mules. 
 
 44 I ain't feard o' nothin', pap. But Mis' 
 Barbour she 'llowed as how the Yanks 'ud 
 
98 aiafiama Stutcfcea 
 
 sholy carry off our mules, and since I heard 
 that word seems like I love Cindy and Beck 
 more'n anything on the place. Tige he ain't 
 nowhar now." 
 
 4 'Well, son, don't borry trouble; wait till 
 the Raiders are here 'fore you take to 
 grievin'. " 
 
 Johnny was not comforted. He pulled 
 down Cindy's head by her long ears and laid 
 his cheek against the mule's muzzle. 
 
 4< I tell yer, pap, I couldn't give up Beck 
 and Cindy nohow. They've been here ever 
 since I was born. I've rid 'em to the creek 
 to drink. I've rid 'em to mill, and I've rid 
 'em ever'whar. Pap, Beck and Cindy ain't 
 no young mules; both of 'em's seen their best 
 days. They couldn't stand it to pull cannon 
 and sich like, day and night. More'n that, 
 them Yanks ain't usen' to mules, and don't 
 know the ways o' mules. Now thar's Cindy, 
 she'd jes' as soon kick a stranger as not, and 
 she'd be shore to kick them Yanks, and they 
 mought shoot her. I tell yer, pap, lesscr'n 
 two days thar'd be a dead Yank or a dead 
 mule, and I'm a-feard it mought be Cindy." 
 
 44 Do make haste and come to bed, Bet," 
 said Judith, impatiently, that night in the 
 small back bedroom where the children slept. 
 
$ap'a Mult* 
 
 99 
 
 "Mammy's shet me up, and shet me up the 
 holen joren day since Mis' Barbour left, till I 
 feel jest like a grain o' hot corn 'fore it pops." 
 
 "It's all your fault, Jude," replied Betsy, 
 blowing out the tallow dip and lying down. 
 "If you hadn't tuned up to cry I wouldn't 'a 
 cried, and mam wouldn't 'a got mad." 
 
 "But jest think, Bet, maybe the Yanks'll 
 come fore day, and thar's pap and mam gone 
 to bed same as common. Seems like we-uns 
 ought to be sittin' up singing hymes, or doin' 
 some'h'n different to what we do every night. " 
 
 "Lan' sake, Jude ! I wouldn't sing a hyme in 
 the dead o' night for nothin' you could give 
 me." 
 
 "Wouldn't yer sing a hyme for that string o' 
 yaller beads in Brown's sto'?" 
 
 "No! I wouldn't sing a lonesome hyme in 
 the dead o' night for nothin' and nobody. 
 It 'ud make me feel like we was a watchin' 
 with a dead corpse." 
 
 Judith fell back, covered her head with the 
 quilt, and exclaimed in half-smothered tones 
 of horror: "Bet, if you say ary 'nother word 
 about a dead corpse, I tell you pint blank, 
 I'll holler jest as loud as I can." 
 
 After a moment's silence, Judith, half suffo- 
 cated, uncovered her head and peered around 
 
ioo aiafiama Stutcfjes 
 
 the room, when, her eyes falling on the little 
 trundle-bed in the corner where Johnny lay, 
 she whispered: 
 
 "Sis, is Johnny asleep?" 
 
 "Yes, don't wake him," drawled Betsy, 
 drowsily. 
 
 "I ain't goin' to wake him. If he was 
 asleep I was goin' to say, s'posin' — " The 
 girl paused suddenly as if overcome by the 
 magnitude of the supposition. 
 
 "S'posin' what?" asked Betsy, turning in 
 the bed with increased interest. 
 
 "S'posin' — s'posin' our Johnny was to run 
 off with pap's mules unbeknownst down to 
 Bearheaven swamp and save 'em from the 
 Raiders?" 
 
 "Shucks! Johnny's too little," replied the 
 prosaic Betsy, who straightway turned over 
 and went to sleep; and Judith, deprived of a 
 listener, soon followed her sister's example 
 and was wrapped in slumber. 
 
 But the little tow-headed boy in the trundle- 
 bed remained awake. His sisters had been 
 mistaken in thinking him asleep. Still wide 
 awake and with his eyes fixed upon the pencil 
 of moonlight that slanted through the window, 
 dimly illuminating the room, his childish 
 imagination, fed upon the piny-woods super- 
 
$ap f s J&ulea 101 
 
 stitions, transformed the shaft of light into 
 the apparition of a long white hand beckoning 
 him to the world outside. But the fancy 
 faded when he heard Judith's wild supposition, 
 and his heart gave a great bound. It had not 
 before occurred to him that he might save the 
 mules which he loved so well and which he knew 
 were so necessary to the support of the fam- 
 ily. The idea, carelessly sown by Judith, 
 grew in his little brain like a grain of mustard- 
 seed. He knew Bearheaven swamp well, and 
 he felt certain that he could run the mules off 
 into its recesses and keep them there safe 
 till the Raiders had* left Oakville. He won- 
 dered that the plan had not occurred to him 
 at once. As soon as his sisters were asleep 
 he would start. While he lay quiet in bed 
 thus maturing his scheme, the clock in his 
 mother's room struck twelve, and the slow, 
 regular breathing of his sisters told him that 
 they were both in deep slumber. 
 
 Rising cautiously from the trundle-bed, and 
 slipping on his clothes, he tiptoed to the win- 
 dow, caught the sill with both hands, gave a 
 spring, wriggled through the opening, and 
 dropped lightly to the ground. 
 
 Safe outside, the thought came to him 
 that he must take something along to eat. 
 
io2 aiafcama Sfcetcf)** 
 
 The mules could graze on the young cane that 
 grew abundantly in the swamp. Congratulat- 
 ing himself on the happy thought, he glided 
 through the open hallway to the pine cupboard 
 to see what it contained. In it was a yellow 
 dish heaped with cold boiled bacon, collards, 
 and corn-pone. On the next shelf was a cup of 
 sorghum molasses and a pitcher of butter-milk. 
 
 Taking a cottonade bag from a nail and 
 removing the garden-seed it held, he whispered 
 to himself: "I can carry the bread and meat 
 in this seed bag o' pap's; and I can make out 
 to take them merlasses in a bottle. But these 
 here collards that's wet and cold, this is the 
 onliest way they can be carried,' ' said he, 
 filling his mouth with them, and giving voice 
 to a suppressed laugh. "In the mornin' when 
 mammy finds I'm gone, and the collards gone, 
 too, she'll know I couldn't a-carried 'em no 
 other way, and she'll be powerful glad I took 
 a bite o' somethin' 'fore I lef." 
 
 Carefully lifting the pitcher of buttermilk he 
 took a drink, which seemed to go the wrong 
 way. 
 
 "It's quare; when I think about leavin' 
 mam I begin to choke." 
 
 Replacing the pitcher on the shelf, he 
 turned his head. 
 
IPap's Hftules 103 
 
 " Jest listen at pap snorin' ! He's clean for- 
 got about them Yanks." 
 
 Here, with a scratch and a yawn, Tige rose 
 from the floor and came forward wagging his 
 tail. 
 
 4 4 Tige, you must come, too, and he'p save 
 pap's mules," said Johnny, patting the dog on 
 the head. Tige licked the boy's hand and 
 followed him to the stable. 
 
 When all was ready for the flight, mounted 
 on Cindy and leading Beck, Johnny paused in 
 the lane for a parting look at the little cabin. 
 The full moon was still high in the heavens, 
 and its rays, sifting through the half-grown 
 foliage of the oaks, dappled the rough board 
 roof of the cabin with the shadow of baby 
 leaves, which flickered and danced as the 
 night wind blew. The soft radiance fell also 
 on the pink blossoming peach-trees, bleaching 
 the dewy flowers till they were white and 
 glistening. Whatever the moonbeams touched 
 they beautified with silent peace. 
 
 Suddenly from the Oakville way came a 
 mighty sound — boom — 00m — 00m — 000m — 
 that shook the very ground, and rolled away 
 to the wilds of Bearheaven swamp, and rever- 
 berated through the distant hills as far as 
 Hickory Hollow. 
 
io4 aUafcama Sketches 
 
 Johnny delayed no longer. Followed by 
 Tige, barking furiously, he was well on his 
 way to the morasses of Bearheaven when the 
 echoes died away. The inmates of the cabin 
 were speedily frightened out of their slum- 
 bers. 
 
 44 John, John! wake up, thar's the cannon! 
 The Raiders are come to Oakville, ,, said 
 Susan, excitedly, and at the same moment two 
 screams rang from the back room, and the 
 girls bounded in. But it was not till the 
 alarmed family had dressed themselves that 
 Johnny was missed. 
 
 44 Whar's the boy?" Susan exclaimed to the 
 frightened girls. Their bewildered faces testi- 
 fying to their ignorance of their brother's 
 whereabouts, the anxious mother hastened to 
 the door and called: 44 Johnny, Johnny! come 
 to yer mam, sonny; she wants you." 
 
 Meanwhile from Oakville there came a con- 
 fused sound of human voices and barking 
 dogs, while many little lights began to appear, 
 some of which were stationary, while others 
 moved about like fireflies, appearing and dis- 
 appearing as their rays were intercepted by 
 intervening objects. 
 
 In the yard Susan met her husband return- 
 ing from the stable. 
 
lap f MultB 105 
 
 "Johnny can't be found," she said, "and 
 I'm a-feared he's taken Tige and gone to 
 Oakville." 
 
 "The mules are gone, too," answered John. 
 
 "Then maybe the mules have broke out, and 
 Johnny's gone to fetch 'em." 
 
 "No, Susan, the bridle and saddle are 
 missin', too, and the gate's latched." 
 
 "Then," said the distressed mother, 
 "Johnny's run off with the mules. He was 
 standin' by when Nancy Barbour 'llowed the 
 Raiders would carry 'em off. Yes, he's run 
 the mules off to Hickory Hollow to save 'em; 
 and, oh, John, he may be shot and killed on 
 the road, like my other boy in Virginia, and 
 I'll never see him agin!" and dropping into a 
 chair, Susan Cline buried her face in her 
 apron. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Oakville had fallen! But the old town had 
 not surrendered without a blow, and munici- 
 pal honor remained spotless. The city fathers 
 felt a thrill of pride even in defeat. 
 
 Everything had gone off in style — even the 
 old rusty cannon. The load of scrap-iron had 
 passed out at the proper end, thus belying the 
 predictions of the croakers. Yet, for some 
 reason (perhaps from inaccuracy of aim, per- 
 
io6 aiafiama SSfeetcfje^ 
 
 haps from the queer shapes of the projec- 
 tiles — old nails, corkscrews, sardine-boxes, 
 etc.) the greater part of the load was found 
 next day sticking in the sides and rafters of 
 the bridge. 
 
 Jack Green, old Brown's fifteen-year-old 
 red-headed clerk, fired the cannon. Only one 
 man was needed to man the gun, for there was 
 not enough powder for a second load. Jack 
 was a proud boy. As the man who fired the 
 cannon on the night of the Raid, his fame in 
 Oakville would be eternal. It was not an 
 ordinary cannon; Jack wished the tact kept 
 in mind. It was a gun that half the town 
 regarded as certain to bring death to the man 
 who applied the match. 
 
 The old mayor was equally proud. What 
 was a war governor beside a raid mayor! To 
 repulse the enemy had been beyond his expec- 
 tation; and when it was discovered at day- 
 light that they were fifteen hundred strong, 
 while the Home Guard were but fifty, his honor 
 remarked to a friend that no braver defense 
 was recorded in the pages of history. 
 
 When Susan rallied from the blow of 
 Johnny's flight, the rigor of household dis- 
 cipline increased rather than diminished, and 
 in spite of her discomposure, she busied her- 
 
lap's JBlules 107 
 
 self with her usual duties, and set the girls 
 each a large task of ironing. 
 
 "I know it'll be as it always is," said 
 Judith, seizing the occasion of her mother's 
 morning visit to the hen-house; "we'll be the 
 last fambly the Raiders come to." 
 
 "Well, I don't know as anybody's pinin' for 
 'em," replied her sister. 
 
 "Bet, yer don't understand!" exclaimed 
 Judith, fretfully, dropping her iron on the 
 rest with a loud clink. "It's this way: I 
 didn't want the Yanks to come, but since they 
 are come, I don't want to be the last human 
 bein' in Oak County to set eyes on 'em. 
 I think it's a dessgrace to be the last 
 about everything, and I don't want folks to 
 be a-pityin' we-uns and sayin' the Yanks 
 came to Oakville and went away, and them 
 pore Clines in Blackberry Lane never seed a 
 Yank." 
 
 Judith took up her iron again, but finding it 
 had grown cold, she replaced it before the 
 bright bed of embers in the fireplace, and lift- 
 ing another, rubbed it on a roll of rags to free 
 it of ashes. Meantime a loud cackling in the 
 hen-house gave token that old Speckle and 
 Susan were not of one mind in the matter of 
 nest-building; and the din was much increased 
 
io8 aiafiama gbttcfytz 
 
 when the red rooster lifted his voice in sym- 
 pathy with Speckle's domestic woes. 
 
 "Bet, 99 said Judith, solemnly, after a long 
 pause, "thar's some'h'n on my mind, and it's 
 a-swellin' and a-swellin' like bread sponge. 
 If I don't tell it soon, it'll choke me." 
 
 "Then you'd better tell it 'fore mam comes 
 back," responded her phlegmatic sister. 
 
 Judith put down her iron. 
 
 "It's this, sis. Mam 'Hows that Johnny's 
 run the mules off to Hickory Hollow, but 
 that's not my b'lief. I 'How Johnny's many 
 miles from the Hollow. He'd never 'a' run off 
 nohow if somebody hadn't a-put the notion in 
 his head." 
 
 The girl's eyes grew misty, and her voice 
 trembled. "Oh, sis, it's all my doin's. 
 Johnny warn't asleep last night when I was 
 s'posin'. He ain't gone to Hickory Hollow; 
 he's down in Bearheaven swamp, an' if the 
 Yanks find him and chase him, takin' him to 
 be a man in the bresh and briers, he'll chance 
 it to be shot 'fore he'd give up ary one o' 
 them mules; an' if anything was to happen to 
 our Johnny it would break my heart, it sholy 
 would. " 
 
 Judith gazed at her sister tearfully. The 
 latter thought a moment. 
 
$ap'a JBtuU* 109 
 
 "Oughtn't pap and mam to know it?" 
 
 "No; what's the use o' tellin' 'em? Pap 
 won't leave us by our lone selves, and go look 
 j for Johnny; and mam would give me a tongue 
 lashin' for puttin' notions in Johnny's head." 
 
 With this Judith walked to the window, and 
 as she did so she gave a cry. 
 
 Approaching the cabin from Oakville was a 
 squad of blue-coated cavalry. The thick dust 
 rolling in dark billows around the knees of 
 the horses, passed into a gray cloud which 
 wrapped its sullen garments about the April 
 breeze, and floated down the zigzag fence, 
 stifling the fragrant breath of the sassafras 
 blossoms, and blinding the startled blue eyes 
 of the wild violets. 
 
 The troop was met at the gate by John, 
 with Susan and the girls behind him. A brief 
 dialogue ensued, in the course of which Cline 
 answered truthfully the inquiries in regard to 
 his stock, telling the story of Johnny's flight 
 in the night with the mules, and his mother's 
 consequent anxiety. But the account did not 
 satisfy the officer in charge, and he ordered 
 the stable to be searched. The search prov- 
 ing fruitless, he began to question Cline afresh, 
 when Susan stepped forward: "My husband's 
 given yer a true word, sir. We had two 
 
i to aiafiama Sfcetcfjei* 
 
 mules, but our little boy, our onliest boy — his 
 brother was killed in Virginia — my boy he's 
 run off with the mules, and we don't know 
 whar he is. We 'How he's gone up in the hills 
 whar we use to live, but we ain't certain." 
 
 Susan paused and grasped the gate-post 
 nervously. 4 4 Mr. Officer, if you run acrost a 
 little sandy-haired boy with two bay mules 
 and a yaller dog, please be merciful to 'em. 
 My Johnny's little and slim, but he's gritty, 
 and he'll chance it to be shot sooner than give 
 up ary one of them mules." 
 
 The squad rode off fifty yards and halted, 
 anxiously watched by the little group at the 
 gate. The commander was inclined to doubt 
 the existence of the small boy. Some one had 
 hidden the mules, it was evident, and where 
 were they more likely to be than in the swamp 
 to the south, the nearest cover offering a 
 chance of successful concealment. With the 
 arrival of this decision the troop wheeled and 
 rode rapidly down the winding lane leading to 
 Bearheaven swamp. 
 
 "Shet up!" said Susan to Judith, who on 
 the departure of the soldiers had begun to 
 sob. "Shet right up and go to your ironin'." 
 
 With an effort the girl controlled herself 
 and faced her mother. 
 
lap's JBtules in 
 
 "I ain't cryin' for nothin,' and I won't be 
 shet up no longer. You think I'm takin' the 
 high-sterics, but I ain't; it's grief. You an' 
 pap 'How that Johnny's gone to Hickory 
 Hollow, but yer 'How wrong. Johnny an' 
 them mules are down yonder in Bearheaven, 
 an' them Yanks are on his track to hunt him, 
 like he was a wild beast. But thar ain't no 
 time to talk. I can't stand it to stay here no 
 longer. I'm a-goin' to Johnny." 
 
 She darted from the cabin. Bareheaded 
 across the stable-yard she fled. Over the 
 fence, scarcely seeming to touch it, on in a 
 diagonal direction toward a thick growth of 
 young pines she flew. The Raiders had a few 
 moments' start of her, but their course lay 
 along the winding lane, and Judith knew that 
 by taking short cuts through thicket, field, 
 and wood, she could shorten the distance a 
 third. Every foot of ground was as well 
 known to her as to the cotton-tailed rabbit 
 that jumped up before her, or the startled 
 quail that rose whizzing from the broom- 
 sedge. Fortunately she was clad in brown 
 homespun, whose hue was similar to that of 
 the tree-trunks, and her hair to the yellow 
 tint of last year's broom-sedge which surged 
 about her as she ran. 
 
1 12 aiafiama &tutcf)e0 
 
 At intervals she saw between the pines and 
 over the sedge the heads of the cavalrymen. 
 They were riding at full speed along the 
 curving road. As she reached a rise in the 
 field a jay-bird flew up, and lit upon a per- 
 simmon tree and began to summon his kindred 
 with a shrill note. Fearing discovery, the girl 
 crouched in the sedge, and the downy seed, 
 floating about her, clung to her gown and 
 frosted her hair. Above her thin, flushed 
 cheeks her dark-blue eyes gleamed like bits 
 of polished steel. She had stooped just in 
 time, for at the cry of the bird the men 
 looked toward her. She saw with beating 
 heart that she had escaped their gaze, for the 
 squad rode on. 
 
 Judith sprang up and sped down the incline. 
 Before her rose a wood, the southern boun- 
 dary of the sedge field. Once in this cover her 
 flight could not be seen from the road. She 
 rushed through the blackberry briers, caught 
 the top rail of the fence with both hands, and 
 swung over it like a boy. 
 
 The bare feet of the cracker girl were swift, 
 but her brain went faster. She believed that 
 she knew the place where the boy had hidden 
 himself and the mules. About a mile farther 
 to the right of the wood, in the deepest part of 
 
lap's Mult* 113 
 
 the swamp, was a small knoll which rose 
 above the encircling morass like a tiny island. 
 It was thickly fringed with cane, and further 
 concealed from view by the branches of a 
 large tree which had been felled by some 
 opossum-hunter. Johnny and she had dis- 
 covered the spot while looking for a strayed 
 cow. 
 
 Down through the wood she ran like a 
 young doe. The cool gloom was grateful to 
 her heated face, but she did not smell the 
 fragrance of the wild honeysuckles nor of the 
 yellow jasmine bells that brushed her brow. 
 Reaching the morass, overshadowed by great 
 gum and cypress trees and dotted with tufts of 
 water-grass, she leaped from hillock to hillock 
 over the black mud. Here and there on the 
 leaf-strewn pools rose bubbles of marsh gas 
 that broke as her light steps shook the clumps 
 of quaggy grass and cane roots. 
 
 She stopped a moment to listen. She heard 
 nothing but the hammering of a log-cock on a 
 dead gum-tree, and the tiny bark of a squir- 
 rel. Her feet were covered with mud above 
 the ankles, and her breathing was quick ; but 
 the bourne was almost gained. 
 
 Continuing her flight she came to one of the 
 creeks which wound through the swamp. 
 
H4 aiaimma S>ftrtdj«s 
 
 Like most swamp streams, though narrow, it 
 was deep. Too wide to be leaped, too full of 
 dead sticks and branches to be swum, cross- 
 ing seemed well-nigh impossible. 
 
 Judith looked in vain along the creek for a 
 fallen tree that might offer a precarious 
 bridge. Upward her despairing glance was 
 met by a muscadine which hung like a great 
 green chandelier over the dark water. Taking 
 a forked stick, she leaned over the creek and 
 drew the vine toward her. Pulling stoutly to 
 test the strength of its attachment to the 
 boughs above, she ran back a few steps to gain 
 momentum, then swung like a pendulum full 
 twenty feet over the water, and dropped 
 lightly on the other side. 
 
 If the boy were not there! Her step be- 
 came unsteady, and her muddy, brier-torn 
 ankles trembled. 
 
 4 4 Johnny! Johnny ! M she exclaimed, with a 
 husky whisper. 
 
 She heard a swishing sound, then the foliage 
 swayed, and Johnny with Tige at his side 
 appeared through the parting reeds. 
 
 * 4 Golly, Jude, is that you? Me and Tige 
 took yer for a swamp rabbit or some other 
 wild critter a-lopin' through the swamp. 
 Have the Yanks come to pap's house?" 
 
IPap'a Mults 115 
 
 44 Yes, they've been thar a-lookin' for horses 
 and mules, and they've took the road to 
 Bearheaven. I 'llowed you'd be here with 
 them two mules, and I've come to tell yer the 
 Yanks are on yer track." 
 
 Johnny's eyes gleamed. 
 
 "Let 'em come! Them Raiders can't find 
 us lessern they had hound dogs." 
 
 The flexile cane closed behind them, and 
 the mules were discovered, tethered and 
 browsing contentedly on the young cane. 
 
 Seated on the stump of the gum-tree which 
 had been the ill-starred opossum's abode, 
 Judith rendered Johnny a terse account of 
 recent events. The boy listened attentively. 
 But Tige, who had greeted Judith with much 
 tail-wagging, began to leap upon her and lick 
 her hands as if he thought Johnny had not 
 greeted her with sufficient enthusiasm. From 
 leaps to barks was a natural canine transition. 
 
 "Shet up, Tige!" said Johnny, springing to 
 his feet and seizing the dog by the nape of 
 the neck; but Tige tore loose and circled 
 about Judith with still louder barks. She 
 made an unsuccessful spring at one of his hind 
 legs, which only added to his glee. 
 
 "Shet up, you yaller fool!" repeated the 
 boy, clinching his teeth and seizing a stout 
 
n6 aiatiama jjftetcfjei* 
 
 sassafras switch on which he had been whit- 
 tling to pass the time away. 
 
 Tige easily eluded Johnny's lunges. The 
 dog had not enjoyed himself so much in many 
 a day, and it was not till Judith, armed with 
 another switch, had turned Tige's flank, that 
 Johnny succeeded in giving the dog a smart 
 blow that sent him yelping into the cane- 
 brake. 
 
 Tige was finally silenced. But to celebrate 
 the event, the mule Cindy raised her head, 
 turned back her long ears, and gave voice to 
 a sonorous bray that rang through the swamp 
 and floated along the distant river bank in 
 slowly expiring echoes. Johnny seized Cindy 
 by the muzzle to prevent a repetition of the 
 untimely noise, and Judith, fearing the con- 
 tagion of a bad example, took the other mule 
 in charge. 
 
 But the precautions were useless; the mis- 
 chief was done. From the other bank of the 
 winding creek came a sound of crackling 
 twigs, and horses' feet tramping the mud. 
 
 " Johnny, it's the Yanks!" exclaimed Judith, 
 with a look of despair. 
 
 In two minutes more the little swamp island 
 would be surrounded and they would be 
 caught like quail in a net. 
 
lap's ffluhz 117 
 
 "Yes," said the boy, gritting his teeth, 
 "but the mules ain't thurn yet." 
 
 A loud splashing told that the cavalrymen 
 were crossing the creek, and Tige began 
 again to bark. 
 
 "Don't stop to saddle. If Tige shets up 
 maybe we can dodge 'em, and swim the river," 
 said Johnny. 
 
 He leaped on Cindy, Judith on Beck. 
 
 Just as they broke through the fringe of 
 cane on the south bank of the knoll, a loud 
 "Halt!" rang from the thick undergrowth 
 fifty yards away. They were heard by their 
 pursuers, but not seen. Johnny made for the 
 laurel bush and cane along the winding creek. 
 The mules, though old, were still active and 
 sure-footed, and they were fresher than the 
 Federal horses. 
 
 "Halt!" came again from the rear. Still 
 hidden by the cane and laurel, the boy and 
 girl turned a bend in the water-course. 
 
 "Fire!" and a shower of bullets whizzed 
 through the shrub, cutting leaves and twigs 
 on every hand. A bit of bark grazed Johnny's 
 ear. 
 
 "Are yer hit, Jude?" cried the boy over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "No, are you?" 
 
1 18 aiafiama S&etcfie* 
 
 "No, but I can see blood on Cindy's ear." 
 
 Still keeping to cover, they made turn after 
 turn, but sound each time betrayed them, and 
 they failed to increase the distance much from 
 their pursuers. Worse, the men were widen- 
 ing the line of pursuit. The boy's tactics 
 were discovered. He thought of another 
 plan, gave the mule a sharp blow and spurted 
 to the right. 
 
 A few hundred yards away was a clearing, 
 a small field formerly cultivated, but now 
 reverting to wilderness. Could ground be 
 gained on the wild ride to this open place, its 
 firmer footing and freedom from trees might 
 enable them to increase the space so greatly 
 that when they re-entered the swamp on the 
 farther side, their flight could not be heard. 
 They were trailed, not by the eye, but by the 
 ear. 
 
 "The clearin'!" hissed the boy. 
 "The clearin'?" gasped Judith. 
 "Yes, gain on 'em thar; dodge 'em t'other 
 side." 
 
 On, on they went with heads bent low. A 
 black-jack bough combed Judith's streaming 
 hair, and would have dragged her from the 
 mule, but she grasped its bristling mane. A 
 low beech limb scraped Johnny's back, burst- 
 
lap's Joules 119 
 
 ing his "gallus, " and tearing his shirt from 
 neck to waist. But the clearing was gained 
 and the pursuers distanced. Half a minute 
 later the squad broke cover, to see pap's mules 
 and their youthful riders dart like arrows into 
 the farther swamp safe! 
 
 "Halt!" rang the command; this time ad- 
 dressed to the squad. 
 
 "Two cracker children and mules ! I thought 
 there were ten Rebels well mounted," said the 
 officer, and in deep disgust the troop tracked 
 their own trail back to the road. 
 
 The Raid had passed like a summer storm. 
 Three days and nights of sun and dew had 
 broadened the tender leaves above John 
 Cline's cabin, and painted them a deeper 
 green, as a thin woman clothed in brown 
 homespun walked wearily up Blackberry Lane. 
 
 The Widow Barbour was tired, but when she 
 drew near Susan's home, the limp folds of her 
 draggled gown grew crisp with curiosity, and 
 her old blue sunbonnet took on an interroga. 
 tive tilt. 
 
 "Things seem 'bout the same as common at 
 Susan's," she said to herself, quickening her 
 pace. "The fence is all thar and the bee- 
 gums is standin'. Nothin's tore down," she 
 
i2o aiafiama S&etcf)?* 
 
 sighed, regretfully. "Howsomever, I don't 
 hear no hens cacklin , , ,, and her eyes bright- 
 ened. "But thar's the old black sow sunnin* 
 herself agin the fence fat as ever, ,, she 
 added, sorrowfully. 
 
 Lifting the gate latch, Nancy heard a cheer- 
 ful voice within : 
 
 u Bring forth ther raw-yell di-er-dem 
 And era-own Him Lor-or-ord of all." 
 
 "Thar's Susan a-singin' Coronation, and it's 
 a true word that Johnny's saved his pap's 
 mules," sniffed Nancy, tearfully, and her mind 
 reverted to old Sorrel, miles away, in the 
 hands of the departed Raiders. 
 
 Nancy listened to Susan's story with a keen 
 but melancholy interest. Susan was nearing 
 the end. 
 
 "When the squad stopped agin on their way 
 back from the swamp and called for some'h'n 
 to eat, I sot in and fried 'em a half side o' 
 bacon, and nigh on to all Speckle's last year's 
 chickens. " 
 
 "They was fine pullets, Suse." 
 
 "Yes, Nance ; but when the cap'n told me my 
 boy and gal was safe, I could 'a' slaughtered 
 the whole yard, I was so thankful. I heard 
 the cap'n 'How to the sarjin, while they sot 
 
$ap'0 Jftules 121 
 
 eatin', that he'd never seed sich bare-back 
 ridin' outsidern a circus/' 
 
 "Warn't none of 'em teched nowhar?" 
 
 "Well, Jude's right smart brier-scratched 
 round the legs, and she left some of her hair in 
 the swamp ; but skin and hair ain't like clo'es ; 
 they'll grow agin. " 
 
 "It's told about that one of the mules was 
 hurt." 
 
 "A ball bored a hole in Cindy's ear, but 
 Johnny says Cindy had ears to spare; and 
 Jude 'Hows to tie a ribbin' in the hole next 
 time she rides to Oakville, for she's got word 
 that Brown's red-headed clerk's laid out to 
 joke her for runnin' from the Yanks. But 
 lan' sakes! Nance, have yer walked all the 
 way from the Hollow?" ended Susan, noting 
 Nancy's bedraggled appearance. 
 
 ''Yes, Suse," Nancy's thin lips began to 
 quiver, "Sorrel's gone"; and two tears made 
 their way slowly through the wrinkles on her 
 yellow cheeks. She drew a snuff-stained wad 
 from her flat bosom and put it to her eyes. 
 
 "Thar — thar, Nance, don't cry," said Susan 
 compassionately, picking up a snuff-box and 
 well-chewed brush which had fallen from 
 Nancy's kerchief. "Sorrel warn't much 
 account. " 
 
i22 aiafcama &ktttf)t& 
 
 "She was my onliest critter,' ' replied 
 Nancy, wiping her eyes. "I told the Yanks 
 she was twenty year old, and axed 'em to look 
 in her mouth. But the head robber of 'em 
 all 'llowed that nobody could tell a horse's 
 age by teeth after it was eight year old. 
 Far's he knowed, Sorrel mought be twenty or 
 she mought be only ten. Anyhow, he 'llowed 
 on that horse critters was skace, and Sorrel 
 had pints; which is a true word, for she was 
 an old racer when I got her from Jack Green's 
 daddy. She won many a dollar for old Green 
 when she was young. But I'll never set eyes 
 on Sorrel agin," and the handkerchief went up 
 to her face once more. 
 
 Susan offered verbal consolation, but Nancy 
 remained uncomforted. How was she in future 
 to convey her eggs and butter to market? If 
 she were forced to walk, every one at the 
 Hollow would go and come before her. In 
 the midst of her mourning John Cline and 
 Johnny entered. 
 
 Noting Nancy's grief-stricken look, John 
 forebore to speak to her, and turned to Susan. 
 
 "Thar's great news at Oakville, wife. 
 Word's come that Lee's surrendered, and the 
 war's done. " 
 
 The handkerchief fell from Nancy's face. 
 
^ap'ss JttuU0 123 
 
 In silence she sat and stared at Cline like a 
 sleep-walker. 
 
 Johnny's eyes were flashing. 
 
 "And Mis' Barbour, what yer reckin? If we 
 didn't find old Sorrel a-wanderin' round the 
 streets! She was so no 'count the Yanks 
 turned her loose; and she's out thar at the 
 gate." 
 
 44 Do you hear, Nance? Sorrel's come back, 
 and the war's over," said Susan, patting 
 Nancy on the shoulder. 
 
 Nancy rallied. 
 
 44 What d'yer say, Suse?" She clutched 
 Susan's arm. 44 Sorrel's come back, and the 
 war's done? Don't a human soul know it at 
 the Hollow!" 
 
 And Nancy rose to her feet. 
 
THE OLD PIANO 
 
THE OLD PIANO 
 
 MISS NANCY PEYTON was indulging 
 in a melancholy pleasure : she was view- 
 ing the past through the medium of a box ot 
 old letters and keepsakes. If the act had not 
 been voluntary, one would have doubted if the 
 term 1 'pleasure" were not misapplied. Else 
 why did tears gather in her eyes and roll from 
 time to time silently down her thin cheeks? 
 And why was her smile sadder even than her 
 tears as it dawned and died in a quiver of her 
 lip? 
 
 It was springtime in Alabama. The south 
 wind gently swayed the yellow jasmine sprays 
 on the wide veranda, and straying into the 
 room, impishly rattled the time-yellowed mis- 
 sives that Miss Nancy's slim fingers had 
 untied. The breath of the jasmine was fra- 
 grant, but not so sweet to Miss Nancy's lips as 
 the knot of faded violets that she held in her 
 hand. With a tearful kiss she put them back 
 into the box on her knee. 
 
 Miss Nancy did not unlock her treasure 
 127 
 
i28 aiafiama &kttcf)t8 
 
 casket every day. Only in times of depression 
 did the opening lid disclose its contents; and 
 she never closed it till she had read every line 
 of every note. Why she did so is a psycho- 
 logical mystery, for she knew them all by 
 heart. 
 
 They were arranged chronologically, and 
 she read them so. Another fact was revealed 
 by closer inspection : they were all in the same 
 hand, the hand of a man; the signature John 
 Alston. 
 
 The first note was merely to ask if she 
 would be at home at four p. m. It was written 
 the day after she had first met him at a ball 
 given by the officers of the brigade. That 
 was fifteen years ago. She was twenty then. 
 Fifteen and twenty were thirty-five. She 
 glanced at the mirror across the room. Her 
 hair was well sprinkled with gray. She 
 sighed. 
 
 The next note asked if she would take a 
 horseback ride with the writer. How well she 
 recalled that ride! With her foot in his hand, 
 no one had ever before lifted her so surely and 
 gracefully to the saddle. They rode into the 
 country. As they rode among the hills the 
 wind was aromatic with the odors of hickory 
 buds and pine, while in the hollows the cool, 
 
129 
 
 still air was full of the shy perfume of wild 
 honeysuckle and crab-apple blooms. She 
 remembered even the forms of the brilliant- 
 hued clouds that hung over the setting sun as 
 they parted at the door. 
 
 All the notes might easily have been read in 
 less than five minutes by any one but Miss 
 Nancy. To the little old maid, however, each 
 bit of paper was a key that unlocked a van- 
 ished happy hour, a precious memory of the 
 past. As she read each yellow billet she 
 refolded it tenderly, with eyes full of tears 
 and dreams. 
 
 She came to the last. It was one of the 
 briefest in the packet. The regiment had 
 received unexpected orders to march at sun- 
 set. He must see her at five. He had some- 
 thing to tell her. How wildly her heart had 
 throbbed when she first read that note. She 
 had donned with care her prettiest white mus- 
 lin gown, and looped the sleeves with blue 
 ribbons. Blue was his favorite color. Her 
 eyes were blue. 
 
 Then just as she went down with a flutter- 
 ing heart to wait for him so that not a minute 
 of the precious parting hour should be lost, 
 the door-boy without warning had ushered in 
 upon her a bevy of callers. A moment after- 
 
i3° aiafiama Sfeetcfjes 
 
 wards John Alston came. Never could she 
 forget the disappointment and anger that 
 clouded his face when he saw the visitors. 
 But he gracefully dissembled his wrath, and 
 presented her with the little knot of violets. 
 
 She took them again from the box and 
 kissed them. 
 
 She had tried every polite art to make the 
 untimely callers take their leave: she made 
 the conversation very brilliant, then followed 
 it by a lull, without success; finally she sang 
 for them a new song just received. Captain 
 Alston politely accompanied her to the piano 
 and gave her a reproachful glance. Could it 
 be that he believed the callers were there by 
 her arrangement to prevent him from seeing 
 her alone? Perhaps he did, for they applauded 
 the song — and stayed on. 
 
 At last the time was up. He left, with his 
 story untold. And she never saw him again. 
 
 The war dragged on with its dreary succes- 
 sion of disasters to the ill-starred South. 
 When all was over it seemed to Miss Nancy 
 that the Peytons had fared worse than any of 
 the old families. Her father and only brother 
 had died in battle, and her mother and she 
 lived on at the family mansion. Struggle as 
 they would, poverty, like a spider, wove an 
 
ever-contracting net about them, till her 
 mother escaped earthly sorrow by the door of 
 the tomb. 
 
 Miss Nancy's past was indeed sad; but it 
 was the grinding care of the present that had 
 sent her to-day to weep over her little box of 
 keepsakes. 
 
 To support herself and her one servant, her 
 old decrepit nurse, she gave music lessons on 
 her piano, which, if not as old as old Hannah, 
 was quite as infirm and rheumatic. They 
 were both in a bad way in the matter of age, 
 but in this regard there was more hope for the 
 piano than for Hannah. The latter could not 
 be made young again, but the piano could be 
 tuned and renovated. Half the strings rat- 
 tled, and one key was totally dumb. It could 
 not be delayed longer. She owed it to her 
 music pupils. It would cost eight dollars. 
 She knew, for she had asked the old English- 
 man who cared for the health of the super- 
 annuated, antebellum instruments with which 
 the town abounded. 
 
 Meantime Miss Nancy had locked her box 
 of keepsakes and put it away. She seated 
 herself in her little willow rocker, looked at 
 the old piano, and sighed. She had not the 
 eight dollars. She knew that the tuner would 
 
i3 2 aiafcama Sftetcfjea 
 
 wait for his pay if she asked him, but her 
 ancestral pride revolted at the thought. 
 
 "Well, Hannah?" she said, interrogatively, 
 as the old negress shuffled into the room. 
 
 "I'se sorry ter tell yer, Miss Nannie, but de 
 flour and de meal's bofe gin out; an' dey ain't 
 more'n a poun' o' meat lef, an' de sugar an' 
 coffee is mighty low." 
 
 "You've made them last a long time, 
 Hannah." 
 
 "I done my level bes', Miss Nannie. I 
 biles de coffee twice, an' I crumbles de lef- 
 over corn-pone in de new dough, an' I prays 
 ober 'em, but dey will gin out." 
 
 "We must buy more," said Miss Nancy, 
 leaving the room. "Wait here, Hannah." 
 
 In a few moments she returned. One hand 
 held a large silver soup-ladle, and on her arm, 
 closely embraced, she brought an empty cut- 
 glass decanter of quaint and exquisite design. 
 
 At sight of her mistress a tear rolled down 
 old Hannah's face. 
 
 "I wuz feared you wuz gwine do dat, Miss 
 Nannie." 
 
 "Hush, Hannah!" 
 
 "Miss Nannie, I gotter speak. I's a-con- 
 sumin' wid shame. I's des eatin' up all de 
 Peyton silber, " 
 
i33 
 
 "I eat, too, Hannah." 
 
 "How much does yer eat? Not ez much ez 
 a sparrer bird. " 
 
 The old woman's apron went to her eyes. 
 "I can't face dat ar soup ladle, Miss Nannie. 
 Des think o' all de good gumbo hit's lit 9 up 
 in dis house, an' now hit's gwine down ter dem 
 ar Jews, an' I'se gotter carry hit. Oh, Miss 
 Nannie!" 
 
 "Hush, Hannah. The money for the 
 ladle and decanter is not all to be spent for 
 food." 
 
 "What yer gwine spen' hit fur, Miss Nan- 
 nie?" 
 
 "I must have my piano repaired and tuned. 
 All our small revenue comes from that old 
 instrument, and I can give lessons on it no 
 longer in its present condition. I've tried to 
 keep it in repair myself." 
 
 "'Deed you has, Miss Nannie. Many a 
 time I'se seed yer workin' at hit wid dat 
 holler-headed tack hammer, an' I thought o' 
 all dem three hundred niggers ole Marser use 
 ter own." 
 
 "Never mind that, Hannah. Take these 
 things and this note — you know where. I 
 think they will bring fifteen dollars. And on 
 your return stop at Mr. Hathaway's and tell 
 
i34 &lafiama gbtttfytz 
 
 him I wish him to come to-morrow and repair 
 my piano. " 
 
 The grief-stricken owner of the head-hand- 
 kerchief left the room, and muttered to her- 
 self as she hobbled on her errand: 4 4 Dis 
 is de hebbiest basket I ever toted. Seem 
 lak dis soup ladle weigh forty poun. ' An* 
 Miss Nannie she's des gittin' thinner an' 
 thinner, she dat wuz so pretty. But 'tain't 
 all poverty an' teachin' whut's de matter. 
 Dis ole nigger am' no bline mole. Miss Nan- 
 nie's des a-wearin' her heart out fur dat ole 
 sweetheart o' hern. An* Marse Alston he 
 loved Miss Nannie; I seed love in his eyes." 
 
 44 I was delayed, Miss Peyton, or I should 
 have come at nine," said the old piano-tuner 
 as he bustled into the room next morning at 
 eleven. 
 
 4 4 An hour or so doesn't matter, Mr. Hatha- 
 way. There is never occasion for haste in 
 Oakville." 
 
 He ran his withered fingers over the key- 
 board. 4 4 Hum — m, out of tune, and the 
 action needs regulating — one key entirely 
 dumb." 
 
 He opened his handbag, took out his tools, 
 and proceeded to the business in hand. Miss 
 Nancy stood near with keen interest. It was 
 
*35 
 
 quite an event to her. She went to open 
 another window to let in more light. 
 
 "Yes, I was delayed, Miss Peyton," said 
 the little old man, working away. He was 
 fond of gossip. 44 1 was called out to the 
 Randolph place. " 
 
 "I thought the house was vacant since the 
 old Judged death," said Miss Nancy, throw- 
 ing open the window-blinds. 
 
 44 It was till this week; but the heir has 
 come. " 
 
 44 The second cousin?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 4 4 One of the Randolphs of Virginia, I pre- 
 sume?" 
 
 44 No; a cousin in the female line; one of the 
 Alstons of South Carolina." 
 
 Miss Nancy's heart gave a little leap. 
 
 4 4 He was named for the Judge, you know," 
 added the old man, picking at the strings of 
 the piano. 
 
 44 I don't think I ever heard Judge Ran- 
 dolph's Christian name," remarked Miss 
 Nancy, interrogatively. 4 4 He was never 
 called anything but Judge." 
 
 44 The Judge's given name was John, and the 
 heir's name is John Cecil Alston, and he is 
 the richest man in Oakville." 
 
136 aiafiama i&tutcfjes 
 
 Miss Nancy's knees gave way beneath her. 
 She sank on an ottoman, and the folds of the 
 damask curtain rolled about her, almost con- 
 cealing her little form. 
 
 The old man noticed nothing, but continued 
 to strum and click with his instruments at the 
 vitals of the old piano. He was becoming 
 absorbed in his occupation, and began to sing 
 to himself in a cracked, quavering voice as he 
 worked: 
 
 " Maxwelltown braes are bonnie, 
 Where early fa's the dew, 
 'Twas there that Annie Laurie 
 Gied me her promise true." 
 
 By and by he ceased singing and hummed 
 softly, and Miss Nancy summoned courage to 
 speak. 
 
 "I suppose" — she stopped; she could not 
 say his name — "I suppose Judge Randolph's 
 heir has brought his wife with him?" 
 
 She did not speak loudly and her voice was 
 somewhat deadened by the curtain. The old 
 man caught the sound but could not distin- 
 guish the words. 
 
 * 4 What did you remark, Miss Peyton?" 
 
 "Did you see his wife?" 
 
 "Whose wife?" 
 
 "The wife of Judge Randolph's heir." 
 
Cf)e ©Or Itano 
 
 x 37 
 
 "Mr. John Cecil Alston has no wife. He's 
 an old bachelor. 
 
 1 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I'd lay me down and dee.' 99 
 
 The laborer's thoughts were again on his 
 work. There was a scraping sound, he was 
 taking out the action. 
 
 The hour was approaching noon. The 
 balm of flowers floated in from the garden 
 blent with the drowsy hum of bees, while far off 
 in the pines was heard the cooing of a dove. 
 
 "I don't think I've ever tuned this instru- 
 ment before, Miss Peyton?" 
 
 "No. Except for the little turns I've given 
 it, it has not been tuned in fifteen years." 
 
 "Ah, what have we here caught under the 
 hammer? A bit of paper. Why, it's a note, 
 and addressed to you, Miss Peyton. No 
 wonder that key was dumb." 
 
 The old man went on with his work. Miss 
 Nancy retired behind the curtain with the 
 note. It was written hurriedly with a pencil 
 on a scrap of paper, and ran thus: 
 
 Miss Nannie : Good-bye! I love you more than 
 all the world. If you think you can ever care for me, 
 write to me at Atlanta within a week. 
 
 Yours always, 
 
 John Cecil Alston. 
 
138 aiafiama Sttetcfjes 
 
 She clasped it tightly in both hands to her 
 breast. If a bird ever sobbed, it would sound 
 like the queer noise Miss Nancy made, half a 
 sob, half a piteous little laugh. Yes, he had 
 loved her, loved her ' ' more than all the 
 world. M 
 
 He had written the note doubtless behind 
 her back while she sang, that last afternoon. 
 He had placed it where he thought she would 
 be certain to look. She must have brushed it 
 into the piano while moving the sheet-music, 
 and it had stayed there fifteen years. 
 
 She left the old man at work and went to 
 her room. She could not talk to any one. 
 She wanted to be alone — to think. 
 
 It was fifteen years ago John Alston had 
 loved her. Fifteen years ago she had bright 
 eyes, and dimples, and apple-blossom cheeks. 
 She was a pretty girl in his memory, if he ever 
 thought of her at all. It was a pretty girl he 
 had loved, not a faded little woman with gray 
 locks and tired eyes. How foolish of her 
 heart to beat so. If he was in Oakville he 
 had not come to see her, but to inherit an 
 estate. She wept. Then she rose. She 
 would put this last note with the others. 
 They belonged all to the past. She would 
 
x 39 
 
 lock them all in the box and never open it 
 again. 
 
 She had unlocked the box and untied the 
 ribbon that held the notes together, when she 
 heard a step on the stair. She thrust the note 
 into her bosom. But it was only old Hannah. 
 She met the old woman with an inquiring 
 glance. 
 
 4 here's a gen'leman ter see yer downstairs, 
 Miss Nannie. " 
 
 "Who is it, Hannah?" 
 
 "He didn't gin his name. I axed him in de 
 libery, 'kaze Marse Hathaway wuz in de par- 
 lor." 
 
 The old negress lingered. 
 
 Miss Nancy began to brush her hair for a 
 speedy descent. 
 
 "De gen'leman said he knowed yer endoren' 
 de war," said Hannah, nervously. 
 
 Miss Nancy adjusted her collar. 
 
 "Don't go down in dat lonesome black, 
 Miss Nannie; wah some'h'n white." 
 
 "I haven't anything white, Hannah." 
 
 "Honey, yes yer is," and the old woman 
 brought with shaking hands a white muslin 
 gown. 
 
 Miss Nancy recognized it and felt faint. 
 
i4° aiafiama j&tutcfies 
 
 She was weak. She hadn't had of late the 
 kind of food she could eat. 
 
 "Day's a-breakin', little Missy; de gen'le- 
 man shook dis ole nigger's han'." 
 
 Miss Nancy's fingers could not fasten the 
 white gown. Hannah did it. 
 
 "Now lem me pin dese on," taking up the 
 knot of withered violets from the open box. 
 
 "Hannah!" said Miss Nancy, trembling. 
 
 "Forgib me, little Missy — hit's Marse Als- 
 ton!" 
 
MRS. McMURTRIE'S ROOSTER 
 
MRS. McMURTRIE'S ROOSTER 
 
 a /^^\NE must have, of course, some chief 
 
 W pursuit, some great ambition," said 
 Frank Wharton, elucidating his favorite theory 
 to his friend John Stevens, over a cigar. 
 "But a mind always laboring at one thing 
 resembles a machine with too much friction 
 on one cog. Even if the wheel is the stoutest, 
 it will be the first to wear out, entailing prema- 
 ture uselessness, or perhaps even destruction, 
 upon the whole mechanism. " 
 
 44 You mean every fellow should have a fad," 
 said Jack, smoking contemplatively. 
 
 4 4 Not a fad, but an avocation — something 
 more permanent." 
 
 4 4 Like golf or polo," suggested Jack. 
 
 44 No; not like polo or golf," responded 
 Wharton a bit impatiently. 4 4 They are games. 
 I mean some secondary pursuit to follow at 
 odd times; and not for a season only, but for 
 years, perhaps for life. 
 
 44 I don't deny the usefulness of rest and 
 recreation," resumed the theorist, after a puff 
 143 
 
i44 &la6ama &ktUf>t$ 
 
 or two, "but I've found out by experience 
 that nothing rests like change of work. As 
 for recreation, in the case of young men it 
 easily glides into something worse, and I am 
 convinced that the business or professional 
 man who wishes to escape prostrated nerves 
 must seek some pleasant avocation. " 
 
 As Wharton's profession was the law, and 
 his chosen field the little West Alabama town 
 of Oakville, where overwork was unheard of 
 and nervous prostration an unknown phenome- 
 non, he may seem to have theorized needlessly. 
 But he was far-seeing as well as logical. 
 Moreover, two clients the first three months 
 after the display of his shingle, and the 
 encouraging prospect of a notaryship, im- 
 pelled him to hasten the practice of his pet 
 scheme. 
 
 But what should be his avocation? Restful 
 work must of necessity give pleasure, conse- 
 quently his choice of an avocation should be 
 decided by some personal bent. Art? He 
 preferred the nearest window to any picture. 
 Music? He could hardly whistle one tune. 
 Bee-keeping? The little insects might swarm 
 in the middle of court week; besides, he hated 
 honey. Wood-carving? He could never whit- 
 tle without cutting his fingers. In his per- 
 
JBtra, fflcMuxtxit's fcoozttx 145 
 
 plexity he gazed at a green-grocer's store 
 across the way and was straightway inspired. 
 
 "Gardening!" he exclaimed, like one who 
 has met his fate. 
 
 He had always liked to "see things grow- 
 ing," but being town-bred, he had never had 
 an opportunity to assist the verdant aspira- 
 tions of nature. 
 
 "Gardening it shall be!" and he slapped his 
 knee in the exuberance of satisfaction. 
 
 Eminently logical Wharton was, yet a man 
 of action. In a month he had installed him- 
 self in a cozy suburban cottage with an acre of 
 ground, not forgetting, in the selection of the 
 ground for horticultural purposes, the possi- 
 bility of a wife in the choice of his house. 
 
 The daffodil, which comes before the swal- 
 low dares, chooses February for its arrival at 
 Oakville, and spring was already peeping 
 pink-clad from the peach-boughs as the young 
 lawyer sowed his first paper of radish seeds. 
 
 "What are you planting?" inquired a rasp- 
 ing, nasal voice from the fence that separated 
 Wharton's demesne from that of his right-hand 
 neighbor. 
 
 "Seed," said the startled lawyer, rising 
 suddenly from the fresh-turned mold to spy 
 the end of a long, sharp nose and a lock of 
 
H 6 aiafiama Sftetcfje* 
 
 reddish-gray hair, beneath an old brown sun- 
 bonnet, protruding over the fence. 
 
 "Of course, " said the sunbonnet; "I didn't 
 suppose you were planting ice or gunpowder. " 
 
 "Beg pardon, Miss — 99 
 
 "I'm not a Miss. I'm Mrs. McMurtrie. I 
 had a husband once," interrupted the sun- 
 bonnet quickly, with an indignant grunt. 
 
 "Excuse me, Mrs. McMurtrie — I'm Mr. 
 Wharton — I'm planting radish seed." 
 
 "Then why didn't you say so at first?" 
 
 With a quick motion Mrs. McMurtrie pushed 
 back her sunbonnet and revealed a thin face 
 and a glaring pair of spectacles, before which 
 Wharton felt like a guilty schoolboy. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Wharton, if you'd asked my 
 advice, I'd have said plant fruit-trees and let 
 gardening alone. You don't seem to know 
 much about it." 
 
 "Appearances in this case are not decep- 
 tive," said Wharton, in his suavest tone. If 
 he could not love his neighbor he would try to 
 propitiate her. "Yet, Mrs. McMurtrie, next 
 to my chosen profession, the law, I love gar- 
 dening above all occupations. It is the dream 
 of my life to raise fine radishes and — " 
 
 "Radishes!" grunted Mrs. McMurtrie 
 through her nose. "You'll have different 
 
JJfttg, JHcJ&urtnVs booster 147 
 
 dreams after you have swallowed them. They 
 are very cold on the stomach. You'd better 
 plant fruit-trees/' 
 
 "I'll risk the radishes. I've a good diges- 
 tion," returned the lawyer, leaning on his hoe 
 and smiling amiably. 44 Gardening is the 
 healthiest of work and the primal occupation 
 of man. Adam, our first ancestor, you know, 
 kept a garden." 
 
 44 And was driven out of it." 
 
 "For eating fruit. Got you there, Mrs. 
 McMurtrie," said the daring Wharton, ventur- 
 ing a small laugh. 
 
 "Fruit of the tree of knowledge, which dis- 
 proves your ancestry, Mr. Wharton." 
 
 Wharton's laughter shrivelled, and the spec- 
 tacles followed up their victory with a conde- 
 scending smile which made the lawyer long to 
 throw his hoe at them, or swear, or something; 
 but he forebore. 
 
 4 4 Gardening in this neighborhood, Mr. 
 Wharton, is a losing business," resumed Mrs. 
 McMurtrie, when the lawyer was sufficiently 
 humiliated. 4 4 Mr. Bunny, who came before 
 you, failed at it, and you'll fail, too. The 
 soil is infested with worms and bugs. If your 
 vegetables come up, which I doubt, seeing 
 you know nothing about gardening, the bugs 
 
H 8 aiafiama S&rtcSes 
 
 and worms'll eat them up as soon as they are 
 above ground. But, bless me, how dark it's 
 growing. I must go in. Good night, Mr. 
 Wharton/' 
 
 1 4 Good night, Mrs. McMurtrie," answered 
 Wharton, audibly. 4 * Deuce take you!" he 
 added under his breath. 
 
 Twenty feet from the fence the bonnet 
 turned toward him. 
 
 44 'Tain't my fault that we are neighbors, 
 Mr. Wharton, and it won't be my fault if we 
 are enemies," and justifying tradition by hav- 
 ing the last word, the bonnet disappeared in 
 the house and the door was banged to. 
 
 Wharton was truly puzzled, and meditated 
 over his strange neighbor and their singular 
 interview as he sat smoking that night. 
 
 44 A man neither lives nor dies to himself, 
 the preachers tell us," he soliloquized. 44 It's 
 
 clear he can't garden to himself 
 
 4 Bugs and worms'! — I didn't see one. I 
 wonder what she meant! .... 4 Plant fruit- 
 trees' — as if bugs were not a sight more 
 
 destructive to fruit than to vegetables 
 
 There's 4 a nigger in the woodpile' some- 
 where," puffed on Wharton, quoting in his 
 reverie an old bit of Southern slang. 
 
 Here his meditation was interrupted by 
 
JHrjs, JHcJHurtrte'a booster 149 
 
 music. He laid down his pipe and went to 
 the window to listen. 
 
 "By George, that's a sweet voice!" he ex- 
 claimed to himself. 
 
 The voice floated from Mrs. McMurtrie's 
 cottage, and sang "Within a Mile o' Edinburgh 
 Town" to a piano accompaniment. 
 
 "I'll bet she's as sweet as a rose," con- 
 tinued the young lawyer. "Heaven knows, 
 she ought to be. Such a thorn as Mrs. Mc- 
 Murtrie should sport the loveliest rose in 
 the world, according to the law of compen- 
 sation." 
 
 With the end of the song the piano closed, 
 greatly to Wharton's regret, and the young 
 fellow retired with the resolution to make 
 acquaintance of the singer by fair means or 
 foul, even if he had to dare the wrath of the 
 old brown sunbonnet. 
 
 Wharton thought no more of his avocation 
 that night. Nothing less poetical than red 
 lips and roses crossed his happy sleep, and 
 resting as he had never done before, he rose 
 to meet the morning with a brain as clear as 
 the dewdrops that swung on the daffodils 
 beneath his bedroom window. 
 
 As soon as he was dressed, the fondness for 
 his avocation had returned with full power. 
 
150 aiafiama Stfutcfjeg 
 
 There was no time for seed-planting before 
 breakfast, but it would be delightful merely to 
 look over the ground, for the amateur gardener 
 takes as much pleasure in laying out, in imagi- 
 nation, his mellow mold as a young woman 
 does in arranging a vase of beautiful roses or 
 other lovely flowers. 
 
 Alas! when Wharton reached the spot he 
 beheld a sight that stirred his wrath. Along 
 his carefully planted radish-bed were scattered 
 eight or more leghorn fowls making the loamy 
 soil fly with beak and toe, while a large white 
 rooster was summoning the remainder of his 
 flock with the most urgent calls from Mrs. 
 McMurtrie's back-yard fence. 
 
 The mystery of Mrs. McMurtrie's conversa- 
 tion was solved. Mrs. McMurtrie had an avo- 
 cation also, and it was raising poultry. 
 Wharton understood why the unfortunate 
 Bunny had failed at gardening, and why his 
 own failure was prophesied. 
 
 He shooed the fowls across the fence, 
 smoothed over the radish-bed, and returned 
 to the house too angry to eat his breakfast, 
 and so had a headache all day. 
 
 This was but the beginning of his gardening 
 troubles. Wharton had pictured the practice 
 of his avocation as one long, sweet idyl, a 
 
JBtrs, JKcjf&urtrtV* Ifcooater 151 
 
 vista of toothsome bunches of rosy radishes, 
 juicy peas, scarlet tomatoes, and golden car- 
 rots. The following six weeks resembled the 
 opening of an epic. Beds of lettuce, beets, 
 and spinach met the fate of the radishes, and 
 served as themes for animated discussion 
 across the fence. In every argument he was 
 woefully worsted, till, mentally bruised and 
 disheartened, he finally sought advice and 
 consolation from Stevens. 
 
 Jack listened to Wharton's dismal story 
 with outward sympathy and much inward en- 
 joyment. 
 
 4 * Remonstrated with Mrs. McMurtrie? ,, 
 44 'Remonstrated?' Well, I should say so! 
 But it's the same tune always, with variations — 
 4 bugs and worms.' You see, she laid her case 
 at our first meeting. I told her her hens were 
 devouring my seed." 
 44 And she said?" 
 
 44 She said anybody but a ninny would know 
 that hens never ate radish seed, for radish 
 seed was as strong as mustard seed and would 
 burn out any hen's insides. No, she asserted, 
 the fowls were after bugs and worms, and 
 instead of raising a row I should be grateful 
 to her hens for destroying them. Then she 
 laughed, and the old white rooster flapped his 
 
15 2 aiafiama i&ttetcfjes 
 
 wings and crowed at the top of his stentorian 
 voice/' 
 
 "Why didn't you tell her, Frank, that the 
 bugs and worms in your ground were your 
 bugs and worms, and you didn't wish them 
 destroyed?" 
 
 "I did; and she said that if I was such a 
 crank as to set up a nursery for bugs and 
 worms, she'd be happy to tell the town, and 
 I'd never get another case at the law." 
 
 "It's not panning out as you expected, I 
 see — your avocation," said Stevens, refilling 
 his pipe. 
 
 "It would be really idyllic but for Mrs. 
 McMurtrie's fowls," said Wharton, stoutly. 
 "By George, Jack, you should have seen my 
 peas! After numerous failures, due to the 
 same cause, I succeeded in starting two rows 
 of the prettiest peas ever seen. In two weeks 
 they would have been ready to stick, when 
 Mrs. McMurtrie's fowls flew over and devoured 
 half of them. My cook saw them at it. 
 There was no mistake." 
 
 "Mrs. McMurtrie must have admitted your 
 grievance in the case of the peas." 
 
 "Not she," said Wharton, indignantly. 
 "Now, Stevens, just guess what defense she 
 put forward." 
 
JJftrs, fflcMwtxit'fS boaster 153 
 
 "Give it up." 
 
 "Rabbits!" exploded Wharton. "She said 
 rabbits had eaten the peas, that the fields and 
 hedges were full of cotton-tailed rabbits, and 
 anybody would tell me they were extremely 
 destructive to peas." 
 
 "You certainly have been long-suffering," 
 said Stevens. "But the loss of your peas 
 must have been the last straw, and you are 
 going to sue for damages. I would." 
 
 "Well, no; you see, Jack, if — " Wharton 
 shuffled and hesitated — "if I did that it would 
 cause an open rupture, and I shouldn't be 
 permitted to visit the house." 
 
 44 4 Open rupture! Visit the house !' " Ste- 
 vens dropped his favorite brierwood in aston- 
 ishment. "Merciful heavens! You don't 
 mean to say that you visit the dragon and sip 
 tea between skirmishes?" 
 
 4 4 No, not exactly, but — " The young law- 
 yer paused and actually wriggled with real 
 nervousness. 
 
 4 4 Oho!" exclaimed Stevens, as he stared 
 most unmercifully at Wharton's blushes. 44 I 
 see; I see; Mrs. McMurtrie has a daughter, 
 and you are bringing a suit of another kind — 
 practising in the court of love on the sly. 
 'There's nothing half so sweet in life as love's 
 
i54 aiafcama S&etcfje* 
 
 young dream!' But, I say, have you con- 
 sidered what a model mother-in-law Mrs. 
 McMurtrie will make?" 
 
 "Shut up, Stevens !" said the guyed lawyer; 
 "Nellie Mosby is not Mrs. McMurtrie's daugh- 
 ter, but her niece, and not really her niece, 
 for Mrs. McMurtrie is Nellie's uncle-in-law's 
 second wife, so you see there's no blood tie. 
 But you'd not need to be told they were no 
 kin. Nellie's only eighteen, and by some 
 hocus pocus Mrs. McMurtrie is her guardian 
 with control of the girl's property till she's 
 twenty-one. Nellie's an angel; she truly is. 
 She sympathizes with me ; and oh, Jack, you 
 ought to hear her sing 'Within a Mile o' 
 Edinburgh Town'!" 
 
 "Well, I'd be glad to hear her sing within a 
 mile of anywhere, and it isn't my fault that I 
 haven't," exclaimed Jack. 
 
 Wharton then related the story of his love; 
 how he had fallen in love with a voice at first, 
 and how he had contrived to make the ac- 
 quaintance of its owner at the house of a 
 neighbor, and had discovered that the bird 
 was even sweeter than its song. So hard hit 
 was he, he had dared to call at Mrs. Mc- 
 Murtrie's, and had persevered in his visits, 
 though he was tolerated and not welcomed by 
 
Mx$. iHcjffilurtrte^ booster 155 
 
 the elder woman on account of the battles at 
 the fence. It was the old story — ever new. 
 
 Stevens listened attentively, and when 
 Wharton had finished he said, gravely: " If I 
 were you, Frank, and loved the girl as hard 
 as you say you do, I'd renounce my avocation, 
 at least for the present. What is the worth of 
 a few vegetables compared with the heart and 
 hand of a pretty girl like Miss Mosby, and a 
 hand that holds money, too?" 
 
 "Cut that, Jack! I'm in love with the girl, 
 not with her property," said Wharton, ear- 
 nestly. "But you don't understand; the girl 
 thinks her aunt wrong and sides with me. She 
 says I must not give up my garden, that she 
 could not respect me if I had so little of the 
 proper spirit." 
 
 The men smoked in silence for a while. 
 
 "Rabbits, rabbits, cotton-tailed rabbits,'' 
 hummed Stevens, meditatively. "By Jove, 
 Wharton, I have it!" 
 
 "Have what?" 
 
 "A scheme by which you can rout the 
 dragon and save your garden." 
 
 "For heaven's sake, unfold it!" exclaimed 
 the amateur gardener. 
 
 Stevens straightway explained his plan. 
 When the details were completed, and he 
 
15 6 aiafiama gbtttfytz 
 
 awaited Wharton's applause, the latter looked 
 up with a pleased but rather doubtful smile. 
 
 "It's a first-class bluff and nothing more." 
 
 "That's all it's meant to be." 
 
 "But will Mrs. McMurtrie be bluffed?" 
 asked Wharton, doubtfully. 
 
 "I'll bet my brierwood pipe," replied 
 Stevens, "that she don't call it." 
 
 Mrs. McMurtrie's white leghorn rooster was 
 a sagacious fowl. Billie White — for so his 
 owner had named her pride — might, in the 
 matter of education, be termed a self-made 
 fowl, for no efforts had been made to train 
 him. The vigorous "shooings" of Wharton 
 alone, accompanied by flying clods and occa- 
 sional stones, soon taught him to limit his 
 incursions to the hours of Wharton's absence. 
 It was Billie's habit to fly up in a half-dead 
 peach-tree that leaned over the division 
 fence, — a tree that Wharton had vainly im- 
 plored Mrs. McMurtrie to cut down, — and if 
 the way was clear, Billie would summon his 
 numerous wives for the forage in the garden. 
 If Wharton came in view, Billie gave a pecu- 
 liar cry that not only warned his destructive 
 family, but also informed Mrs. McMurtrie that 
 the enemy was nigh. 
 
JJflrs* MtMwtxit^ Uoosttt 157 
 
 The day after Stevens had proposed to 
 Wharton his scheme for the salvation of the 
 garden and the peaceful enjoyment of his 
 avocation, the rooster gave his signal call, 
 which was echoed by the hens, and in half a 
 minute Mrs. McMurtrie's spectacles appeared 
 at her kitchen door and glared at him. 
 
 The lawyer's singular movements, which 
 bore no relation to gardening, evidently ex- 
 cited Mrs. McMurtrie's curiosity, for she im- 
 mediately donned her sunbonnet and came to 
 the fence. 
 
 "In the name of conscience, what are you 
 doing, Mr. Wharton?' ' said the spectacles, 
 after a moment of silent observation. 
 
 Wharton rose and lifted his hat. "Ah, Mrs. 
 McMurtrie, is that you? Beautiful day, is it 
 not?" said the lawyer, ignoring the question, 
 and again stooping. 
 
 "The day's well enough. What are you 
 making?" 
 
 Wharton rose again. "I'm making a rabbit- 
 trap, Mrs. McMurtrie. I'm vastly grateful for 
 the kind information you gave me, and I'm 
 going to catch that beastly rabbit." 
 
 Then Wharton explained. "You see, Mrs. 
 McMurtrie, this beam with the heavy stone 
 a-top it, works by a trigger, and when — " 
 
i5 8 aiafiama Sfcetcfjea 
 
 "I know/' interrupted the spectacles, with 
 an apprehensive backward glance. 4 4 That's 
 not a trap, it's a dead-fall. It will smash the 
 rabbit as flat as a griddle-cake !" 
 
 "Quite true, Mrs. McMurtrie; but I'd just 
 as lief catch him dead as alive. I'm going to 
 set the dead-fall to-night, and when the rabbit 
 comes in the morning this log" — Wharton 
 bent over the log — 4 4 will be suspended over 
 the peas, and when he goes to nipping and 
 touches this trigger, down falls the log, and 
 Br'er Rabbit is translated to a better world. 
 It's simply great, isn't it?" 
 
 Wharton looked up and found himself alone. 
 "For once a man had the last word," he 
 chuckled. But no; he knew not the resources 
 of a woman. The violent closure of Mrs. 
 McMurtrie's kitchen door was more eloquent 
 than speech. 
 
 "Your brierwood's safe," said Wharton to 
 Stevens, two days later. 
 
 44 I knew it would be," laughed Jack. "The 
 scheme worked?" 
 
 4 4 Like a charm," responded Wharton, in 
 particularly high feather over his triumph. 
 
 Next day the young man was not so merry. 
 He went to see Nellie Mosby and was denied 
 admission. 
 
Wharton was disappointed, but not dis- 
 mayed. He could see Nellie on the street. 
 She was fond of walking, and he would way- 
 lay her. But he did not. For two days she 
 never left the house. Was she ill, he won- 
 dered. 
 
 The third day Wharton weakened, and re- 
 moved the dead-fall, and began to hate 
 Stevens. Still Nellie did not appear; and 
 strange to say, neither did the white rooster. 
 Nellie must be ill; or perhaps Mrs. McMurtrie 
 had locked her up. The harassing uncer- 
 tainty made him miserable, and he neglected 
 his business, for his fear of missing Nellie 
 caused him to watch Mrs. McMurtrie's gate 
 almost unceasingly. 
 
 In the afternoon of the fifth day the gate 
 clicked; he saw Nellie starting for the village. 
 
 4 4 Miss Nellie," said Wharton, overtaking 
 her, "I was beginning to think I'd never see 
 you." The girl averted her head with a 
 pretty semblance of displeasure. 
 
 14 Go away, sir! I'm forbidden to speak to 
 you. We must part forever." 
 
 44 Nellie!" 
 
 , 44 What have you done with my aunt's 
 rooster?" she asked, finally, turning her head. 
 "Billie White's been missing four days. Aunt's 
 
160 aiafcama Sfeetcfjes 
 
 in bed, ill with grief, and I've had to nurse 
 her. It hasn't been any fun, I assure you." 
 
 Wharton was aghast. "Your aunt thinks 
 I've made way with her rooster? And you, 
 too, suspect me?" 
 
 4 'I never said I suspected you. But the 
 evidence is strong. You wished Billie was 
 dead — you said so. But to come in the night 
 and carry him off — oh, Mr. Wharton!" 
 
 "I never robbed a hen-roost in my life," 
 said the indignant Wharton, "and you know 
 it, Miss Mosby." 
 
 The girl again averted her head. "It's 
 very strange. The night you set that dead- 
 fall, aunt shut Billie in a coop. The same 
 night the coop was broken, and the thief was 
 tracked to the fence. It showered that night, 
 and the tracks were plain." 
 
 Wharton was horrified. "And there are 
 two loose palings in the fence hanging only 
 by nails. You can see them for yourself," 
 added the girl. 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense, Nellie! You don't 
 think I took that vile rooster?" 
 
 "No-o-o — , not if you say you didn't." 
 
 "And you'll tell your aunt I didn't?" 
 
 "Yes, but she won't believe you. Aunt 
 says anybody who will steal will lie." 
 
JWr** JHcJtluttttV* Mooster 161 
 
 Wharton meditated. "And I'm not to 
 come to the house any more after this?" 
 
 44 'Come to the house!' Why, if I'm caught 
 speaking to you, I shall lose my next quar- 
 ter's allowance. " 
 
 "Will nothing make your aunt relent?" 
 asked Wharton, looking up in despair. 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps she might, if you 
 proved an ali — alibi." 
 
 "That some one else took the fowl?" 
 
 "Yes; and if you restored Billie unhurt to 
 her arms she'd give anything you asked for." 
 
 "Even her niece's hand in marriage?" 
 
 The girl blushed, and the man looked at her 
 adoringly and loved her more than ever. 
 
 "I know what I'll do," said Wharton; "I'll 
 order a white leghorn from Mobile, and Mrs. 
 McMurtrie won't know the difference." 
 
 "Aunt Sophronia not know the difference!" 
 cried Nellie. "Why, she hatched Billie in an 
 incubator, and raised him by hand. She 
 knows his every feather." 
 
 When Wharton parted with his inamorata 
 he fell into a brown study. How absurd it 
 was that his romance should be entangled with 
 the fate of an old white rooster! But it was 
 the way of life, in which the absurd and the 
 sentimental, the trivial and the important are 
 
162 &la6ama g&t\tty% 
 
 inextricably blended. Did not the great 
 Napoleon lose the battle of Leipsic, and blur 
 the star of his destiny, by a fit of indigestion, 
 caused by a surfeit of cold mutton? The map 
 of Europe changed by a sheep! 
 
 After tea the young man's frame of mind 
 was lamentable, and he began to heap obloquy 
 upon gardening, when it occurred to him that 
 but for his avocation he might never have 
 met Nellie. He was seated in the summer- 
 house where he could watch the light in her 
 window. The perfume of the magnolias from 
 Mrs. McMurtrie's blended with the fragrance 
 of honeysuckles overhead to make the May 
 night balmy. How long was his reverie he 
 did not know. His musing was at length 
 broken by the abrupt silence of the mocking- 
 bird. The bird was hushed by voices and 
 footsteps of some boys from a boarding-school 
 near the town. 
 
 "Who lives here?" 
 
 The words rang clearly in the night air. 
 
 4 4 New man named Wharton. Next place 
 is where we hooked a rooster Saturday 
 night." 
 
 Wharton started, and then sat rigid, tingling 
 with interest. 
 
 4 4 We swapped him with a negro for two fat 
 
pullets, and the negro cooked the pullets for 
 us." 
 
 "Were they good?" 
 
 "You bet! But he swindled us. He sold 
 that rooster to old Grimsby, the chicken 
 breeder, for two dollars. 'Twas a pure- 
 blooded leghorn. " 
 
 The boyish voices faded down the street. 
 
 Next day Wharton overtook Nellie a second 
 time, when returning from the village. 
 
 "Miss Nellie, I've found the rooster." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Wharton! Alive or dead?" 
 
 "Alive." 
 
 Then the lawyer told his sweetheart of the 
 intercepted conversation between the two 
 boarding-school lads, and also of an interview 
 with Grimsby not yet narrated. 
 
 "And you've really seen Billie?" asked the 
 girl, with sparkling eyes. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When are you going to bring him to Aunt 
 Sophronia?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I've bungled. As soon as I 
 recognized the fowl I offered ten dollars for 
 him, and — " 
 
 "Did you offer ten dollars for a rooster?" 
 interrupted the girl. 
 
 "Of course. Ten dollars! Why, I'd go 
 
164 aiafiama %%vtt%t& 
 
 through fire and water for you, Nellie. But 
 practically, I admit, it was a mistake, for 
 when Grimsby saw I wanted the fowl badly he 
 asked twice the money. Then when I told 
 him the bird belonged to some one I knew, 
 and had been stolen, he thought I was try- 
 ing to 'do' him; he grew angry and refused 
 to sell at any price. Thereupon I got as 
 mad as blazes, and was ordered from the 
 place." 
 
 "You did make a muss of it, didn't 
 you?" 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," said Wharton. 
 
 It was growing dark, and they approached 
 Mrs. McMurtrie's gate. 
 
 The girl entered and leaned over in deep 
 thought. Then looking up, she said: "I 
 know what you will do with your tiresome 
 law. You'll garnishee, or foreclose, or file a 
 bill on Grimsby, and then it will get in chan- 
 cery, and we'll both be gray-headed, and Billie 
 dead of old age, before it's all ended. Oh, I 
 know what I'd do if I wasn't a girl." 
 
 "What would you do?" said Wharton. 
 
 "Why, I'd go to Grimsby's to-night at 
 twelve o'clock and bring Billie home." 
 
 "Well, I'll not do it." 
 
 "Because you are afraid," said the girl 
 
JBtra* Mtffluxtxh's Wioozttx 165 
 
 quickly. "You're afraid of the dog, or that 
 Grimsby may shoot you; and yet you said 
 you'd go through fire and water for me." 
 
 "So I would; but I won't turn thief and rob 
 a hen-roost," exclaimed Wharton. 
 
 4 4 4 Turn thief! Rob a hen-roost!' " the girl 
 returned, her eyes flashing through the dark. 
 44 Is it robbery to restore my aunt's property 
 that you caused to be stolen? No; it isn't 
 that. You don't care for me." 
 
 She paused to catch her breath, and looked 
 as if she would speak again, but she thought 
 better of it, and her little boot-heels went 
 clicking angrily up the brick walk to the 
 house. The next moment the door closed, 
 and Wharton was left alone with the stars. 
 
 Wharton was no coward, and when he said 
 that he would go through fire and water for 
 Nellie he meant it. But rob a hen-roost and 
 so make himself ridiculous — never! More- 
 over, he shrewdly suspected that the young 
 woman wished to test the extent of her power 
 over him. If he resisted her, and attained the 
 desired result in another way, she would love 
 him just as well, and more. 
 
 After cudgelling his brain all night the fol- 
 lowing note was the outcome in the morning, 
 and he dispatched it by a little pickaninny. 
 
166 aiafiama Sfeetcfje^ 
 
 Dear Mrs. McMurtrie: I have succeeded in tra- 
 cing the valuable leghorn of which you were robbed 
 last Saturday night. After passing through several 
 hands it is now in the hands of a poultry-fancier. The 
 man refuses to surrender him to me, or the bird would 
 now be restored to you. If you will consent to ac- 
 company me and identify the fowl, I do not think 
 there will be any trouble in obtaining your own. 
 
 Shall I call for you at eleven A. m.? 
 
 Respectfully yours, 
 
 Frank Wharton. 
 
 The reply was speedy and terse. 
 
 Mr. Wharton. 
 Dear Sir: Come at eleven. 
 
 Very truly, 
 
 Sophronia McMurtrie. 
 
 The expedition to Grimsby and its result 
 may be, perhaps, best given in the words of 
 Wharton to Stevens next day. In filling in 
 the hiatus since their last meeting, the young 
 lawyer came to the drive. 
 
 "Mrs. McMurtrie sat up in the carriage like 
 a pair of red steelyards draped in black. If 
 she was awe-inspiring in plain spectacles and a 
 brown sunbonnet, picture her, Jack, in gold- 
 rimmed pince-nez and a poke! She didn't 
 speak for a quarter of a mile, then said she to 
 me, suddenly, 'Who is this receiver of stolen 
 property?' 
 
 " 'Excuse me,' said I; 'I fear my brief note 
 
JBlrs, Mtffluxtxit'* lEtoostn 167 
 
 conveyed an erroneous impression. Mr. 
 Grimsby bought the fowl of a negro.' 
 
 44 4 Bought it of a negro, did he? — and at 
 night, I presume. You haven't helped mat- 
 ters, Mr. Wharton,' and she glared." 
 
 44 Was there anything of a scrap at Grims- 
 by's?" asked Stevens. 
 
 4 4 Lord bless you, no! Grimsby went down 
 before her like a man of straw. She identified 
 the fowl by a bit of red yarn tied under the 
 neck feathers. Grimsby tried to apologize 
 and explain, but she cut him short and stalked 
 off with the rooster." 
 
 There was silence for a few moments. 
 
 4 4 Surely, that isn't all," said Stevens. 
 
 44 Well — yes; we did patch up matters on 
 the way back," admitted Wharton, sheepishly. 
 Then, picking up courage, he said, 4 4 Perhaps 
 it's throwing bouquets at myself to say it, but 
 I think I displayed tact." 
 
 44 What did you say?" 
 
 44 Nothing. I tried to look pleasant, and 
 waited for Mrs. McMurtrie to open the ball. 
 For a while she sat smoothing the rooster's 
 feathers, and the operation seemed to soothe 
 her. Finally she looked up and said: 4 1 
 may have done wrong, Mr. Wharton, in har- 
 boring an unjust suspicion.' 
 
168 aialiama SfcetcfKS 
 
 44 4 Don't mention it, I beg of you/ said I. 
 4 1 realize, Mrs. McMurtrie, that my conduct 
 has been most irritating/ 
 
 4 4 4 Quite true; and when you built that dead- 
 fall for the rabbit without considering Billie's 
 curiosity — ' 
 
 4 4 4 Ah, Mrs. McMurtrie/ laughed I, very 
 genially, 4 that was merely a bluff/ 
 
 4< 4 A what?' 
 
 4 4 4 A bluff — a sham — the log in falling would 
 have caught on a brick. It couldn't have 
 crushed an egg!' " 
 
 4 4 So you buried the hatchet," said Stevens. 
 
 "Out of sight." 
 
 44 How about the avocation?" 
 
 "Would you believe it, Jack, Mrs. McMurtrie 
 proposed that we divide the expense of a wire- 
 netting above the fence! I told her I'd be 
 proud to pay the whole." 
 
 44 And Nellie?" 
 
 4 4 We are to be married in October." 
 
THE MAID OF JASMINDALE 
 
THE MAID OF JASMINDALE 
 
 IT was early spring in West Alabama, in the 
 year 1865. Two Confederate soldiers in 
 a dilapidated buggy, drawn by a horse quite 
 in keeping with the appearance of the vehicle, 
 rattled along a winding plantation road. The 
 sun was just setting, and the slanting rays, 
 which had slowly climbed the red-brown 
 trunks of the pine-trees, through which the 
 roadway wound, now lingered caressingly in 
 their gnarled and twisted tops. 
 
 At times, along the winding lane, the occu- 
 pants of the buggy detected on the spicy 
 breath of the pines sweet scents of more qual- 
 ity, which betokened that here and there a 
 cluster of wild honeysuckle or a yellow jas- 
 mine bell was already ablow; for there are 
 many wild flowers in Alabama that come 
 before the swallow dares, and take even the 
 winds of February with beauty. 
 
 No sound of war had ever floated down this 
 woodland way. Migratory birds, like field- 
 larks and robins, may have marvelled to each 
 171 
 
17 2 aiafiama Sftetcfjeg 
 
 other at the roar of the cannon and the smoke 
 of battle they had chanced to hear and see on 
 their southward way, but the cotton-tailed 
 rabbit that leaped into the broom-sedge, and 
 the gray squirrel that sprang up the pine 
 trunk at the creak of the passing vehicle, knew 
 naught of such things; or if they perceived 
 any change in the order of the universe, it 
 was to note with pleasure that sudden death 
 had become less frequent among their furry 
 brethren, or to congratulate themselves on the 
 increase of longevity among all feathered and 
 four-footed wild creatures. 
 
 In the drowsy peace and quietness of this 
 old plantation highway, shaded by pines and 
 fringed with sassafras — a drowsy quietness 
 that appealed to every sense — the worn Con- 
 federate gray of the two soldiers seemed like 
 an echo trom the battle-fields far away; and 
 this hint of war, which at first appeared out of 
 harmony with the peaceful scene, when viewed 
 more closely added a touch of pathos which 
 removed all sense of discord. The man who 
 drove used but one hand, for his left sleeve 
 hung empty; while his comrade wore a ban- 
 dage about his left shoulder and arm. It was 
 clear that fate had put one of them under 
 bond to keep the peace for a season at least, 
 
W$z £Ba\b of gfasmmtjale 173 
 
 while the other would never again seek the 
 bubble reputation at the cannon's mouth. 
 
 At the end of one of the conversational 
 pauses which come frequently to those who 
 have travelled a long distance together and are 
 weary, the man with one arm, giving the horse 
 a gentle slap with the reins, addressed his 
 companion: 
 
 "Well, Tom, we are almost there. When 
 we turn the next curve we shall see the house, 
 or, at least, the lights. 99 
 
 "Do you think we're expected?" asked the 
 other. 
 
 "I doubt it. I wrote the day before we left 
 the hospital, but if the letter had been re- 
 ceived, my father would have met us at 
 Gainesville ; or he would have sent some one. 99 
 
 Urging the old horse forward with another 
 slight blow, — he had not the heart to use the 
 whip to an animal who had spent his strength 
 in the army, — he continued: "What do you 
 suppose I'm thinking of, Tom?" 
 
 "Can't imagine, Jack. Your mind should 
 be bubbling with the happy thought that in a 
 very few minutes you will see your father, 
 mother, and sister after an absence of three 
 years." 
 
 "Of course all that was in my mind; but at 
 
i74 aiatmma Sfutcfjes 
 
 the moment I was comparing this home- 
 coming with the one I pictured when I en- 
 listed." 
 
 A sad look passed over his face — a face 
 which nature had meant for merriment, not 
 gloom, in proof of which a smile soon followed. 
 But he could not keep a slight ring of bitter- 
 ness out of his voice as he exclaimed: * 4 Take 
 your time, old horse, you needn't hurry; as 
 usual, second thoughts are wisest. I prefer 
 that this triumphal chariot should arrive at my 
 ancestral home under cover of darkness. 99 
 
 His friend gave him a quick look. "I 
 think you are very fortunate in many regards. 
 You have at least a home to which you can 
 come, and a family there to welcome you. 
 Look at my case. My home is beyond the 
 lines, and I haven't heard from it in six 
 months. 99 
 
 Dropping the reins for a moment to adjust 
 his hat, which had been displaced by a jolt 
 over a projecting pine root, the young veteran, 
 whose surname was Ellis, said with a sigh: "I 
 wonder where the battery is to-night, and what 
 the boys are doing!" He looked at his empty 
 sleeve. u 'Tisn't likely I'll ever see the dear 
 old guns again, and give them pet names, God 
 bless 'em! But look, Tom, yonder are the 
 
W$z JKafo of gagmmfcale 175 
 
 lights. " And forgetful of his recent mood he 
 put the old horse to his speed. 
 
 The buggy had emerged from the pines, 
 and now wound along the edge of the wood. 
 On the left rose the dark trees, like a great, 
 shadowy wall. On the right, a moss-grown 
 rail fence zigzagged along the lane, its numer- 
 ous corners filled with alder shrubs, black- 
 berry bushes, and wild plum-trees. The last 
 were in full flower, and over their pallid and 
 fragrant sprays gray moths hovered, intent to 
 glean such sweets as were left them by the 
 wild bees, pirates of the upper blue, who had 
 rifled the tiny blossoms and fled to their secret 
 cave in the old swamp-gum. 
 
 Beyond the rail fence a vast cotton-field, 
 whose brown surface had been broken by the 
 plough, but was not yet planted, stretched 
 toward the west, and blent on the horizon 
 with a cypress swamp whose tall treetops 
 serrated the pale pink sky like a jagged 
 silhouette. 
 
 During the last ten minutes the lights of 
 home, which had greeted Ellis's eyes with a 
 brightness scarce exceeding that of a will-o'- 
 the-wisp, grew brighter and steadier, and soon 
 the house began to outline itself through the 
 trees. It was built in the colonnaded style, 
 
176 aUafiama Stfutcfjes 
 
 and the columns gleamed white in the star- 
 light. As Ellis led his companion up the 
 winding walk, the fragrance ot jonquils, hya- 
 cinths, and violets met them at every turn. 
 The odor of the flowers was quite in harmony 
 with what was passing in Tom Vance's mind. 
 Had Ellis asked him a few moments ago for 
 his thoughts he would doubtless have parried 
 the question, for he was thinking of Jack's 
 sister, whom he had never seen, but of whom 
 his fancy had painted a picture very pleasing 
 to him. 
 
 At night, by the smoldering camp-fire, 
 when the other men were asleep, the two men 
 had often talked of their homes; and Jack 
 had frequently spoken of his sister. Some- 
 times he had read to Vance parts of her letters 
 by the little flames that leaped up as the half- 
 burned logs fell together. So that now, as 
 he walked up the gravelled way, the breath of 
 the flowers made his heart beat faster. Like 
 incense floating round a shrine, it seemed to 
 warn him of his nearness to the deity of his 
 dreams ; and the grating of the pebbles beneath 
 his boot heels was needed to bring his excited 
 fancy back to a realization of earth. 
 
 They had passed beneath a budding rose- 
 vine which swayed between the white columns, 
 
W$t JETaft of gasmmtrale 177 
 
 and entered the wide hall before they were 
 discovered. Their presence was announced 
 by a large brown dog, which leaped toward 
 Ellis with a joyous bark. Half a minute later 
 two slender women were clinging to him, and 
 laughing and sobbing at the same time, while 
 a tall old man, with tear-lit eyes, wrung his 
 hand. Vance remained in the background, 
 unwilling to intrude even his presence upon 
 a meeting in which grief and joy were patheti- 
 cally mingled. By and by there came a lull, 
 and Ellis turned: "Where are you, Tom? 
 Father, mother, Annie, this is my comrade, 
 Tom Vance. 99 
 
 Annie Ellis was as lithe as a swamp-willow. 
 She had little color. Her skin was not tinted 
 like the rose; it bore more resemblance in its 
 healthy paleness to the milk-white petals of 
 the bay-flowers. Her light-brown hair rippled 
 over her brow, and when touched by the sun- 
 light, revealed changeful glints of gold. She 
 had long, curling lashes, and her eyes were as 
 soft as brown velvet; yet they were full of 
 light when she smiled. Her lips were the hue 
 of pomegranate blossoms. But her chief 
 charm was a dimple on her cheek. When her 
 face was in repose, no one would suspect its 
 existence. To Vance it did not seem like an 
 
178 aiafiama &kttti\t$ 
 
 ordinary dimple. The first time he saw it he 
 felt a peculiar thrill. Afterwards he kept try- 
 ing to bring the dimple back; but it did not 
 appear every time its owner smiled. She 
 seemed to keep it for special moments. 
 
 For the first few days after their arrival, 
 Mrs. Ellis could not see enough of Jack. 
 It was a long time before she reconciled her- 
 self to the loss of his arm ; and often her eyes 
 would fill when she looked at his empty 
 sleeve; but she never alluded to the matter in 
 Jack's presence. 
 
 In consequence of this tender monopoly, 
 Vance fell to her daughter's care, and the 
 arrangement was evidently satisfactory. 
 Sometimes the young soldier leaned over the 
 piano while the girl sang to him, "Lorena," 
 4 4 Ever of Thee," and other ballads of a senti- 
 mental turn; sometimes they strolled about the 
 old flower-garden among the roses and lilacs. 
 Often in the morning they wandered farther, 
 and walked in the woods beneath the long- 
 leafed pines, many of which rose fifty feet 
 without a branch, and when the south wind 
 stirred the lofty tops immense cones would 
 fall swishing through the air, to bound on the 
 elastic carpet of pine-needles. 
 
 Frequently they went fishing in the creek. 
 
Cf)e iftftafo of gaammtiale 179 
 
 On these occasions they always took Jim, the 
 twelve-year-old son of Sophy, the cook, to 
 carry the bait and bait the hooks. Jim was 
 as black as ebony. He never wore a hat, and 
 when he smiled, which was often, his big 
 white teeth gleamed like piano-keys. His 
 mother kept his face greased till it shone. 
 
 "I do 'spise a ash-faced nigger, " said 
 Sophy. 
 
 What Jim thought of these fishing expe- 
 ditions can be learned from his indignant 
 account to his mother. 
 
 "I tell yer de trufe, mammy, I's des tired 
 o' gwine fishin' wid Marse Tom an' Miss 
 Annie. Dey don' ketch no fish. See dis 
 heah string o' perch? I cotch 'em, ever' one. 
 Miss Annie she know how ter fish des as well 
 as I does, but she am' cotch a fish sence 
 Marse Tom been heah. Dat's de Gord's 
 trufe! Dis de way dey do, mammy. When 
 dey starts ter de creek dey walks so slow, look 
 lak dey don' keer whe'r dey gits dar or no. 
 
 4 4 Den when we comes ter de creek dey say, 
 4 Jim, bait de hooks.' Den when I gits a 
 wu'm out de gourd, and stick de p'int o' de 
 hook in him, Miss Annie she hollers, she do, 
 an' puts her han's ober her eyes. Ain' dat 
 what wu'ms is made for, mammy? Den she 
 
180 aiafiama £ttrtd)eg 
 
 pull her han's down slow lak, an' look at Marse 
 Tom dis way. An Marse Tom he look at 
 Miss Annie. 
 
 "Den when dey draps de lines in de creek, 
 'tain' no time fo' Marse Tom got his line all 
 tang'ul up wid Miss Annie's, an' dey hatter 
 pick out de knot. Dey don' lemme do dat. 
 Dey do dat deyselves; an' fas' as Miss Annie 
 pick out one knot, Marse Tom he got anne'r 
 one made. 
 
 "Den dey gits tired o' fishing an' say, 'Jim, 
 you can fish.' An dey goes off a-pickin' vi'- 
 lets an* sittin' on lorgs. " 
 
 In the afternoon the young girl and the 
 soldier sat in the old summer-house under the 
 myrtles. Annie would sew, and Vance would 
 read to her from Lalla Rookh, while the coo- 
 ing of the doves in the pines and the humming 
 of the bees formed a fitting accompaniment 
 to Moore's softly flowing lines. Cupid never 
 pities wounded soldiers; such are his favorite 
 game. The wound in his shoulder healed 
 rapidly, but a deeper wound opened in the 
 Kentuckian's heart. 
 
 This idyllic existence had lasted several 
 weeks, when one day there came a change. 
 It was as if a discordant string had been 
 touched in the flow of a sweet melody, and 
 
€f)e JSlattf of gasmmtiale 181 
 
 the discord, instead of dying away, gradually 
 became dominant. The dimple did not appear 
 for a whole week, and the smile became less 
 and less frequent. But all was so gradual 
 there was no savor of discourtesy. Vance 
 tried to brush away the cloud with a little gift 
 of flowers. An hour later he saw his poor 
 blossoms exhaling their deserted fragrance 
 on a window-seat. When this simple device 
 failed, his helplessness was piteous. Had he 
 been less of a lover and more of a beau, he 
 would have thought of a dozen ways of bring- 
 ing about an explanation. Without appearing 
 to avoid him, she gradually saw less of him. 
 It could not be accidental, for accidents sel- 
 dom occur in such disagreeable consecutive- 
 ness. Each day she seemed to grow farther 
 away from him. But he did not lack society. 
 Mr. Ellis took him on long drives over the 
 winding plantation roads. Mrs. Ellis, having 
 petted Jack to her heart's content, carried 
 Vance on tours of her poultry-yard, or gave 
 him instruction in rose culture. He tried to 
 respond appreciatively to her little attentions, 
 and to manifest the proper interest by occa- 
 sional questions. But when he asked Mrs. 
 Ellis what was the best time for pruning hens, 
 and what she did for her roses when they took 
 
1 82 aiatmma Sftetcfjeg 
 
 the gapes, his kind hostess was bewildered. 
 She confided to her daughter that she feared 
 the hardships of war, and his wound, had 
 affected Vance's brain. 
 
 4 4 Poor fellow !" she sighed. "It is much 
 better to lose an arm." 
 
 4 4 Perhaps he was thinking of his Kentucky 
 sweetheart,' ' said Miss Ellis. 4 4 The Blue 
 Grass girls are said to be very beautiful." 
 
 Meanwhile Vance kicked over a flower-pot, 
 and muttered something under his breath. 
 He was a man of action, and never swore when 
 he knew what to do. But now he was puz- 
 zled, and had sought solitude and the open 
 air to think it all out. The woman he loved 
 was acting in the most incomprehensible and 
 exasperating manner. What had he done to 
 offend her? What had he left undone? He 
 gave it up, and dropped into the rustic seat 
 under the cedar-tree, found an easy position 
 for his shoulder, and as his eyes fell on his 
 old gray coat he felt ashamed of his impa- 
 tience. 
 
 Then he put his hand in his pocket and 
 drew out something. It was not a letter, nor 
 a photograph, but a little tobacco-pouch she 
 had made him in the blissful days when she 
 was all smiles and sunshine. It was made of 
 
Cf)e JHatti of gasmmtiale 183 
 
 brown silk — the color of her eyes — and his 
 initials were worked in crimson — the hue of 
 her lips. It had smelled of violets when it 
 came into his possession. He wondered if it 
 still retained its fragrance! No; the perfume 
 had fled with her favor, and the scent of the 
 tobacco made him sneeze. He filled his cob- 
 pipe, struck a Confederate-made sulphur 
 match. It broke. More successful with 
 another, he puffed rapidly at first, then slower, 
 and gazed over the pine-covered Alabama 
 hills, down the river, where the pines blended 
 with the cypress-trees till all were veiled on 
 the horizon in a purple mist. Presently a 
 resolute expression came on his face. He 
 knocked the ashes from his pipe on his boot 
 heel, and put his pipe away. Then he took a 
 pencil from his pocket and wrote on a slip of 
 paper: 
 
 Dear Miss Ellis: 
 
 I would like much to see you for a few moments 
 in the summer-house under the myrtles at 12 o'clock. 
 If you will kindly come I shall be very grateful. 
 
 Yours faithfully, T. V. 
 
 Calling Jim, who was not far away, he sent 
 the note. By and by the boy came back. 
 
 "Did you give the note to Miss Ellis?" said 
 Vance. 
 
184 aiafiama Sfcetcf)^ 
 
 "Yes, sah; I give her de letter." 
 "What did she say, Jim?" 
 "Miss Annie didn' say nothing Marse 
 Tom." 
 
 "What did she do?" 
 
 Jim scratched his head. "Well, sah, fus' 
 she tuck de letter an' onwrap it. Den she 
 read it, an* her han' 'gun ter trimble. Den 
 she squez de letter in one han' an' guv a long 
 breaf. Den she look way off lak she seed 
 some'h'n comin\" 
 
 "That will do, Jim." 
 
 Vance looked at his watch. It was just a 
 quarter past eleven. He directed his steps 
 toward the myrtles. 
 
 Jim dug his big toe in the ground and 
 looked after him. "Marse Tom an' Miss 
 does mighty curis. Dat's de Gord's trufe! 
 Las' week dey couldn' cotch no fish for talking 
 an' dis week Marse Tom he write a letter to 
 Miss Annie, an* dey livin' in de same house, 
 an' eatin' toge'er three times a day. Won'er 
 what dey gwine do nex* week!" 
 
 The negroes on the plantation were very 
 proud of their young mistress. They watched 
 the progress of affairs with keen interest, and 
 Vance met their approval, though they 
 deemed no one quite worthy of her. Old Ben, 
 
€f)e jBTafo of gaamtntiale 185 
 
 the gardener, Sophy, the cook, and Melinda, 
 the house-girl, discussed the situation in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 44 'Spec we gwine have a weddin' on dis 
 plantation 'fore long. Look lak young Miss 
 is made up her mind dis time," said old Ben, 
 leaning on his hoe by the kitchen door. 
 
 44 01e man, you's way behine the times," 
 said Sophy, laying in a deep dish the founda- 
 tion of a chicken pie, "Dat's de way hit 
 looked ter me, too, las' week. But de win's 
 done changed. 'Pears ter me now young 
 Miss is gwine serve Marse Vance lak she done 
 all de rest o' de young men. He gwine git 
 his walkin' papers 'fore long, ef he ain' already 
 got 'em. Marse Vance sholy do look sorrow- 
 ful." 
 
 "I knows ever'thing what's gwine on in de 
 big house," said Lindy. "But I don' tell all 
 I knows," she added, looking at Sophy. 
 
 "Huh!" sniffed Sophy, contemptuously, 
 "you allers knows more'n de trufe." 
 
 Lindy's massive lips protruded in a warlike 
 manner, and old Ben hastened to interpose. 
 4 4 Let de gal talk ef she wanter, ole woman. 
 Don't yer mine her, Lindy; words is made fur 
 de spression o' knowledge. Keep on, gal." 
 
 The girl rolled the whites of her eyes in the 
 
186 aiafcama S&etcfjesi 
 
 direction of Sophy indignantly, but encour- 
 aged by the old man's defense, she could not 
 resist the temptation to display her superior 
 information. 
 
 44 I knows de day an* I knows de hour when 
 de cloud 'gun ter riz, 99 she began, solemnly, 
 44 an' dis is de very way: I wuz a-sweepin' 
 out de big hall las' Sadday before breakfus'; 
 an' I wuz a hurryin' ter get thu 'fo' de white 
 folks come down, when I seed Marse Jack 
 come out'n his room an' go in Marse Tom's 
 room a-whistlin'. He lef Marse Tom's door 
 on de crack. I could'n heah all dey say to 
 one ne'r, but I cotch some o' de words. 
 'Peared lak dey wuz talkin' 'bout some young 
 lady up in Kaintucky, an' Marse Jack, he wuz 
 a-runnin' Marse Tom. I knows I hearn him 
 say some'h'n 'bout Katie. 
 
 44 Des 'bout dat time, Miss Annie she come 
 out'n her room ter'er en' o' de hall, an' she 
 walk down de hall ter de top o' de stairs a 
 hummin' a chune, an' she look so peert, seem 
 lak she gwine ter dance ever' step she tuck. 
 She wuz dressed in white, kaze hit was a warm 
 mornin', an' she had a bunch o' peach-flowers 
 pin on her breas'. 
 
 4 4 Miss Annie sholy did look sweet dat 
 mornin'. 
 
Cf)e iffitato of gamiribaU 187 
 
 "But when she striick de top o' de stairs by 
 Marse Tom's door look lak a spell tuck her. 
 She must V hearn some'h'n ter 'stress her, for 
 she tu'n de color o' green hick'ry smoke roun' 
 de eyes. 'Fore Gord, I thought she wuz 
 gwine ter fall, but she cotch hole de banister, 
 bless de Lord! 
 
 "Hit sholy did look pitterful ter see dem 
 peach-flowers a-trim'lin on her breas' ! But 
 Miss Annie she b'longs ter de quality, she 
 do; when she come to, she walked down dem 
 stairs lak a queen, an' she laugh an' joke ole 
 Marse at de breakfus' table. But dis nigger 
 kep' her eyes sot on dem peach-flowers. She 
 knowed dey'd tell what wuz gwine on inside." 
 
 Meantime the bright April day was wearing 
 on to noon. In the summer-house the sun- 
 beams sifted through the honeysuckles and 
 jasmines, and dappled the ground beneath. 
 Vance looked at his watch for the twentieth 
 time. Ten minutes to twelve! He leaned 
 his head on his hand, and listened to the 
 drowsy hum of the bumblebees that were ban- 
 queting on the jasmine. Two mocking-birds 
 were building a nest in the vine, and flew back 
 and forth with wisps of grass and dry sticks. 
 He sat so still they did not heed him. 
 
 The happy birds gently shook the vine, and 
 
188 aiafiama Sfeetcfjea 
 
 a jasmine flower fell upon Vance's knee. He 
 lifted it to his face. The fragrance of the 
 flower appealed to him in a singular manner. 
 His happiness had been as evanescent as the 
 beauty of the flower. The flutter of a bird's 
 wing had sent the little bloom earthward, and 
 something even less tangible had marred the 
 melody of love that had been singing in his 
 heart. 
 
 Perhaps she would not come! He had not 
 thought of that. He tried to think what he 
 would do if she did not come. If they had 
 only quarrelled ! He tried to gain hope from 
 proverbs, especially the one about true love's 
 never running smooth. He could not make it 
 apply. Everything had run smoothly, even 
 her coldness. Oh, how he wished this inde- 
 finable something that had come between this 
 beautiful girl and himself were only a man! 
 How he would like to fight him! He could 
 not sit still. He clenched his hand and 
 sprang to his feet. 
 
 Annie Ellis stood in the door of the sum- 
 mer-house. She smiled pleasantly in response 
 to his greeting, and seated herself in a rustic 
 chair. In her hand was a piece of needle- 
 work. This did not imply any discourtesy; it 
 had been agreed between them early in their 
 
J5laft of gjaammtiaie 
 
 acquaintance that she should continue what- 
 ever she had in hand during their meetings. 
 He had delighted to watch her hands. So 
 graceful was her sewing that the needle seemed 
 never to be pushed by her dainty fingers, but 
 rather to follow them of its own volition. A 
 bit of fancy-work gives a woman an immense 
 advantage over a man. It aids her in pre- 
 serving the appearance of composure which 
 neither can feel. To-day the young man 
 viewed the needlework with positive dislike. 
 That, and the girl's deceptive calmness, ap- 
 peared to imply that everything in their 
 mutual relations was as it should be, and 
 seemed to strengthen the horrid web on whose 
 breaking Vance felt that his happiness de- 
 pended. After a moment's silence she raised 
 her eyes inquiringly. Vance had remained 
 standing. He had not thought what he was 
 going to say. He never did. 
 
 "Miss Ellis, there's something wrong. I 
 don't know what it is. But I must know." 
 
 The girl looked up quickly. She had never 
 seen him like this before. 
 
 "I did not think a man could be as happy 
 as I have been at Jasmindale. I ought to 
 have known it could not last." 
 
 She did not dare to look up now. How glad 
 
190 aiatiama i&tutcfjeg 
 
 she was that she had brought her needle- 
 work! She bent her head above it, and re- 
 mained silent. 
 
 "When Jack and I were lying around the 
 camp-fire at night, and the other men were 
 sleeping, we used to talk to each other of our 
 homes; Jack would tell me of Jasmindale, and 
 I would speak of Oaklands. " 
 
 He paused a moment, and continued: "I 
 knew that Jack's home was beautiful, but I 
 have found it more beautiful than I had pic- 
 tured; and it is you who have made it so. 99 
 
 The needle began to lose its way. 
 
 "Miss Ellis, Jasmindale has been like a bit 
 of heaven till a week ago. The stars shone 
 fairer, and the flowers were more fragrant, 
 than any I had ever known, and I loved the 
 light and sweetness because they seemed re- 
 flected from you. But a week ago something 
 began to come between us — something — I 
 don't know what — as intangible as a shadow. 
 And now I am more unhappy than I can 
 say." 
 
 The girl let her embroidery fall, and tried 
 to steady herself, but her heart beat so rapidly 
 she could hardly think. It did not seem pos- 
 sible that she could be mistaken. She wished 
 now that she had spoken to Jack, but her 
 
W$z JBtaft of gfaismtntrale 191 
 
 pride had not let her. Besides, she had feared 
 Jack's raillery. 
 
 "Mr. Vance/ ' she began, in a strange little 
 voice, — it did not resemble her usual tone, — 
 "when you told Jack of Oaklands, did you 
 ever tell him about — " 
 
 She stopped suddenly. Of course he had 
 told Jack; it was Jack's voice she had over- 
 heard. 
 
 "Mr. Vance, who is Katie?" The question 
 leaped from her lips before she thought, and 
 her voice was perilously near to tears. 
 
 Vance wondered at the irrelevant question. 
 
 "Why — Katie is the name of a cannon in 
 our battery. The boys used to name the guns 
 for their sweethearts. I named my gun Katie 
 because I was ashamed to confess I had no 
 sweetheart. But I did have one even then, 
 for I dreamed of you, Miss Ellis, before I ever 
 met you. " 
 
 He looked at the girl. He saw it all now. 
 
 "Annie!" He knelt at her side and put his 
 arm around her. "And you were jealous of a 
 gun!" 
 
 And the mocking-bird in the jasmine-vine 
 above them burst into a carol of love to his 
 mate. 
 
THE POLITICAL SPLIT IN 
 OAKVILLE 
 
THE POLITICAL SPLIT IN 
 OAKVILLE 
 
 THERE was great excitement in Oakville. 
 The biennial election for mayor and 
 aldermen ol the little West Alabama town was 
 approaching, and for special reasons the com- 
 ing contest was regarded as particularly im- 
 portant to municipal welfare. Even the wo- 
 men caught fire and talked politics at dinners 
 and balls, and it was rumored that several 
 engagements were on the verge of fracture by 
 reason of a difference in political opinion. 
 
 Oakville always cast a solid vote for Democ- 
 racy at state and presidential elections; but 
 when a mayor and board of aldermen were to 
 be chosen, when there was no Republican 
 opposition to be feared, the loyal Democrats 
 of the town deemed it no treason to the glori- 
 ous old party to make what is termed politi- 
 cally a split. The candidates for mayor on 
 the present occasion were the incumbent, 
 Colonel Jackson, who had held the office for 
 a series of terms, and Charles Lawton, a 
 i95 
 
i9 6 aiafiama &kttt%t% 
 
 young lawyer, who was very popular in the 
 town; and both were Democrats. 
 
 A circumstance that always gave the muni- 
 cipal election at Oakville a peculiar and pic- 
 turesque interest was the existence of the 
 negro vote. The candidate who could con- 
 trol a majority of this element was always 
 successful, and for eight years Colonel Jack- 
 son had carried the negroes, so to speak, in 
 the pocket of his voluminous vest. 
 
 Charles Lawton, the Colonel's opponent, 
 being unmarried and young, did not suffer 
 political ambition to interfere with a sweeter 
 hope. Thirty-six hours before election day 
 found Lawton on Judge Lawrence's veranda 
 making love to Miss Alice, the Judge's only 
 daughter; or rather intending to make love 
 as soon as the old gentleman had finished his 
 evening pipe and retired. 
 
 "Well, Charlie, who's going to be mayor?" 
 asked the Judge, from his arm-chair. 
 
 "Why, I am, Judge." 
 
 "That's what a candidate should always tell 
 the public, my boy, but before Alice and me 
 you can lay by your armor. Honestly, what 
 is the latest from the political front?" 
 
 "Honestly, Judge, I am gaining votes every 
 day, and I shall poll two-thirds of the white 
 
&f)e political Split in ©attbtlle 197 
 
 vote of the town," began Lawton, though well 
 aware that a political discussion would delay 
 the Judge's bedtime three-quarters of an hour. 
 
 4 4 Very good; but have you discovered any 
 outrageous abuses to reform? A new candi- 
 date should always pose as a reformer. " 
 
 4 'Certainly, Judge, the town is full of com- 
 plaint.' ' 
 
 4 4 List the abuses, the grievances; let us see 
 if they are strong enough to win votes," said 
 the Judge, through a cloud of smoke. 
 
 44 Well, to begin with a small one, there's 
 the hog law. Under Colonel Jackson's regime 
 no hogs are permitted at large. In the old 
 days the poor man's pig waxed fat on the 
 acorns that fell from the water-oaks in the 
 autumn and the pusley that grew in the spring. 
 And now it is rumored that Jackson is going 
 to have a cow law passed." 
 
 44 You can't down Jackson with the hog 
 law," said the Judge, refilling his pipe. 
 
 4 4 Oh, there are many more abuses!" claimed 
 Lawton, warming up. 
 
 4 4 Yes, indeed, papa," interpolated Miss 
 Alice. 44 Charlie, tell papa about the licenses. " 
 
 44 Yes, Judge, there's the question of licenses. 
 It's a fearful abuse. Everything is licensed. 
 You can't sell a pint of chestnuts on the street 
 
i9 8 aiafiama S&etcijea 
 
 without a license. To keep in with the 
 butchers — the leading butcher is a saloon- 
 keeper — Jackson has passed a law that no 
 countryman can bring meat into the city and 
 offer it for sale till ten a. m. without a license. 
 The poor cracker boy who shoots a deer in 
 the hills cannot bring his venison to town and 
 sell it till ten o'clock. It's outrageous. By 
 and by there will be a tax on windows, as in 
 France/' 
 
 44 1 admit the grievance/ ' said the Judge, 
 with evident enjoyment; "but you can't down 
 Jackson with licenses. " 
 
 44 All right, I can tell abuses all night." 
 
 4 4 Yes, indeed, papa, if you care to listen,' ' 
 said Miss Alice. The clock in the hall had 
 just struck ten. 
 
 44 I'll mention only the great ones," said 
 Lawton, catching the hint. 4 4 The worst of 
 all is, that Jackson has run the town horribly 
 in debt trying to make a city of it. Look at 
 that white elephant, the new city hall. Why, 
 it cost forty thousand dollars, and the town 
 had to issue bonds to pay for it, and Jackson 
 has to levy a tax to pay the interest on those 
 bonds. And what good is the city hall?" 
 
 <4 Charlie, we have lovely cotillons there!" 
 remonstrated Miss Alice. 
 
€f)e PaWitcal Split in ©aftbtlle 199 
 
 4 4 Yes, and strawberry suppers and church 
 fairs!" exclaimed Lawton, with as much scorn 
 as he dared. 4 4 But only two obstacles are in 
 my path, Judge," he continued, 44 the whisky 
 ring and the negro vote, and Jackson carries 
 this whisky ring on his finger and the negro 
 vote in his pocket. If I could but break 
 the whisky ring!" sighed the young man. 
 
 44 Ah, Charlie, a ring made of whisky is the 
 hardest thing in the world to break," said the 
 old gentleman. 
 
 4 4 Well, if I can't break the whisky ring, if I 
 could only divide the negro vote with Jack- 
 son, I should be mayor of Oakville. " 
 
 44 Why can't you divide it?" 
 
 44 I'll tell you why, Judge," said Lawton, 
 drawing up his chair. 4 4 Do you know Lucullus 
 Williams, the negro tinner?" 
 
 44 Yes." 
 
 44 Well, he holds the mayorship of Oakville 
 in the palm of his hand, and it's a burning 
 shame. Lucullus is the political boss of all 
 the negroes in Oakville. They look up to 
 Lucullus as their chief citizen, and they vote 
 just as he tells them. On election day Lucullus 
 has them all rounded up like a flock of sheep. " 
 
 44 But where does Jackson come in?" asked 
 the Judge, a little perplexed. 
 
2oo aiatiama Stfutcijes 
 
 "Why, Jackson has bought Lucullus!" said 
 Lawton, in an intense whisper. 
 
 "Just think how disgraceful, papa!" ex- 
 claimed Miss Alice. 4 'Oh, Charlie, if you 
 could only have bought him first !" 
 
 "That's unfortunate, but I hope you may 
 win," said the Judge. "However, don't set 
 your heart on the office, Charlie. Jackson is 
 a most expert politician, and he will be hard 
 to defeat. Don't give any more time to the 
 educated voters, and devote all your attention 
 to the negroes. With a respectable min- 
 ority of the colored vote your election is as- 
 sured. " 
 
 Lawton rose to go. The moon was climb- 
 ing above the magnolias, and the young man 
 had to admit that the old Judge had sat him 
 out. Hurriedly making an engagement to 
 play tennis at five o'clock next day, he started 
 homeward. 
 
 The moonlight had flooded the treetops, 
 and gleamed like silver on the dew-wet leaves. 
 As Lawton walked by one old-fashioned flower- 
 garden after another the night airs wafted to 
 him a succession of perfumes. The balm of 
 roses, magnolias, honeysuckles, myrtles, jas- 
 mines, and mimosas floated by him in bewilder- 
 ing sweetness. But none of them could make 
 
$oitttcal Split in ©afebtlle 201 
 
 him forget the breath of the lilies that Alice 
 Lawton had worn at her throat. 
 
 Yes, Alice was all the world to him. He 
 sighed. How he hated this dirty political 
 fight! He loved the law, his profession, and 
 he almost regretted having entered the contest 
 for the mayorship. He would drop out now 
 but for one thing. 
 
 Lawton had loved Alice Lawrence for two 
 years, but he had not yet asked her to marry 
 him. He could not go to the old Judge and 
 demand the hand of his only daughter until he 
 had an assured income. His practice was 
 increasing, but that alone would not enable 
 him to keep a wife; however, with the addition 
 of the mayor's salary it would be ample. If 
 he did not get the office he could not perhaps 
 marry for two years, and two years to a man 
 in love sometimes seems an eternity. 
 
 So he determined to fight it out and win the 
 mayor's office, if possible, by any means that 
 were not dishonorable. For Alice's sake he 
 would wade through political mire as deep as 
 the mud of Bearheaven swamp, if it were only 
 mire that would wash off. 
 
 Even Lawton's enemies admitted his politi- 
 cal gift, but his friends declared he was too 
 direct, too honest, to enter the lists with a 
 
202 &lafcama j&ftetcf)es 
 
 shrewd old schemer like Jackson. Some of 
 his advisers wished Lawton to outbid Jackson 
 for Lucullus Williams's influence, but at this 
 suggestion Lawton's honor revolted. His 
 counsellors laughed, and replied that he had 
 not been in politics long enough. 
 
 But every political "boss" has his rival, 
 black as well as white. Lucullus Williams 
 had his. 
 
 There was a negro carpenter in Oakville 
 who was longing for Lucullus's political bro- 
 gans. As yet, however, Jim Lawrence — he 
 was a former slave of the Judge's — had not 
 acquired enough influence with his race to 
 render him an object of bribery to the whisky 
 ring. 
 
 Yet Jim was learning. He knew that to 
 keep one's name before the public was the first 
 principle of politics. To do so he had offered 
 his services to Lawton free of charge, and the 
 young lawyer had been glad to accept them. 
 
 "I ain't much of a speechifyer, Marse 
 Charlie," said Jim, "but I'm a powerful han' 
 at still-huntin', and I'll jes' cirkilate roun' 
 'mong de colored folks an' git yer all de votes 
 I kin, for I jes' bodaciously 'spises dat big- 
 gerty nigger, Lucullus Williams, wursuren 
 pisen." 
 
Cfje Paifefca! Spltt in ©afcbtlle 203 
 
 So it happened the morning after his con- 
 versation with Judge Lawrence that Lawton 
 on his way to his office stopped to see Jim at 
 his shop. 
 
 Jim's place of business was on a side street 
 and had been a stable before the war. In 
 front of the wide door on each side, two im- 
 mense oaks, survivors of the primeval forest, 
 shaded the moss-grown roof in summer and 
 pelted it with acorns in autumn. 
 
 The interior of Jim's shop would have de- 
 lighted the eyes of the old Dutch painters. 
 To his original trade of carpenter Jim had 
 added the avocation of upholsterer and cabi- 
 net-maker. Besides containing planed and 
 unplaned wood of all kinds, the room seemed 
 a hospital for decrepit furniture. The cob- 
 webby walls were lined with chairs, sofas, and 
 beds, in various stages of dissolution or con- 
 valescence. Jim was repairing a broken- 
 legged chair when Lawton entered. 
 
 "Mornin', Marse Charlie! Take dis chair, 
 Marse Charlie; dat un's missin' a leg," said 
 Jim, bustling forward with a newly mended 
 chair on his big black arm, and blowing the 
 dust from it with his great thick lips. 
 
 "Never mind, Jim; what's the news?" 
 
 "Don't ax me, Marse Charlie. 99 
 
204 aialiama S&etcfiea 
 
 ''Haven't you gained me any more votes?" 
 
 "Lawd, Marse Charlie, I'm feared I los' 
 some," said Jim, dolefully, gluing the chair 
 leg. "You know ole Jerusalem?" 
 
 "The old lame darky?" 
 
 "Yes, that lives next door to me. I worked 
 hard on ole Jerusalem, Marse Charlie, an' he 
 swore to me he's gwine vote for you ef he's 
 livin', kaze he knowed yer gran'father, the 
 old general. Well, las' night, after all my 
 talkin' to Jerusalem, dat biggerty nigger, 
 Lucullus Williams, he tolled Jerusalem into 
 de back door of Biggs's bar-room with a 
 drink o' whisky, an' twelve o'clock las' night 
 Jerusalem come a-staggerin' home bumpin' de 
 fence every step, an' a-hoorawin for Jackson. 
 Hit's mighty desscouragin', Marse Charlie, 
 hit sholy is," said Jim, sorrowfully. 
 
 "It is, Jim," agreed Lawton, waxing grave. 
 
 "Yes, Marse Charlie, an' I'm 'feared all my 
 votes is gwine de way o' Jerusalem's. De 
 onliest way to keep 'em is to ketch 'em an' 
 pen 'em up like pigs," said Jim, hanging up 
 the chair to dry. 
 
 "I suppose Lucullus has command of all the 
 liquor he wants?" 
 
 "To be sho' ! Ain't you h'yerd what Cunnel 
 Jackson done to Lucullus?" 
 
W$z political Spltt in ©afebttle 205 
 
 "No." 
 
 "De Cunnel he's done writ a order on all de 
 bar-rocms in de town for to give Lucullus all 
 de whisky he ax for, an' Lucullus is tellin' de 
 niggers de Cunnel wants 'em to drink to his 
 success. De Cunnel says he can't drink wid 
 'em all hisse'f. But, Marse Charlie, Lucullus 
 ain't no ways 'feared to take de job, dat he 
 ain't! Yes, Marse Charlie, dat's how it is, 
 an' Lucullus is jes' gwine roun' sweatin' 
 whisky. " 
 
 "Never mind, Jim, we will give 'em a good 
 fight, anyway." 
 
 "Dat we will, Marse Charlie. But hit's 
 mighty hard fightin' 'ginst whisky. Hit 
 draws niggers lak merlasses does flies. How- 
 somever, I'm gwine have one more wrastle 
 wid ole Jerusalem when he gits sober." 
 
 "That's the right spirit, Jim. Have you 
 talked to the colored people about the hog 
 law?" 
 
 "Yes, but Lawd, Marse Charlie, dey don't 
 care nothin' 'bout no hog law. Dey jes' 
 laughs an' say hit 's easier to pick up de white 
 folks' hogs in a pen than gwine roun' loose." 
 
 The bright reports brought to Lawton from 
 the white voters did not remove the dejection 
 caused by the machinations of Lucullus. But 
 
2o6 aiatiama Sfcetcfjes 
 
 he withheld from his Caucasian supporters 
 Jim's depressing tidings. 
 
 When the next afternoon arrived Lawton 
 was too low-spirited for tennis. After the 
 first game Alice and he retired to a rustic seat 
 under the myrtles. Never had the girl looked 
 so winsome. Why had she made herself so 
 bewitching just at the hour when fate seemed 
 to shadow his hope of winning her? 
 
 "I know why you play so badly,' ' she said; 
 "you are blue about the election. " 
 
 "You have guessed it. " 
 
 Then Lawton related to Alice all that Jim 
 had said. When he had finished he could not 
 resist the girl's sympathetic glance. He 
 plunged: "Miss Alice, do you know why I 
 want the mayor's office so badly?" 
 
 "No," she answered, softly, toying with 
 her tennis racquet. 
 
 "It is nothing to be mayor of Oakville, but 
 with the salary added to my present income I 
 could ask the girl I love to marry me. Alice, 
 do you understand?" 
 
 "Yes," still more softly, and with drooping 
 lashes. 
 
 "And do you still wish me to get the office?" 
 The girl blushed, then looking up, waived 
 the question. 
 
loltttcal Split in ©afebflle 207 
 
 "Charlie, I've thought of a plan." 
 "A plan to do what?" asked Lawton, a 
 little coldly, not pleased by the evasion. 
 "To make you mayor of Oakville. " 
 "Oh, indeed?" 
 
 "Very well, if I'm an idiot I'll keep the plan 
 to myself; and I hope you won't be mayor." 
 Lawton surrendered. 
 
 " 'Idiot!' I want the office so badly I'm 
 catching at straws." 
 
 "Charlie, I know how you can get three 
 hundred negro votes." 
 
 "Great heavens! How?" 
 
 "Listen, and I will tell you," said Alice, 
 laying down her racquet with an air of impor- 
 tance. 
 
 "Charlie, why do men drink whisky?" 
 
 "Because they like it, I suppose." 
 
 "Nothing of the kind. They drink whisky 
 because they are naturally lazy. Men would 
 much rather eat than drink, but food has to 
 be prepared, while whisky is always ready, 
 easy to carry, never spoils, and doesn't have 
 to be cooked." 
 
 "Oh, I see! You want me to give the 
 negroes a barbecue. It's too late." 
 
 No, not a barbecue; something better. 
 What time do the saloons close?" 
 
2o8 aiafianta &kttt$t& 
 
 4 4 At midnight before election day." 
 "And no whisky can be sold to-morrow?" 
 4 4 Not a drop. All saloons are closed by 
 law." 
 
 4 4 Then to-night at twelve Lucullus Smith 
 will be powerless." 
 
 44 What then?" asked Lawton, growing inter- 
 ested. 
 
 4 4 Listen, listen," said the girl, excitedly. 
 44 Has Jim Lawrence a handful of negroes on 
 whom he can depend?" 
 
 44 A handful, yes." 
 
 44 Then at one o'clock to-night let Jim and 
 his aides go around town and knock at all the 
 cabin doors and tell all the negroes that Marse 
 Lawton's got a big supper for them down 
 town at the court-house." 
 
 44 I see, I see," said Lawton. 
 
 44 You needn't appear in the matter. Jim 
 can manage the whole affair," continued Alice. 
 4 4 Once you have the negroes in the court- 
 house, keep them there till the polls open. 
 Give them all they can eat and the things that 
 negroes like best. " 
 
 44 I know," said Lawton; 44 I'll give them 
 sardines, ginger-cake, tinned salmon, and 
 watermelon. " 
 
 4 4 And cigars," added Alice. 
 
Cfje loltttcai Split in ©aftbtlle 209 
 
 "Certainly; all the two-fors they can 
 smoke. " 
 
 "Charlie, what is a two-for? A new brand 
 of cigar?" 
 
 "No, two for five cents — the cigars that 
 negroes smoke. M 
 
 "Yes, Charlie, plenty of two-fors, and bread 
 and pickles and cheese and everything. You 
 must work rapidly. Send the omnibus for the 
 negroes." 
 
 "I'll charter all the cabs in Oakville. Let me 
 once get three hundred negroes in the court- 
 house at three o'clock in the morning, and I'll 
 keep them there till the polls open, so help 
 me, vi et armis. " 
 
 It was six o'clock. There was much to do, 
 and time was flying. 
 
 Lawton hurried to find his most energetic 
 white supporter, Dick Newton, for he wished 
 to have another man's opinion upon Alice's 
 daring scheme. 
 
 Dick Newton wore a wide-brimmed hat, a 
 flannel shirt, stuffed his trousers in his boots, 
 and belonged to the class of men who are util- 
 ized in the South as deputy sheriffs, railroad 
 overseers, town marshals — in brief, wherever 
 rough work calls for a steady hand and a cool 
 head, men like Dick Newton are in demand. 
 
2io aiafcama Stftetcfjes 
 
 Newton was bound to Lawton by the double 
 tie of friendship and self-interest. He wished 
 to be marshal of Oakville, and as the marshal 
 is chosen by the mayor and board ot alder- 
 men, he could not get his wish as reform 
 candidate unless Lawton and his ticket were 
 elected. 
 
 Newton listened attentively. 
 
 4 4 If it works as easy as it sounds, the game 
 is ours. By George, Mr. Lawton, we'll try 
 it!" said Newton, and they started for Jim's 
 shop. 
 
 "Lawd, Marse Charlie," said Jim, "why 
 ain't we thought o' dat skene before? Hit's 
 a beautiful skene; cose hit'll work." 
 
 "Do you really think so, Jim?" 
 
 "To be sho', Marse Charlie. Marse New- 
 ton, dar, he knows dat most o' de niggers in 
 Oakville ain't struck a lick o' work in three 
 days, an' cose dey ain't got no money to buy 
 nothin' to eat. Dey's jes' been livin' on 
 whisky, an' mean whisky at dat; an' when 
 hit's out of 'em dey's jes' as holler as a 
 gourd. When dark comes dis night half of 
 'em won't have nothin' to put inside of 'em 
 but old crusts an tater skins. You ax me will 
 dey go down to de court-house to a good sup- 
 per! Bless God, Marse Charlie, dem hongry 
 
IPoltttcal Split in ©attbtlle 211 
 
 niggers'll follow me down dar like a drove o' 
 razor-back hogs.'* 
 
 Political trickery was a new business to 
 Lawton. After the plan had been agreed 
 upon he did not know how to begin. 
 
 "See here, Mr. Lawton,' ' said Dick, seeing 
 his embarrassment, "this is no work for you. 
 With Jim's help I'll take charge now." 
 
 "Yes, Marse Charlie, jes' leave dis nigger 
 business to Marse Newton and me. We gwine 
 trap dem niggers lak patridges. " 
 
 "A little pen work is all we need from you, 
 Mr. Lawton," said Newton. "Write me a 
 few orders on the groceries and livery stables, 
 and you may go home." 
 
 It was now dusk. Conspirators delight in 
 darkness. As night came on with its silence 
 and secrecy, the plot appeared so easy of ac- 
 complishment it seemed almost as much of a 
 frolic to Newton and Jim as a poker party 
 or a 'possum supper. But they dissembled 
 their glee. 
 
 "Ain't you lost, nigger?" said Lucullus, as 
 he met Jim on the street. "Go home, boy! 
 I done got all yer votes. You gotter learn to 
 play on dis horn 'fore you kin ketch niggers." 
 And Lucullus waved a whisky-bottle in the 
 twilight. 
 
2i2 aiafiama Sftetcfjes 
 
 "Dat'sso Lucullus, " replied Jim; "you got 
 'em dis time. I'm gwine home an' let de 
 Debbul have his day." 
 
 By midnight Newton and Jim had all things 
 ready. There was no red tape necessary to 
 get possession of the court-house. It was 
 used for assemblies of all kinds free of rent. 
 Any one could obtain the key from the sheriff 
 by asking. 
 
 The negro hunt began at one o'clock in the 
 morning, after the arrival of the midnight 
 train. When the omnibus and cabs returned 
 from the station to the various stables, Jim 
 Lawrence and his negro confederates were 
 waiting at the doors with orders from Lawton, 
 and in ten minutes the omnibus and fifteen 
 cabs were dashing over the streets of Oakville 
 in all directions. 
 
 "Who's dat at my door?" exclaimed old 
 Jerusalem. 
 
 "Wake up, wake up, nigger! Is yer gwine 
 miss it all?" said Jim, excitedly. 
 
 "What I gwine miss, Jim?" 
 
 "Ain't yer h'yerd, man, 'bout de big sup- 
 per Marse Lawton's givin' de cullud folks 
 down at de court-house? Bless Gawd, de 
 tables is jes' breakin' doun'. Dar's sardines 
 an salmon fishes, an' Washington pies, an* 
 
Cf)e political Split in ©aftbtlle 213 
 
 pickles, an' ginger-cake, an' crackers, an' all 
 de seegyars yer kin smoke. Marse Lawton's 
 sont a carriage for yer. De niggers is jes' 
 eatin' away. Jump in dem britches." 
 
 "Wait, Jim, till I get a drink o' water, I'm 
 jes' a-burnin' up inside." 
 
 "Water!" said Jim, scornfully. Dar's two 
 barls o' ice lemonade waitin' for yer at de 
 court-house. Dar — dat's right — drive on." 
 
 From cabin to cabin dashed the cabs and 
 omnibus, then to the court-house, and back 
 again for another load. Six negroes were 
 packed in one carriage and three on the box. 
 
 Scenes similar to that at old Jerusalem's 
 cabin were repeated again and again. 
 
 Sometimes Jim would exclaim: "Hurry up, 
 nigger, an* jump in dis carriage. De bar- 
 rooms is all shet. You gwine git no more 
 free whisky from Cunnel Jackson till de 
 nex' 'lection. But Marse Lawton's got a 
 supper for yer; I kin smell it clean here. 
 Jump in, nigger, jump in!" 
 
 And not a negro hesitated. 
 
 Never before had Oakville heard such a pop- 
 ping of whips and rolling of wheels at that 
 hour of the night. People were wakened 
 from their deepest slumbers and went to the 
 windows to look out. 
 
2i4 SUafcanta &kttt%t& 
 
 "Alice, my child, what can all this hubbub 
 mean?" called old Judge Lawrence to his 
 daughter across the hall. 
 
 "Go back to bed, papa, we shall know in 
 the morning, " replied the girl, peeping 
 through the shutters, and clapping her hands 
 for joy. 
 
 But the startled citizens of Oakville in 
 general were not so well pleased as Miss Alice. 
 When negro songs and laughter broke upon 
 their ears one and all credited Colonel Jack- 
 son and Lucullus with the uproar. Some of 
 the Colonel's stanchest supporters exclaimed: 
 "Really, Jackson's carrying this negro busi- 
 ness too far." At three o'clock the banquet- 
 hall was full. No Fourth of July barbecue 
 ever witnessed such a scene of light-hearted 
 revelry. The iced lemonade sizzled down 
 black, whisky-fevered throats, and the sar- 
 dines, ginger-cake, and Washington pies dis- 
 appeared like hoarfrost before a noonday 
 sun. Box after box of "two-fors" went up 
 in clouds, and the smoke floating from win- 
 dows and doors gave the courthouse the look 
 of an immense plantation smokehouse; and 
 jokes were cracked and 'possum stories told 
 till the morning sun came in at the wide win- 
 dows. 
 
W$t loltttcal Split m ©aftbtlie 215 
 
 When the feasting was at its height, Jim 
 Lawrence mounted a table, and breaking the 
 chains of his eloquence, made a speech that 
 buried the fame of Lucullus Williams out of 
 sight; and when he finished by proposing 
 "three cheers for our comin' mayor, Mr. 
 Charlie Lawton, whose hospitality we's en- 
 joyin' dis night," the cheers shook the old 
 clock in the courthouse tower. 
 
 "Well, Jim, we've got 'em," said Dick 
 Newton, when Jim came out. 
 
 "Yes, Marse Newton, an' bless Gawd we 
 gwine keep 'em." 
 
 And they did, for when Jim had carried in 
 a fresh supply of comestibles and cigars New- 
 ton locked the great door and put the key in 
 his pocket. 
 
 The battle was indeed won, for next morn- 
 ing Dick Newton unlocked the door of the 
 banquet-hall, and Jim and his aides marched 
 three hundred negroes across the street to the 
 polls in blocks of six, each with a Lawton 
 ticket in his hand. 
 
 The white citizens of Oakville knew not 
 whether to frown or laugh at the novel spec- 
 tacle. But when they comprehended the 
 boldness of the scheme and the adroitness with 
 which it had been executed, they laughed ; and 
 
2i6 aiafiama Sfcetcfjes 
 
 when they beheld Jim Lawrence's joy and 
 pride shining through his pompous solemnity, 
 and Lucullus's speechless discomfiture, and 
 Colonel Jackson's surprise and dismay, they 
 roared. 
 
 When the votes were counted, Lawton's 
 majority was unprecedented. 
 
 That evening Lawton went to receive the 
 congratulations of Alice Lawrence. 
 
 * 4 Miss Alice, you stand before the mayor of 
 Oakville, and your case will be tried forth- 
 with/' said the young man, with mock gravity. 
 
 "With what am I charged, your honor?" 
 
 "With inciting electoral frauds." 
 
 "My sentence?" asked the girl, with a dim- 
 ple and a blush. 
 
 "Matrimony for life." 
 
UNDER THE WHITE ROSE- 
 TREE 
 
 AN IDYL OF THE CIVIL WAR 
 
UNDER THE WHITE ROSE- 
 TREE 
 
 AN IDYL OF THE CIVIL WAR 
 
 PROFESSOR WINSTON had dwelt the 
 greater part of his forty-five years at 
 Oakville, and the little west Alabama town 
 was very dear to him. He loved the soft blue 
 Southern skies above it, and the widespread- 
 ing water-oaks that shaded its streets. He 
 loved its quaint old gardens, with their spicy 
 musk-roses, fragrant honeysuckle, and the 
 languid tiger-lilies that swayed over their 
 shadow-flecked walks. He loved its mocking- 
 birds, that nested in the fig-trees and myrtles 
 and sang all night. He loved the old town 
 so well that even its faults and blemishes were 
 dear to him. He liked to hear even the grunt- 
 ing of the village hogs that roamed the streets 
 as fancy led them, and the klinkity-klank of 
 the cow-bells at evening was pleasant to his 
 ears. 
 
 Consequently, on a bright April morning in 
 219 
 
22o aiafiama Stfutcfjes 
 
 1865, as the little man stood in front of the 
 post-office and listened to the great news .of 
 the impending raid, he was not deficient in 
 patriotism, although in the hour of municipal 
 peril the first thought that entered his bachelor 
 breast concerned the safety of his much- 
 beloved watch. 
 
 The dear old watch whose faithful heart 
 had throbbed so long against his own — would 
 the Yankees rob him of it? The Professor 
 left the excited throng and started homeward. 
 
 Across the street from the Professor's 
 home, in a vine-embowered cottage, had lived 
 for many years Miss Melinda Price. Dwell- 
 ing full half a mile from the post-office, Miss 
 Melinda frequently deplored her inability to 
 keep as well informed in regard to the doings 
 of the days as her friends in the immediate 
 vicinity of that vortex, where a buggy or a 
 wagon passed every fifteen minutes. 
 
 This morning, as usual, Miss Melinda was 
 half an hour behind time. Only a dim echo 
 of the momentous tidings had reached her, 
 and she was standing at her gate in great 
 perturbation as the Professor approached. 
 
 "What is this I hear, Professor?" said the 
 little spinster, with a frightened smile. 
 "Have we lost another battle?" 
 
SJnfcer ti)t HMtytt l&o^Cree 221 
 
 44 Yes; worse than that," replied the Pro- 
 fessor, so gravely that Miss Melinda's smile 
 vanished, and she caught her breath. She 
 knew the Professor was not an alarmist, and 
 she listened eagerly to his brief statement of 
 facts. 
 
 "What shall we do?" she exclaimed in dis- 
 may. 
 
 "We can do nothing/' said her neighbor. 
 "There is some talk of a defense, but it is 
 foolish to attempt it. There are none in the 
 town to make resistance but old men, chil- 
 dren, and one-armed and one-legged soldiers." 
 
 "I know," said Miss Melinda, "but it is 
 dreadful to wait like sheep in ignorance of 
 what we are to suffer. Perhaps the Raiders 
 will destroy the town." 
 
 "They will scarcely do that." 
 
 "If not, they will carry away everything of 
 value. My cousin in Virginia wrote me that 
 the Yankees took her carriage-horses, and 
 some stragglers robbed her of all her silver 
 plate, and carried off even her husband's 
 watch." 
 
 The Professor's heart sank within him. 
 
 "Are you not going to hide your watch?" 
 added Miss Melinda, catching sight of the 
 Professor's watch-chain. 
 
222 Alabama &kttct)t8 
 
 "I was thinking of doing so," said the little 
 man, steadying his voice. 
 
 "I certainly should, Professor. Fortu- 
 nately, I sent my silver forks and spoons to a 
 friend up in the hills as soon as I received my 
 cousin's letter. I kept nothing but my gold 
 thimble that belonged to my grandmother." 
 
 "It is difficult to decide upon the method of 
 concealment," said the Professor, taking the 
 watch from his pocket and gazing at it ten- 
 derly. "It is the loudest ticker I ever heard," 
 he continued, with pride. 44 At night it can be 
 heard all over the house." 
 
 "Then you must not hide it in the house," 
 said Miss Melinda. "However, it would not 
 be heard after it had run down." 
 
 "Run down!" exclaimed the Professor, in a 
 shocked tone. "It has not run down in thirty- 
 five years." 
 
 "If I were you, I should bury it." Miss 
 Melinda spoke in a solemn whisper, and looked 
 around as if she feared an eavesdropper. 
 
 " 'Bury it!' " echoed the Professor, experi- 
 encing another shock. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 A brief silence ensued, during which the 
 Professor grew reconciled to Miss Melinda's 
 plan of concealment. Then he looked at his 
 
aintier tfje fflffltfjfte Umts&xn 223 
 
 little neighbor, and for the first time since he 
 had heard of the approach of the Raiders his 
 watch left his mind. He noticed that Miss 
 Melinda had blue eyes, and that they were 
 very pretty. 
 
 Miss Melinda was looking in the distance. 
 A new thought had also come to her, but it 
 did not concern the Professor's eyes. She 
 had known for yjears that they were dark gray 
 and very pleasant to look at. Then, either 
 because of her new thought, or because she 
 had become conscious of the Professor's admir- 
 ing gaze, she blushed, and the pretty pink tint 
 took away fifteen from her forty years. 
 
 "Where shall I bury it?" asked the Profes- 
 sor, mentally noting the blush for further 
 meditation. 
 
 "Anywhere," replied Miss Melinda, adding 
 in her confusion an embarrassed little dimple 
 to the Professor's list of her attractions. 
 
 "Shall I bury it under the white rose-tree 
 near the summer-house?" 
 
 "Under the white rose — the very place; I 
 can see it from my window." 
 
 Then the little woman summoned courage 
 to make known the thought that had caused 
 her blush. 
 
 "Would you — would you mind hiding my 
 
224 aiafiama SbUtctyz 
 
 gold thimble with your watch?" she asked, 
 shyly. 
 
 "Certainly not; I should like to do so," 
 and a blush of pleasure suffused the Professor's 
 face in turn. 
 
 Miss Melinda tripped away to bring the 
 little gold heirloom, and watching her till she 
 had disappeared in the house, the Professor 
 jauntily tapped the heel of his boot with his 
 walking-cane as he used to do when a college 
 boy, and as he had not done for twenty years. 
 
 After Miss Melinda had given her thimble 
 to the Professor, and he had gone away with 
 it, she felt very strangely. At first she 
 ascribed her singular emotions to her fright, 
 for she was truly afraid of the Raiders. But 
 then, she asked herself, if it was only fear 
 that she felt, why was she not unhappy? Fear 
 does not usually bring happiness, and Miss 
 Melinda was forced to admit that she was not 
 in the least miserable. 
 
 Another queer circumstance: instead of 
 thinking of the approaching enemy, as all 
 Oakville was doing, she found the Professor 
 occupying more and more of her mind. This 
 caused her a little discomfort till she explained 
 it to herself in this way. Her grandmother's 
 thimble was her most highly prized possession, 
 
Stntier tf)e SHin'te 3&o0e*€w 225 
 
 and now that it had passed temporarily into 
 the Professor's keeping she could not naturally 
 think of one and not think of the other. This 
 explanation afforded her much satisfaction, 
 and having reached it, she gave her whole 
 mind to her thimble. 
 
 When the Professor reached his study he 
 closed the door, which was a signal to old 
 Patsy, the cook, and the lot-boy, Jim, that 
 he did not wish to be disturbed. Then he 
 took from his pocket a little case scarcely an 
 inch cube in size and covered with blue satin. 
 It was so dainty that he felt as if he were 
 handling a butterfly. Before going further, 
 he spread his handkerchief over an old, musty 
 Greek volume that lay open upon the table. 
 Very gently he placed the case upon the hand- 
 kerchief, and pressed a tiny spring. As he 
 did this the cover of the case flew back, dis- 
 closing Miss Melinda's thimble. 
 
 He took it out with the greatest care, and 
 turned it round and round. It seemed to him 
 the smallest thimble he had ever seen. On 
 one side near the rim was graven a tiny heart 
 with a spray of forget-me-nots lying upon it. 
 
 U A lover's gift!" whispered the Professor. 
 "It must be a hundred years old." 
 
 He had not believed a thimble could be so 
 
226 aiafiama Sfcetcfjes 
 
 pretty. Then he looked across the street at 
 Miss Melinda's cottage, and it seemed to him 
 as if he were rousing up, like Rip Van Winkle, 
 from a benumbing sleep of twenty years; only, 
 unlike Rip, he was waking up with a sensation 
 of youth and happiness which was at once 
 strange and familiar, and as sweet as the 
 breath of the first hyacinth in the spring. 
 
 Soon his reverie was broken by the noise of 
 horses and wagons and loud voices in the 
 street. People were carrying their baled cot- 
 ton into the hills to conceal it from the 
 Raiders. This reminded the Professor that 
 he also had something to do. 
 
 He could not put Miss Melinda's thimble 
 and his watch in the ground with nothing to 
 guard them from the rain and dampness. 
 
 He looked about him a few moments in 
 vain. There was nothing the right size. A 
 happy thought came to him. He would use 
 his tobacco-box. It was of tin, and had a 
 top. He wrapped the thimble-case in tissue 
 paper, placed his watch in an envelope, put 
 them both in the box, and tied it up. This 
 was all he could do at present, for he did not 
 dare to bury the box by day, for fear of being 
 seen. 
 
 The Professor had faith in the honesty of 
 
Wintitx ti)e ffiHfjtie Uom-Eut 227 
 
 old Patsy; but of her grandson, Jim, he 
 sighed to think he was doubtful. Jim's record 
 did not yet include watches, but he held the 
 negro idea that personal property out of place 
 might be regarded as lost; and that a thing 
 lost became the property of the finder was 
 Jim's firm belief. 
 
 So it was not till ten o'clock that night that 
 the watch and thimble were interred under the 
 white rose-tree. 
 
 Two hours later Oakville was roused from 
 its beauty-sleep by a discharge of musketry 
 and the tramping of many horses in its streets. 
 
 The foe had come. 
 
 When morning arrived, Oakville found itself 
 a conquered city. However, few it any of its 
 fears were fulfilled. The commander of the 
 Federal cavalry, realizing that municipal 
 authority was necessarily suspended by mar- 
 tial law, stationed sentinels through the town 
 at the houses of leading citizens to protect 
 their property. 
 
 One soldier was deemed sufficient to guard 
 the cottages of Miss Melinda and the Profes- 
 sor. 
 
 When Corporal Jones arrived, Miss Melinda 
 was much flustered; but as the Corporal was a 
 well-conducted young man, and never entered 
 
228 aiafcama &ktttf)t8 
 
 the house save at meal-times, her fears soon 
 subsided. The Professor had called after 
 breakfast to give her the particulars of the 
 concealment, and to say that all was, so far, 
 well. Further, he had said he would come 
 every day till the Federals were gone and their 
 treasures exhumed. 
 
 "War, 99 said Miss Melinda to her knitting, 
 4 4 is not so dreadful when one has a sympa- 
 thetic friend to share its hardships." 
 
 But the Professor greatly missed his watch. 
 So much had he relied upon it that he had let 
 his clock run down years ago. 
 
 Suppose Corporal Jones should ask the 
 time! He made haste to wind the clock. 
 
 Corporal Jones, however, was not inquisi- 
 tive. He passed most of his time sitting on 
 the veranda smoking, or walking in front of 
 the house. The Professor noticed approvingly 
 that the Corporal never smoked at Miss 
 Melinda's cottage. Indeed, so well behaved 
 was the young soldier that the Professor was 
 almost sorry he had concealed his watch, and 
 he nearly decided to dig it up, when he sud- 
 denly thought that if he did so he must return 
 to Miss Melinda her thimble, and there would 
 be no excuse for the daily morning calls that 
 he looked forward to with so much pleasure. 
 
Thus the bright April day waned to even, 
 with peace and love following in the wake of 
 war. 
 
 Jim's mind alone remained perniciously- 
 active. 
 
 Had Jim been reared from birth by old 
 Patsy, his morals would have been better. 
 The Professor had bought him by Patsy's 
 entreaty, to keep him from going the old 
 woman knew not where. 
 
 "Marse Richard's mighty tuck up wid Miss 
 Melindy," said the boy to Patsy. 44 He's 
 been to see her dis mornin', an' sence he come 
 back he des looks ober dar all de time." 
 
 "Don't you pester 'bout Marse Richard. 
 Ef it hadn't been for Marse Richard you 
 might 'a' been sole off into de black swamp, 
 to shake to death wid de chills." 
 
 "Well, I's free now. Marse Linkum's sot 
 me free. " 
 
 4 4 Free, is yer?" said Patsy, contemptu- 
 ously, as she wiped a plate. 4 4 Free or no, yer 
 got to work for yer livin'. Jes' lif yerse'f 
 up and fetch me some stove-wood." 
 
 The boy went to the woodpile muttering to 
 himself. 
 
 Jim was peculiarly gifted. His mental en- 
 dowment fitted him to become equally eminent 
 
230 aiafiama Stutcijes 
 
 as a detective or a thief. His knowledge was 
 that of an Indian. He noticed everything and 
 forgot nothing. Just now he was in doubt 
 whether to go away with the Raiders, or to 
 remain and taste the sweets of freedom at 
 Oakville. For Jim, with more shrewdness 
 than many of the whites, believed that the 
 raid foreshadowed the end of the war. 
 
 Further, Jim had been to Zion, the negro 
 church, a few nights before, and the negro 
 preacher had taken for his theme the spoiling 
 of the Egyptians. The white slaveholders 
 were the Egyptians, and the negroes were the 
 Israelites, whose past labors entitled them to 
 something more than freedom. With this ser- 
 mon fresh in a mind stimulated by the excite- 
 ment of the raid, Jim was ripe for treasons, 
 stratagems, and spoils. 
 
 From a corner in the woodpile Jim had wit- 
 nessed Miss Melinda's interview with the Pro- 
 fessor the day before. What was it Miss 
 Melinda gave the Professor so carefully? It 
 was small, but it might be very valuable. 
 It might be a diamond! Jim's eyes grew big 
 at the thought. His ideas were misty in 
 regard to precious gems, but he knew they 
 cost a great deal of money. 
 
 What was the Professor going to do with 
 
this unknown thing? Here was a mystery 
 going on right before him that he might turn 
 to his advantage, for was not Miss Melinda an 
 Egyptian? 
 
 Jim did not think this out in five minutes. 
 He arrived at these conclusions after twenty- 
 four hours of brain-work, and the result was 
 a firm resolve to watch the Professor day and 
 night. 
 
 The night after the arrival of the Raiders 
 began very peacefully for the Professor. He 
 retired at ten o'clock. All lovers are not 
 wakeful, and he soon went to sleep. But his 
 slumber was not dreamless; a throng of fan- 
 cies passed in succession through his brain. 
 He saw Miss Melinda. She was garbed in 
 white and wore a bridal veil. But how 
 strange — instead of orange-flowers her wreath 
 was of blue forget-me-nots! He went for- 
 ward to lead her to the altar, and she burst 
 into tears and asked him for her thimble. 
 Then all turned dark, and he seemed to hear 
 the ticking of his watch. It grew louder and 
 louder, till the ticking took the form of words: 
 "You — have — not — wound — me — wound — me 
 — wound — me ! ' ' 
 
 He sprang suddenly from the bed. 
 
 "My God! I haven't wound my watch!" 
 
232 aiafiama Sfeetcfjes 
 
 He sat upon the side of the bed in a cold 
 sweat. He always wound his watch at ten 
 o'clock. What time was it now? He struck 
 a match and looked at the clock ; ten minutes 
 to eleven. He did not know how long the 
 watch would go without being wound. Per- 
 haps only an hour. 
 
 His lonely life had made him morbid. He 
 felt as if the watch were dying, and imagined 
 he could hear the ticks growing more and more 
 feeble, like the passing throbs of a human 
 heart. The thought was anguish; he could 
 not bear it. He must go wind the watch at 
 all risks; but at night in the darkness he 
 might go without being observed. 
 
 He dressed hurriedly, opened the door 
 softly, and looked down the veranda. 
 
 Corporal Jones was just knocking the ashes 
 from his pipe. Was he going to light up 
 again? No; he put the pipe in his pocket 
 and lay down on his blanket. At the end of 
 five minutes he had not stirred, and the Pro- 
 fessor, supposing he was asleep, tipped care- 
 fully from his door. When he had turned the 
 angle of the house, the little man breathed 
 a bit easier, and threaded his way briskly 
 through the shrubbery to the white rose-tree. 
 
 The Professor was wrong: Corporal Jones 
 
UrCtitx tf)e M&t'te HwesSTw 233 
 
 was not asleep. As soon as the Professor had 
 gone around the corner of the house the sol- 
 dier rose from his blanket and watched him by 
 the dim light of the stars until he saw him 
 digging beneath the white rose-tree. Before 
 the Professor returned to his room the Corporal 
 lay down again in his blanket. 
 
 With a feeling of unutterable relief, the 
 Professor went to bed again. 
 
 When he had become still, Jim crept out 
 from the woodpile, and rolled over and over 
 among the chips in silent laughter. By and 
 by, when he had given partial relief to his 
 inward joy in this vivacious manner, he slowly 
 rose to his feet and readjusted his one "gallus" 
 over his shoulder. Then he brushed the chips 
 and pine from his kinky head, and cautiously 
 approached the Professor's back window and 
 peeped through the shutters. The Professor 
 was evidently asleep, for Jim raised his hands 
 and made the patting motion familiar to those 
 who have watched a woman cradle a sleeping 
 child. 
 
 The boy then started to the flower-garden. 
 To reach it he must come nearer the front of 
 the house. He knew that the Corporal had 
 spread his blanket on the front veranda, and 
 it were wise to be careful. On occasions like 
 
234 aiafcama Skktittyz 
 
 this Jim rejoiced in his black skin, which made 
 detection difficult. 
 
 He crept on all fours till he reached the 
 garden. Then, with a last look at the ver- 
 anda, he glided through the bushes like a 
 black-snake. 
 
 The rose-tree was an easy bourne. Its 
 snowy blossoms wet with dew gleamed in the 
 starlight like tiny elfin lamps, and the grass 
 beneath was white with the shattered petals. 
 As he reached it he bent his black woolly head 
 close to the turf in search of the buried treas- 
 ure, but he relied more upon the sense of 
 touch than sight. So intent was he upon his 
 quest that he did not hear the jingle of a spur 
 twenty feet away. 
 
 His long, monkey-like fingers glided over 
 the grass, seeking a soft spot. When it was 
 found, he scratched up the dirt like a terrier 
 dog hunting a rat; but just as his long finger- 
 nails scraped the top of the tobacco-box, and 
 the spoils of Egypt were almost in his grasp, 
 a big, muscular hand gripped him by the nape 
 of the neck. 
 
 The Professor slept long and soundly. He 
 usually rose at six o'clock, but it was nearly 
 seven when he was awakened by a loud knock- 
 ing at his door. 
 
Un^tx tf)e QMfyitt ^oBt^xn 235 
 
 "Who is there?" he exclaimed. 
 
 "It's ole Patsy, Marse Richard/' replied a 
 voice broken by sobs. 
 
 The Professor sprang out of bed and jumped 
 into his trousers. 
 
 "Oh, Marse Richard! Marse Richard!" 
 
 "What is the matter, Patsy?" he asked, 
 opening the door in his shirt-sleeves. 
 
 "Marse Richard, I tried to wait till yer riz, 
 but I couldn't wait no longer." 
 
 "Speak, Patsy! in heaven's name, what 
 has happened?" 
 
 "Oh, Marse Richard! he's gone, he's 
 gone!" 
 
 "Who is gone?" 
 
 "Jim, my onliest gran'chile." 
 
 The word "gone" is a word of ominous 
 import to all who have hidden treasures. At 
 its first mention the Professor gave a start, 
 but when it was repeated and coupled with 
 Jim's name, a fearful suspicion chilled his 
 blood. 
 
 After much questioning he gathered all 
 the facts known to the old woman. They 
 were few. She knew not when Jim had 
 left. She had not seen him since the even- 
 ing before. 
 
 "Perhaps he has only gone down town to 
 
236 aiaiama Sttetcfjes 
 
 look at the Raiders," said the Professor, as 
 much to still his own misgivings as to cheer 
 old Patsy. 
 
 "No, Marse Richard; Jim ain't slept last 
 night. His bed ain't been touched. No, 
 Jim's gone!" wailed the old creature. 
 
 The Professor had finished dressing, and 
 his apprehensions had become unbearable. 
 Trying to assume his usual manner, he strolled 
 toward the flower-garden as if merely to take 
 the air. When screened by the shrubbery, he 
 hastened his pace and approached the spot 
 where his every thought centred. At the 
 first glance his fears increased. The ground 
 appeared broken and uneven. In his haste 
 the preceding night, could he have left the 
 place in that untidy state? He knelt beneath 
 the rose-tree with shaking knees. 
 
 The box was not there! 
 
 The Professor was standing under the yel- 
 low jasmines on Miss Melinda's front veranda. 
 
 The robbery had been told. Two drops 
 glistened on Miss Melinda's lashes, but they 
 were not tears of regret for the loss of the 
 precious thimble, but of sympathy and sorrow 
 for the Professor. 
 
"And the worst is, I can make no effort for 
 their recovery. In order to do so I must con- 
 fess to Corporal Jones that we suspected him 
 and his comrades of being thieves and rob- 
 bers." 
 
 "Then the Corporal doesn't know of our 
 loss?" said Miss Melinda, lifting her sympa- 
 thetic blue eyes to the Professor's gaze. 
 
 "I haven't told him." 
 
 A silence. 
 
 "Ah, Miss Price! prudence whispered me 
 yesterday to exhume the box, and I refrained 
 because — " 
 
 Another silence. 
 
 "Because?" echoed Miss Melinda, gently. 
 
 "Because, if I did so, I must return 
 your thimble, and that would end our 
 secret." 
 
 Miss Melinda blushed. 
 
 "But there's another, a dearer secret, if I 
 dared tell it to you!" exclaimed the Professor, 
 fired by the blush. 
 
 There was a quick step and a jingling of 
 spurs on the pebbled walk, and Corporal 
 Jones stood before them. 
 
 He lifted his hat to Miss Melinda and 
 bowed. 
 
238 aiafiama Sfcetcf)** 
 
 "The brigade is leaving, and I come to bid 
 you good-bye/' 
 
 He turned to the Professor. 
 
 "And to return to you this box that I se- 
 cured from a thief last night." 
 
 He bowed again and was gone. 
 
WHAT BECAME OF MARY 
 ELLEN 
 
WHAT BECAME OF MARY 
 ELLEN 
 
 WHEN Jim Evans bought the Oakville 
 Chronicle and paid five hundred dollars 
 for it, people called it a "fine deal." At first 
 Jim congratulated himself, deeming the phrase 
 a tribute to his shrewdness; but when he came 
 to view his journalistic property it occurred 
 to him that possibly the compliment had been 
 misappropriated. 
 
 His misgiving grew when the Argus, the 
 rival sheet, came out with the following para- 
 graph : 
 
 Old Brown, of the Chronicle^ has finally sold his 
 moribund paper. It is perhaps unnecessary to state 
 that his victim is a stranger. He hails from Missis- 
 sippi, and is red-headed. Let us hope that his florid 
 locks may throw at least a hectic glow on the dullness 
 of our expiring contemporary. 
 
 "I'm not red-headed; my hair is auburn/' 
 said Evans, indignantly. "I'll make the 
 Chronicle a big success, if I have to work day 
 and night. Hang the Argus!''' 
 241 
 
242 &lafiama gfrtitifyt* 
 
 ( 'Amen! n 
 
 Evans had supposed himself alone in the 
 ramshackle office, and turning abruptly, his 
 glance fell upon a boy of sixteen, who met his 
 eye with a smile, half fearful, half impudent. 
 
 To Evans's startled inquiry the boy ex- 
 plained that he was Tom Wilson, the Chronicle 
 devil; and upon his insisting that he "went 
 with the paper/' and could set type, Evans 
 reengaged him, and, with his staff of one, the 
 young editor settled down to work. 
 
 The item most lauded by Brown had been 
 the Chronicle's "good-will." Experience 
 proved that this intangible thing represented 
 the right to solicit advertisements, and the 
 doubtful pleasure of entertaining Colonel 
 Badham, a decayed politician, who dropped in 
 daily, with a bottle of cough mixture, to read 
 the exchanges. 
 
 "Does he go with the paper, too?" asked 
 Evans of Tom, at the end of a week. 
 
 "Who, the Colonel?" 
 
 Evans nodded. 
 
 "I don't know," laughed the boy. "He's 
 a chromo — the Colonel. That bottle of cough 
 mixture is only old rye, and he sometimes has 
 the jimjams. They say he drinks to forget 
 a man he once killed. But he's been to the 
 
ffiHfjat became of Jfflarg iSllen 243 
 
 legislature, and everybody else puts up with 
 him, and I suppose we'll have to. Yes; I 
 reckon the Colonel goes with the paper. 99 
 
 Jim and his bright-eyed staff soon became 
 comrades, for there was but eight years differ- 
 ence in their ages, a space that youth and 
 sympathy find small difficulty in spanning. 
 Otherwise, however, time was an item in the 
 little country office, and it excited the boy's 
 admiration to see his chief setting unwritten 
 editorials to save it. But it was when the 
 clean-limbed, muscular young editor did the 
 giant swing on the horizontal bar in the rear 
 of the office that the lad would have died for 
 him. 
 
 However, this bit of hero-worship not being 
 required of him, Tom did something that 
 pleased his chief far better; he introduced 
 Evans to his pretty cousin, Jennie Hamlin, 
 and erelong Jim had another incentive to 
 spur him on in the race for journalistic suc- 
 cess. 
 
 The Chronicle office faced Oakville's princi- 
 pal street. Evans put his case and stool at 
 one window, and Tom Wilson placed his by 
 the other. Editor could look up Mulberry 
 Street, and the staff down. This arrange- 
 ment saved the expense of a. reporter, for 
 
244 aiafiama Sftetcfjes 
 
 nothing, from a dog-fight to a shooting scrape, 
 could happen in the heart of the town, but the 
 eagle eye of the Chronicle was upon it, and the 
 editor or staff swooped down, note-book in 
 hand. 
 
 But there were days and weeks when noth- 
 ing would happen — when not even the dogs 
 would fight — days when the rain fell, and the 
 wind sobbed through the old Southern town, 
 and the ox-wagons creaked dirges, while the 
 wet street, littered with soiled locks of cotton 
 and bedraggled corn husks, presented a vista 
 of desolation. 
 
 These were trying times. 
 
 "It's disgusting!" cried Tom one day in 
 despair. "Nobody's died, nobody's married, 
 and nobody's been born in three weeks! 
 Now's the time for the Colonel to take the 
 jimjams. If the Colonel would only get the 
 monkeys after him and hang himself, just 
 think how we might scoop the Argus!" 
 
 Next week a circus struck the town — Hind- 
 foot's Great Show — "nine circuses com- 
 bined" — and Tom was in ecstasy. 
 
 "Now we'll have plenty of copy," said the 
 boy, gleefully. "There's always a scrap in 
 Oakville after the night's performance. 
 Somebody always gets stabbed or shot, or 
 
5l29f)at became of JHarg iBilen 245 
 
 something; and then there's the trial. This 
 circus will last us almost till Christmas. " 
 
 The circus had been billed for weeks. Im- 
 mense posters flared up and down Mulberry 
 Street, from bill-boards of undressed plank. 
 Countrymen and negroes stared open-mouthed 
 at the mammoth jaws of huge hippopotami 
 swallowing hip-clouted heathen, and elephants 
 brandishing Hindoo babies in their gyrating 
 trunks. But the picture that excited most 
 horror was a lurid representation of the 
 female anaconda, 4 4 Mary Ellen/ ' The artist 
 of this poster had made a free copy of the 
 Laocoon in blue, yellow, and green, and the 
 effect was blood-curdling. 
 
 4 4 Oh, she's a corker!" said the advance 
 agent, as he posted Mary Ellen's likeness on 
 the board. "She's not so awful big, but 
 she's crushed five men to death, and Hind- 
 foot wouldn't take ten thousand dollars for 
 her." 
 
 Tom, who was standing near, heard this 
 thrilling statement, and wrote a paragraph in 
 the Chronicle that spread Mary Ellen's fame 
 far and wide. But such is the nature of man, 
 that though people shuddered at the picture 
 and shivered over the paragraph, strange to 
 relate they found the sensation rather pleas- 
 
246 aiafiama j&ftetcfjes 
 
 ant than otherwise, never dreaming that Oak- 
 ville would ever have more than a spectatorial 
 acquaintance with the fateful Mary Ellen; yet 
 so it was, and this was the manner of it: 
 
 It was eleven o'clock; the night perform- 
 ance had ended, and Evans was leaving the 
 tent with Jennie Hamlin on his arm, when a 
 horrible shriek rang from the tent into the 
 flaring torch-illumined night. Simultaneously 
 came a confused chorus of voices: 4 4 Shoot 
 her!" 4 4 Shoot her — no, cut her, cut her!" 
 "Too late, she's lettin' go!" — followed by a 
 babel of curses and screams from men and 
 women fleeing in all directions. 
 
 Evans drew Jennie to one side to guard her 
 from the crush, and with vague guesses at the 
 cause of the panic they paused for the excite- 
 ment to subside before resuming their way. 
 As they stood waiting, Tom dashed up. 
 
 "It's Mary Ellen, the big snake! She's 
 gotten out and crushed the 'living skeleton,' " 
 cried the boy, in one breath, and he dashed 
 back under the swaying tent, which trembled 
 and shook in the gusty light, suggestive of an 
 antediluvian mammoth in mortal pain. 
 
 Jim feared that Jennie would faint, or at 
 least scream as the other women were doing, 
 when she heard Tom's dreadful announce- 
 
M&at became of JJlars 3BUm 247 
 
 ment, but she did neither. She merely clung 
 to his arm and trembled. 
 
 That no one knoweth when his hour cometh 
 is true of other things than death. It is 
 equally true of love, and quite as veracious in 
 the matter of the avowal ; for what man know- 
 eth when he is going to propose? Evans cer- 
 tainly did not. He had planned it many times, 
 and had even selected the words he intended 
 to say, but at each occasion the word and the 
 moment never seemed to fit, though every day 
 his love kept growing stronger and stronger, 
 and bigger and bigger, till it seemed to him 
 he would have to get a larger body to hold his 
 heart. And now all suddenly as he felt the 
 arm of the little woman he loved quivering in 
 his own, he told his love almost before he was 
 aware. 
 
 As for Jennie, she had long known that 
 Evans loved her; her only doubts had been in 
 regard to her own feelings. But when in her 
 fright she clung to his muscular arm, and per- 
 ceived how cool he was in all the panic, his 
 voice as firm as his flesh, the young editor 
 rose rapidly in her esteem. However, it was 
 not till she saw his coolness transformed to 
 ardor and anxiety as he told her his love and 
 waited her answer, that her tottering doubts 
 
248 aiafiama S&etcfjes 
 
 tumbled and she lost her heart to Jim for- 
 ever. 
 
 It was just as they reached Mrs. Hamlin's 
 door that the young man's ear caught Jennie's 
 trembling "yes. " And then came the hardest 
 act of his life, for she insisted that he should 
 leave her immediately and go back to Tom to 
 keep him from becoming the prey of "that 
 dreadful snake." He tried to remonstrate, 
 but Jennie closed the door, and with his 
 betrothal kiss warm upon his lips, he hurried 
 away to Tom, loading Mary Ellen with mar- 
 row-freezing objurgations at every breath. 
 
 When Tom Wilson burst back into the circus 
 tent, the spectators had all fled and Mary 
 Ellen had disappeared under a heap of fallen 
 seats and tent-poles which the frightened 
 people had overturned. Around this chaotic 
 mass of lumber the infuriated Hindfoot was 
 making the air blue with oaths, while a knot 
 of employees nervously stirred the timbers. A 
 glance told that they had no wish to recover 
 the object of their search, and if it were found 
 they would all flee incontinently. 
 
 Eager for copy, Tom passed on and entered 
 the circus green-room. It was a poorly lighted 
 place, smelling vilely of kerosene. In the cen- 
 tre of the comfortless place a group of jaded 
 
SSifjat became of JEarg ISlien 249 
 
 performers, still in their fleshings and spangles, 
 were gathered about the anaconda's victim. 
 
 "He's dead," said the clown, and a tear 
 rolled down his chalk-white face made up in a 
 perpetual smile. Recognizing by Tom's note- 
 book that he was a representative of the press, 
 the grief-stricken man added: 4 4 He was my 
 brother, and that needn't have happened. 
 Anacondas eat only once in three months. 
 The snake should have been fed last week at 
 Gainesville. She was hungry; that was all." 
 
 When Tom regained the searching party it 
 had left the tent. Some one had discovered 
 the serpent's trail in the mud outside, and the 
 men were trying to track her by the aid of 
 pine torches — a difficult thing to do, for the 
 trail was effaced every few yards by the foot- 
 prints of men and horses. The reptile had 
 evidently been bewildered, for there were 
 many turns in her course. Finally, however, 
 it took the direction of Mulberry Street and 
 the heart of the town. 
 
 "They'll not find her to-night," said Evans, 
 who had joined the searchers. 
 
 "No," said the boy; "and they don't want 
 to." 
 
 Still Hindfoot urged on the search, and 
 lanterns and torches passed and repassed each 
 
250 aiafiama Sftetdjes 
 
 other in ever-widening circles, while the 
 bearers muttered curses under their breath, 
 and wished Mary Ellen in the bottomless pit. 
 
 By and by, when even Hindfoot was begin- 
 ning to despair, some one cried out — no one 
 knew who — that Mary Ellen had been discov- 
 ered opposite Biggs's bar-room. At this all 
 threw down their torches and rushed tumult- 
 ously to the spot. 
 
 The report was false. There was no ser- 
 pent in front of Biggs's establishment, though 
 some of the men about its hospitable door had 
 seen many snakes in their time, and doubtless 
 were destined to see many more. Among 
 them was Colonel Badham. It was probably 
 the Colonel who had given rise to the false 
 rumor, for when the breathless throng arrived 
 at the saloon the Colonel, full of eloquence 
 and "cough mixture,' ' was haranguing a group 
 of jolly bottle-mates on natural history, and 
 making frequent reference to the snakes he 
 had seen "before the war." 
 
 "The blamed old fool!" exclaimed the 
 angry and disappointed Hindfoot; "I guess 
 he's seen his share. But if he meets Mary 
 Ellen on his way home to-night he'll never 
 see another in his lifetime, for she's as hungry 
 as a wolf, and I'll bet my biggest elephant 
 
M&at became of JWars iElien 251 
 
 she'll swallow something live before morn- 
 ing." 
 
 The impresario of the hippodrome then 
 mounted an empty whisky-barrel, and discour- 
 teously interrupting the Colonel, offered in a 
 loud voice a reward of five hundred dollars 
 for the recovery in good condition of his lost 
 attraction. Tidings in regard to the same, he 
 said, could be telegraphed to Meridian, Mis- 
 sissippi. 
 
 The people then dispersed, for it was past 
 one o'clock in the morning, and as they scat- 
 tered to their homes, looking carefully to their 
 teet, they marvelled much by the way what 
 had become of Mary Ellen. 
 
 No one claimed the five-hundred-dollar 
 reward. Daylight brought no solution of the 
 mystery of Mary Ellen's whereabouts. Nor 
 were the irate Hindfoot's fears for Colonel 
 Badham fulfilled; for that rubicund gentle- 
 man reappeared on time at the Chronicle office 
 next day with a replenished bottle of "cough 
 mixture" and the same desire to keep posted 
 in regard to the utterances of the press. Per- 
 haps he was a little redder of countenance, 
 and more wheezy of breath, after last night's 
 bout, but that was all. 
 
 The good people of Oakville, as one might 
 
252 aiafiama §&ttt§t$ 
 
 suppose, longed ardently for the recovery of 
 the lost serpent. How could they feel easy 
 when such a ferocious reptile was at large in 
 their midst? Had it been a lion or a tiger 
 that had escaped, they could scarcely have 
 been more anxious. Tigers and lions are 
 addicted to roaring and might perhaps give 
 warning of their approach. But a slimy rep- 
 tile that crept on its belly without making any 
 noise louder than a hiss — why, it was horrible 
 to contemplate. If it always remained upon 
 the ground one might be on guard against the 
 creature, but anacondas were also arboreal in 
 their habits, and often lassoed, so to speak, 
 their prey from trees. Oakville was full of 
 umbrageous water-oaks; they fairly lined its 
 streets, and were the city's boast. Hence- 
 forth the pride of the town would become 
 coignes of terror. Even the cause of religion 
 would suffer, for who would dare to attend 
 Thursday evening prayer meeting not know- 
 ing when they might be lifted from their feet 
 into the air, to be crushed and swallowed 
 in the top of the tree by the horrible mon- 
 ster? 
 
 Popular fear was not lessened when it be- 
 came known that Fido, the pet pug of Miss 
 Betsy Mayberry, had never been seen since 
 
ftSIJjat became of J&arg lEllen 253 
 
 the eventful night. Of course Mary Ellen 
 had eaten him. Hindfoot had foretold that 
 something live would be swallowed before 
 day. 
 
 Who would be the next? The town was 
 terror-stricken. 
 
 Great was the relief given by a paragraph 
 in the Chronicle, stating that as anacondas ate 
 but once in three months, Fido's death would 
 secure immunity for that period, and before 
 the time was up the reptile would probably be 
 found. 
 
 At this the people quieted down, and some 
 one remarked — not in Miss Mayberry's hear- 
 ing — that since ' 'something live" had to do 
 the Quintus Curtius act and save the city by 
 leaping into the yawning gulf of Mary Ellen's 
 interior, fate had chosen wisely in offering up 
 Miss Betsy's pudgy pet. 
 
 Meantime the Chronicle had prospered be- 
 yond Evans's dearest hopes, and he asked 
 Jennie Hamlin to set the day, and with a 
 blush she had named the 14th of February. 
 
 "Why not the 14th of January?" asked the 
 impatient Jim. 
 
 "Because the 14th of February is St. Valen- 
 tine's day, when the birds mate." 
 
 "And the daffodils bloom," added Jim. 
 
254 aiatiama SfcetdKS 
 
 "We'll have a daffodil wedding," said the 
 happy fellow. 
 
 But it was not to be. Nothing is more 
 capricious than an Alabama winter. Valen- 
 tine's day arrived, and with it the coldest 
 weather of the year. It snowed in the morn- 
 ing, and in the afternoon it grew colder and 
 colder. The absence of the pretty yellow 
 flowers, however, was a small disappointment 
 to Jim, for no cold could freeze the daffodil 
 gold in his little bride's hair. 
 
 Tom had requested the privilege of doing 
 the wedding " copy" for the Chronicle, and Jim 
 consented. The two worked all day on the 
 paper till four o'clock. Then Jim struck work 
 and went to buy his license. The wedding 
 would be at eight, and he told Tom he might 
 also quit work, but the boy remained to fill up 
 his galley — a few sticks would do it. 
 
 After working a few minutes his fingers be- 
 came numb. The fire had gotten low, and as 
 he warmed his hands at the stove it occurred 
 to him to go down in the cellar and bring 
 up coal and kindling for the next morning's 
 fire. He lifted the trap door and descended 
 with the coal-bucket. It was almost dark in 
 the cellar, for night was coming on rapidly 
 outside; but he managed to fill his bucket. 
 
M&at iSecattu of JSarg ISUen 255 
 
 When he returned to the cellar for the light- 
 wood he brought a lighted candle, but as he 
 descended the steps a gust of wind extin- 
 guished it. With an impatient exclamation 
 he went on, still holding the unlighted candle 
 in his hand. 
 
 The kindling was in the farthest part of the 
 cellar next the street. Groping along in the 
 darkness and feeling around with bent body 
 for the lightwood, he suddenly detected a 
 peculiar and unpleasant odor. The next 
 moment his right foot came in contact with 
 an elastic substance that gave against his toe 
 like a half-inflated bicycle tire. He leaned 
 down and touched the object with his hand, 
 and instinctively sprang backward with a thrill 
 of horror that almost caused his heart to stop 
 beating. A dreadful suspicion floated through 
 his brain, and drawing a match from his pocket 
 he lit the candle. 
 
 It was the anaconda! 
 
 At first the boy was almost paralyzed by 
 fright. He was so terrified he could scarcely 
 stand. But as the reptile did not move he 
 gradually gained command of himself. The 
 great snake was torpid evidently, and quite 
 harmless by reason of the cold. 
 
 Tom's first impulse was to kill it, and he 
 
256 Alabama Sftetcfjes 
 
 drew his knife and opened it with the inten- 
 tion to bury the long, keen blade in the ser- 
 pents head. Then he recollected the five- 
 hundred-dollar reward offered by Hindfoot, 
 and how he might scoop the Argus if he 
 secured Mary Ellen alive, and he returned the 
 knife to his pocket. 
 
 Looking about him in the cellar, he found 
 a good-sized wooden box into which he cau- 
 tiously slid the snake. Then he nailed some 
 stout slats across the top, and Mary Ellen was 
 again a prisoner. 
 
 How had the snake gotten into the place, 
 he wondered, when his heart began to beat 
 more calmly. 
 
 A draught on his head gave him a clue, and 
 following it up, he discovered, by the aid of 
 his candle, an open brick-work ventilator in 
 the side wall next to the street, from which 
 several bricks were missing, leaving an aper- 
 ture quite large enough for the anaconda's 
 entrance, Fido included. 
 
 His curiosity satisfied on this point, it oc- 
 curred to Tom that, the fire being now extinct 
 in the stove, and the cold rapidly increasing 
 outside, Mary Ellen's sleep would be far 
 sounder in the room above than in the damp 
 cellar, which was comparatively warm. So, 
 
&2Rf)at became of iffilars mim 257 
 
 with an effort, he removed the caged serpent to 
 the sanctum and returned for the lightwood. 
 When all was done he donned his overcoat and 
 cap, and resolved to keep his great find a 
 secret. 
 
 "Golly! the Argus won't be in it when I 
 work this scoop on 'em!" exclaimed Tom, 
 with ungrammatical pride. "And Lord, how 
 tickled Jim'll be! We'll get the five-hundred- 
 dollar reward. Great Scott! I never ex- 
 pected to make such a raise as that in ten 
 minutes without any capital. Jiminy Crick- 
 ets! but it knocks the socks off them Wall 
 Street fellows. " 
 
 And overcome by extravagant joy, the boy 
 danced the double shuffle in the middle of the 
 sanctum, then hurried away to dress for the 
 wedding, slamming the door behind him and 
 leaving the lamp still burning, in the oblivion 
 of his glee, and the office door unlocked. 
 
 It was a rare occurrence for Colonel Bad- 
 ham to miss a day at the Chronicle office, but 
 on Jim Evans's wedding morn the snow and 
 cold kept him at his home in the suburbs. 
 
 The day had been very dull. Toward night- 
 fall he could stand it no longer, and with 
 clearing weather, despite the violent wind and 
 
258 aiafcama &kttti)t8 
 
 great cold, he set forth to replenish his bottle 
 and learn what had transpired in the political 
 world since the preceding day. 
 
 A bottle newly filled at Biggs's, a bright 
 light beaming from the Chronicle window, and 
 a table full of exchanges in prospect, com- 
 bined to make the old politician unusually 
 cheerful as he approached the office, scarce 
 five minutes after Tom's exit. But his good 
 humor changed to irritation on entering the 
 door. 
 
 "It's cold," said the Colonel. 
 He went to the stove. 
 
 "Fire out — lamp in full blast — nobody at 
 work! What does it mean?" he added, with 
 increased disgust, by the cold stove whose 
 bituminous coals had all grown gray. 
 
 "Ah, I remember; it's Evans's wedding 
 night," with a grunt. "Evans is a fool, and 
 Tom's crazy. Lucky I came, or the house 
 might have burned up." 
 
 The Colonel had received an invitation, and 
 had intended to be present, but he had quite 
 forgotten the wedding. He looked at his 
 watch; half-past six. It was too late and too 
 cold to go home now and don a wedding gar- 
 ment. Moreover, the unread newspapers 
 looked very tempting, and as his glance fell 
 
aSEfjat became of ifKlars lEllen 259 
 
 upon Tom's lightwood and coal, he decided 
 to build a fire in the stove and spend a cozy 
 evening. 
 
 Any change in the interior of a room attracts 
 the attention of a daily visitor. The Colonel 
 noted the slat-covered box in which Mary 
 Eflen reposed, but gave it little thought. 
 Evans's subscribers in the hills where dwelt 
 the cracker whites often paid their dues in the 
 produce of the country. Potatoes, turnips, 
 fruit, and even game, all contributed from 
 time to time to the Chronicle } s exchequer. 
 The first time the Colonel had seen this very 
 box it had contained a live opossum, and now 
 he supposed that it held another. Conse- 
 quently when he stumbled against it while 
 building the fire he pushed the box with his 
 foot behind him into the middle of the room 
 with an impatient, "Blame that 'possum!" 
 and sitting down by the stove, was soon lost 
 to his surroundings in the beloved exchanges. 
 
 The old man had laid a noble fire with Jim's 
 fuel, and in a few moments bleakness fled the 
 room. The stove blushed like a rose, causing 
 the old tomato-can of water on its top to sing 
 like a spinster's tea-pot. Oh, but it was cozy! 
 Could the perfume of flowers have been sub- 
 stituted for the indescribable odor of sour 
 
260 aiafiama &kttt$t$ 
 
 paste, printers' ink, and coal dust, character- 
 istic of the rural sanctum, the air would have 
 been like May. 
 
 "This is something like living," thought 
 the Colonel, as he laid down the Atlanta Con- 
 stitution to take a nip from his beloved bottle. 
 
 How quiet it was! Not a sound was heard 
 but the scratching of a mouse in a heap of 
 paper in the corner of the room. Even this 
 rustling ceased as the tiny creature left its 
 nest-building and pattered forth to for- 
 age for the crumbs fallen from Tom's lunch- 
 basket. 
 
 Retreating several times at the rattle of the 
 Colonel's newspaper, it finally reached the 
 centre of the room and the slat-covered box. 
 Sniffing a moment at the bottom, the mouse 
 crept up the side to enter. Instinct is un- 
 erring. The little creature had never seen a 
 snake, yet when it peered through the first 
 crack it gave a panic-stricken squeak and 
 dashed away to a hole in the floor. 
 
 Meanwhile, with the door and windows 
 closed, the temperature of the office had been 
 raised by the red-hot stove to summer heat. 
 The luxurious warmth had made the Colonel 
 draw back his chair, and had gradually per- 
 meated even the chilled and torpid Mary 
 
fflaifjat became of JBlarg ISllen 261 
 
 Ellen's tropical curves, till it needed but the 
 odor of the mouse to waken her. At the little 
 animal's terrified squeak the anaconda blinked 
 her eyes in the growing consciousness of her 
 three months' fast. 
 
 Did the unaccustomed warmth bring back 
 happy memories of lush jungles and Afric's 
 sunny fountains, or did her cramped quarters 
 irritate the snake into an effort for freedom? 
 Tom had deemed the box secure, but with one 
 twist of her lithe body, Mary Ellen popped off 
 two slats and slid half her flexible length into 
 the room. 
 
 The Colonel heard the noise, but did not 
 turn around to look. He merely laid down 
 the Constitution and picked up the Courier- 
 Journal. Let the opossum escape if it could; 
 it was nothing to him. If it got away, per- 
 haps Tom would be blamed, and he did not 
 like Tom. So he took another drink and 
 continued to read. 
 
 Freed from her prison the reptile paused. 
 She seemed thirsty as well as hungry, for she 
 hesitated between the man and the pail of 
 drinking-water which stood on a splint-bot- 
 tomed chair by the door. Thirst conquered, 
 and she glided noiselessly to the water-pail 
 and drank half its contents. 
 
262 &la6ama Sttetcijes 
 
 Meanwhile the Colonel read on unconscious 
 of his peril. Absorbed in a well-written edi- 
 torial, he bent the sheet as he reached the 
 middle of the column. The rustle of the 
 paper drew the attention of the reptile, and 
 turning from the water-pail with a greedy 
 glitter in her eyes, she started toward him. 
 
 Had the old politician been young and 
 active, his situation would have been perilous; 
 but old, wheezy, and half-intoxicated, his 
 case was well-nigh desperate. The advancing 
 snake was between him and the door; the two 
 rear windows were both closed, and he had no 
 weapon. It appeared as if the anaconda 
 would seize him and crush him in her coils ere 
 he was aware of his danger. But fate seemed 
 resolved that he should not perish by violence 
 nor fill any but a drunkard's grave, for by a 
 strange dispensation of Providence, the appe- 
 tite for drink that had wrecked his health and 
 ruined his life came to his aid. 
 
 It was several minutes since the Colonel 
 had taken a nip, and when the snake had 
 glided within a few feet of him, the old man 
 reached for the bottle. At the motion the 
 snake hissed, and the horrid sound lifted him 
 to his feet shaking like one palsied. He 
 turned. 
 
S2Rf)at became of JHarg 3BUm 263 
 
 Was it a real snake, or only a phantom of 
 drink? 
 
 A second hiss brought a shriek of terror 
 from the old man, and rushing to the rear of 
 the room, upsetting and happily extinguishing 
 the lamp in his fright, he plunged headlong 
 through the glass window sash out into the 
 snow. 
 
 At the moment of the Colonel's precipitate 
 exit there were no eyes to witness the flying 
 leap, for excessive cold had driven the good 
 people of Oakville to their hearthstones; and 
 it was only by chance that his terrified shriek 
 reached the ears of a human being. 
 
 Two blocks distant Jim Evans was on his 
 way to his wedding. There had been some 
 delay in obtaining his marriage license. In 
 his bachelor ignorance the young editor had 
 thought it would be as simple a matter as buy- 
 ing a postage-stamp. It was more like filing 
 a bill in chancery. 
 
 Finally extricating himself from the snarl of 
 red-tape, he hurried away from the probate 
 office with the indispensable document, to 
 dress. Annoyance pursued him. It had been 
 arranged that Dick Hamlin, Jennie's brother, 
 should come to him at 7:40. At 7:35 it oc- 
 curred to him that he had forgotten to tell Dick 
 
264 &la6ama S&etcfjes 
 
 of his change of quarters. He deserved a 
 kicking for his forgetfulness. He had moved 
 his belongings only a week ago, and his former 
 room was three-quarters of a mile distant, at 
 the other end of the street. If Dick went 
 there for him and was directed to his new 
 abode there would be full ten minutes* delay, 
 perhaps more, and if he were tardy at his 
 wedding he would feel disgraced. He would 
 not keep his bride waiting, for her weight in 
 gold. He must meet Dick half-way. 
 
 It was starlight. Through the wide wind- 
 tossed boughs of the trees by the sidewalk the 
 stars flashed fitfully like a swarm of fireflies. 
 Another time he would have blessed their 
 obscure illumination, but to-night, haste- 
 driven, he longed for the more effectual radi- 
 ance of street lights which Oakville did not 
 boast. And the wind — he had to hold his hat 
 on, while the great bare water-oaks groaned 
 in the fierce blast which snapped their dead 
 twigs and sent them hurtling downward. 
 
 Turning a corner he saw his sanctum bril- 
 liantly illuminated. It was the Colonel, of 
 course, and he hoped the old man would keep 
 sober enough not to set the place afire. 
 Following this thought came the Colonel's 
 yell. 
 
aSEfiat became of ifilarg lEUen 265 
 
 Delirium tremens and a lighted lamp in an 
 inflammable printing-office! 
 
 "Great God!" exclaimed the young man, 
 and ran toward the place at full speed. 
 
 If Colonel Badham's exit from the Chron- 
 icle's back window be likened to the perform- 
 ance of a circus girl through a paper hoop, the 
 latter half of his flying leap resembled the feat 
 known in gymnasiums as the porpoise dive. For 
 a moment he lay stunned upon the snow. For- 
 tunately for his neck a piece of castaway stove- 
 piping and some barrel-staves had broken 
 his fall, though in doing so they had gashed 
 his forehead and torn his clothing. But the 
 wound on his face and the cuts caused by the 
 broken window-glass assisted the icy air in 
 restoring him to consciousness. 
 
 However, the low temperature did not drive 
 all the fumes of whisky from his head, and his 
 brain was far from clear when, bareheaded 
 and with snow and blood sticking to his gray 
 hair, he rose to his feet and sped through the 
 night. 
 
 Yet of one thing he was sure. It was no 
 hallucination of drink, but a real serpent that 
 he had seen, though how it had gotten into 
 the Chronicle office he did not try to fathom. 
 
266 aiafcama i&fcetcfjes 
 
 Then like a flash, as he ran, came the thought 
 that his fearful assailant must be Hindfoot's 
 snake, and that the next person who entered 
 the office unwarned would surely be crushed. 
 No sooner had this idea entered the Colonel's 
 poor drink-fevered brain than he began to 
 fancy that such a catastrophe was already 
 happening. In another twenty yards it 
 seemed to him he could hear the noise of a 
 struggle in the room behind him, and in 
 twenty steps more his head was in such a 
 jumble he was incapable of distinguishing fact 
 from fancy. An impulse, born perhaps of 
 rapid motion, drove him to tell his story and 
 seek help, and in the wake of this impulse fol- 
 lowed the thought that the surest and quick- 
 est succor against the snake could be found 
 at Biggs's bar-room, which was always full of 
 men. 
 
 A moment more and the Colonel passed 
 bareheaded and bleeding into the bright glow 
 that shot forth like a great red tongue from 
 the bar-room door. 
 
 Biggs's establishment, a noisy place at all 
 times, and especially noisy at night, was 
 divided into three compartments. The first, 
 a kind of entry lit up by a large red lamp, 
 contained a small tobacco-counter. The bar- 
 
M&at became of ifStarg iSlUn 267 
 
 room proper was divided from this vestibule 
 and hidden from the street by a screen, behind 
 which gleamed the Circean smiles of glisten- 
 ing crystal and many-coiored liquors, to 
 whose potent spells the rattle of dominoes 
 and the clicking of billiard-balls added an 
 alluring accompaniment. Separated from 
 this glittering shrine ot Bacchus by a lattice 
 was a smaller and less brilliantly lit apart- 
 ment, where the god's dusky devotees befud- 
 dled their woolly heads for less money. 
 
 The rites were at their noisiest when the 
 Colonel burst in, but in an instant all mirth 
 ceased. Here was something more amusing 
 than billiards or dominoes. Drinkers put 
 down their glasses half consumed, on the bar, 
 players deserted their tables, and all came 
 to the front. Even the negroes, imbibing 
 "tangle-foot" and "red-eye" for five cents a 
 drink, forgot for a moment the color line 
 marked by the second lattice, and crowding 
 forward, pressed upon the heels of the white 
 men. 
 
 "Are you sure it's a snake, and not a mon- 
 key?" exclaimed one of the latter, when the 
 old man had gasped out his breathless story. 
 
 "I say, Colonel, did the snake swallow your 
 hat?" cried another, and these and similar 
 
268 aialiama < SfeetcJ)e0 
 
 sallies were greeted with peals of coarse 
 laughter, in which the negroes joined uproari- 
 ously. 
 
 "Hush, boys," said Biggs, gravely. 
 
 4 4 Biggs, I tell you it's true," reiterated the 
 Colonel, in agony; 44 Hindfoot's snake's kill- 
 ing some one at the Chronicle office. Hurry, 
 for God's sake!" 
 
 The saloon-keeper viewed the speaker with 
 a thrill of pity. 
 
 41 All right, Colonel, don't you worry. I'll 
 take care of the snake. Come take a drink," 
 said Biggs, coaxingly, adding softly to the 
 by-standers: 4 4 It's the best thing for him till 
 the doctor sees him." 
 
 The assistant bar-keeper walked to the door 
 and looked up the street. 
 
 4 4 See, Colonel, it's all dark at the Chronicle 
 office. There's nobody there; Jim Evans gets 
 married to-night. Besides, it's too cold for 
 snakes, anyway. They'd freeze to death in 
 five minutes above ground, this weather." 
 
 The old man leaned against the door-jamb, 
 for he began to feel weak. He understood. 
 They thought he had delirium tremens. If 
 he talked till daylight he saw that no one at 
 the bar-room would believe him, and cursing 
 in his heart the wretched appetite for drink 
 
®2af)at became of J&arg 3BUtn 269 
 
 that had made his word lighter than the wind, 
 he shook like one in an ague fit. 
 
 "By George, he's got 'em bad!" said a 
 sympathetic by-stander. "Let's take him 
 home. " 
 
 Biggs nodded indorsement, and two men 
 stepped forward to lay hands on the Colonel, 
 but he eluded them and ran out at the door. 
 As he turned the corner he stumbled and fell, 
 but rising he hurried on. As he ran he wiped 
 the blood from his face and tried to smooth 
 his hair. If he only had his hat, and looked 
 less wild, he thought, some one might give 
 him credence. 
 
 He turned in at Brandon's drug-store and 
 tried to tell his story to the young clerk, but 
 the boy fled before him into the back room. 
 
 A few blocks farther on he knocked at the 
 door of the Baptist parsonage. The preacher 
 listened with a sorrowful glance. 
 
 "Come in, Colonel, and sit down," said the 
 young man, sympathetically. But the Colonel 
 heard him whisper to his wife, "Telephone 
 for Doctor Seyton," and the old man fled the 
 house. He was chilled to the bone, but he 
 did not feel the cold, for his excited fancy 
 pictured the horrible tragedy that he feared 
 was being enacted at the Chronicle office. 
 
270 aiafmma Stutcfjes 
 
 Every one thought him mad, and he felt as if 
 he soon should be if he did not find some one 
 to credit his words. Would nobody believe 
 him? 
 
 Yes, Jim Evans would, he was sure. Jim 
 was always kind, and even if he did not credit 
 his story he would go with him to the place, 
 if only to "relieve the Colonel's fears. " It 
 was strange Jim had not entered his mind 
 earlier. 
 
 With this happy thought he turned about 
 and made for Evans's room, now not many 
 blocks distant, so rapid had been his speed. 
 
 "Yer ain't gwine find him dar, suh," said a 
 passing negro, who heard the Colonel's knocks 
 and cries at Jim's door. 
 
 The Colonel was dazed. 
 
 "Lawd, boss, don't yer know dis is Marse 
 Evans's weddin' night?" added the negro. 
 44 He gwine marry Miss Jinny Hamlin, de belle 
 o' de town." 
 
 The Colonel had again forgotten the wedding. 
 
 It seems a simple thing to put on a wreath 
 of orange-blossoms and a veil of tulle. That 
 is what a man would suppose — a poor ignorant 
 man ! That is what Tom Wilson thought till 
 he saw it done. 
 
HMf>at became of JHarg IBilen 271 
 
 Tom had the freedom of the house by right 
 of cousinship and as reporter for the Chronicle, 
 and he had come early that he might not miss 
 anything. He watched the white cloud as it 
 descended on Jennie's dimpled face and shoul- 
 ders and settled like a silver mist over her 
 lissome form, and thought that was the end. 
 It was hardly the beginning. 
 
 44 A little more to the right, Hattie," said 
 Mrs. Hamlin. "There — that's better. " 
 
 4 4 No, Aunt Hattie; it's too far," said the 
 bride, twisting her head and gazing in a 
 hand-mirror. 4 4 Just see how that stiff bud 
 sticks out; it makes me look like a scare- 
 crow." 
 
 44 How do you like it this way?" asked Aunt 
 Hattie, moving the wreath again. 
 
 Mrs. Hamlin viewed Jennie doubtfully. 
 
 44 1 think it looked better at first." 
 
 Then the whole act was repeated. 
 
 44 By George, Jennie, you look as pretty as a 
 picture, however it's fixed," said Tom, with 
 admiring eyes. 4 4 And what will Jim care? 
 He thinks you are perfect anyway." 
 
 4 4 That's what he ought to think, Mr. 
 Thomas," said the bride, saucily. 
 
 At last the wreath and veil were adjusted to 
 suit all, and Tom walked around his pretty 
 
272 aiafiama gbtttfytz 
 
 cousin, who resembled a plump little fairy 
 arrayed in moonlit gossamer. 
 
 "You'll never be able to sit down in all that 
 rigging, Jennie." 
 
 "I don't intend to; Jennie Hamlin will 
 never occupy another chair. When next she 
 takes a seat she'll be Mrs. James Monroe 
 Evans. " 
 
 At this remark Mrs. Hamlin began to weep, 
 and Aunt Hattie catching the tearful contagion 
 followed her example. 
 
 Tom looked from one to the other in aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 "Aunt Sarah, aren't you willing Jennie 
 should marry Jim?'' 
 44 Yes, Tom." 
 
 4 4 Then why are you crying?" 
 
 44 I can't explain it, Tom. If you were a 
 mother, you would understand." 
 
 When his aunts had put by their handker- 
 chiefs Tom took out his. 
 
 4 4 Now what are you crying for, you young 
 scapegrace?" laughed Aunt Hattie. 
 
 44 I'm weeping for poor Jim. Nobody's 
 shedding any tears for him." 
 
 So they laughed and wept around the bride, 
 for at weddings it is ever a thin and wavering 
 line that divides the smile from the tears, so 
 
WLfyat became of JBlatg iEUm 273 
 
 attenuated indeed that the heart often mixes 
 them and sends forth one to answer for the 
 other. But there was no more sentimental 
 badinage at Jennie's wedding. In the mid- 
 dle of Tom's gay mimicry a carriage drove 
 rapidly to the gate, and hurried steps were 
 heard in the hall below. A moment later 
 Dick Hamlin appeared at the door with a 
 strange look in his eyes and beckoned to his 
 mother. A brief, whispered colloquy ensued, 
 and Mrs. Hamlin returned to the room look- 
 ing white and troubled. 
 
 4 4 What is it, mother?' ' said Jennie. 4 4 Has 
 Jim come?" 
 
 4 4 No, my child; it was only Dick. He had 
 forgotten something," replied Mrs. Hamlin, 
 with apparent composure, but behind Jennie's 
 back she gave Miss Harriet Hamlin a tele- 
 graphic look which sent her from the room, 
 and Tom, whose keen eyes intercepted the 
 flash of alarm, followed her. 
 
 Mr. Saunders, the Presbyterian minister, 
 who was to officiate, and the last wedding 
 guest had arrived some moments before, and 
 when the carriage dashed up and Dick Ham- 
 lin entered the house alone, an expectant 
 flutter was followed by a bewildered silence. 
 There was something in the sound of the 
 
274 aiafcama j&feetcfjea 
 
 young man's feet that smote expectant gayety 
 as the chill wind of autumn smites and shat- 
 ters the full-blown rose. 
 
 So sudden and eerie was the change from 
 gay to grave throughout the house, it seemed 
 as if the mental affection of fear, like many 
 ills of the body, had also its germ — a germ of 
 swift and subtle contagion, capable of pene- 
 trating in a moment even closed doors and 
 solid walls. 
 
 4 4 Oh, mother! what is the matter?' ' ex- 
 claimed the bride. "I'm frightened ! M 
 
 Half-past eight found a conclave of Jennie's 
 male kindred assembled in a little back room. 
 Dick was telling of his search for the missing 
 bridegroom. 
 
 " It was agreed that I should call for Evans 
 at his room, and I went at the appointed hour. 
 He was not there. My first thought was that, 
 as he had not mentioned his change of quar- 
 ters, he might have supposed I would go to 
 his former room. I drove rapidly to the 
 place. He was not there. It was then nearly 
 eight o'clock, and though it was so late I 
 went back over my course, looking into the 
 hotel and barber-shop on the way. Then I 
 thought, of course, we had missed each other 
 
S2iif)at became of JHatg ISllen 275 
 
 in some manner, and I came back home as 
 fast as I could. " 
 
 The young fellow spoke rapidly and was 
 much excited. 
 
 4 4 Did you go to the Chronicle office?' ' asked 
 old Jefferson Hamlin, Jennie's eldest uncle. 
 
 4 4 No; for the place was deadly dark." 
 
 44 Did you ask any one if he had seen Evans?" 
 
 <4 It was so bitter cold I met no one. And 
 if I had, Uncle Jeff," added the young man, 
 breathing heavily, 44 1 couldn't have acted the 
 town crier for the man who had promised to 
 marry my sister. If it turns out that Jim 
 Evans has jilted Jennie, I'll shoot him on 
 sight." 
 
 44 And if you don't, I will," muttered old 
 Jeff Hamlin. 
 
 4 4 Who is this man Evans?" asked a newly 
 arrived cousin from Georgia, breaking the 
 ominous hush that followed. 4 4 Does any one 
 know anything about the fellow or his family?" 
 
 44 I know him — I know all about him, and if 
 anybody says he has jilted Jennie, the man 
 lies!" exclaimed Tom Wilson, who had kept 
 silence till now in the presence of his elders, 
 springing forward indignantly. 4 4 If Jim 
 Evans doesn't come here to-night, it will be 
 
276 aiafiama Sfeetcijwi 
 
 because — " But the sentence was never fin- 
 ished, for the family council was abruptly dis- 
 solved by a violent slamming of the front door 
 which reverberated through the house from 
 cellar to garret, followed immediately by a 
 hoarse voice calling excitedly: 
 
 4 4 Jim Evans! Jim Evans! Where is Jim 
 Evans?" 
 
 Before the Hamlin men could reach the 
 front hall the house was in confusion. Upon 
 the tense and bodeful calm, broken only by 
 anxious whispers here and there like the omi- 
 nous breezes which presage the tempest, burst 
 a storm of excitement in which all etiquette, 
 all social reserve, were swept away. Women 
 screamed, and men rushed forward eager to 
 learn the cause of the uproar and to offer 
 assistance if it were needed, for all were con- 
 vinced by the strange wedding prelude that 
 something dreadful had occurred or was immi- 
 nent. So hoarse and wild had been the voice, 
 the ears of none had recognized the speaker, 
 and so changed was his appearance, the eyes 
 of the startled wedding guests hardly assured 
 them that it was Colonel Badham who stood 
 before them. 
 
 Straightway the glances of all sought old 
 Jeff Hamlin. He was the oldest man present; 
 
asafiat became of JBtatg ISlien 277 
 
 moreover, he and Jennie's father had been 
 comrades of Colonel Badham in the Mexican 
 War. It was natural that he should be spokes- 
 man. 
 
 4 4 Mortimer Badham,' ' said the old soldier, 
 solemnly, 4 'why have you come to Walter 
 Hamlin's widow's house this night in such a 
 plight — this night, of all nights?" 
 
 44 I want Jim Evans," replied the Colonel, 
 shading his bloodshot eyes with his trembling 
 hand as if the light hurt them. 44 1 don't see 
 him ; where is he?" 
 
 4 4 What do you want of James Evans, Mort 
 Badham?" 
 
 The Colonel hesitated. The night's experi- 
 ence of incredulity had made him wary. He 
 was resolved that he would mention the snake 
 to no one but Jim. 
 
 If he did, no one would believe him, and all 
 would deem him crazy and treat him as he had 
 been treated elsewhere. 
 
 44 1 want Jim Evans — I have something to 
 tell him." 
 
 The two old men faced each other in the 
 centre of the crowded hall, and the silence 
 was breathless. Tom Wilson stood at his 
 uncle's elbow, and the bride crept half-way 
 down the stairs unnoted. 
 
44 Mort Badham, you are drunk," exclaimed 
 Jeff Hamlin, catching a whiff of the Colonel's 
 whisky-laden breath. 
 
 44 I am not drunk, Jeff Hamlin, and if I am, 
 why can't I see Jim Evans? He was married 
 to-night, and there is his bride. I want Jim 
 Evans. What have you done with him? 
 Where have you hidden him?" 
 
 As the Colonel pointed to Jennie, she sank 
 sobbing on the stair in her mother's arms, and 
 a murmur of sympathy rose from the pitying 
 throng. 
 
 Among the wedding guests stood Miss 
 Betsy Mayberry. For several moments the 
 old lady had stared through her spectacles 
 with features twitching and quivering with 
 excitement. At the Colonel's question she 
 could contain herself no longer. 
 
 4 4 He is murdered! Jim Evans is murdered! 
 Mort"Badham has murdered him as he did my 
 brother forty years ago. Don't you see the 
 blood on his hands? Take him before he 
 escapes. " 
 
 4 4 Betsy Mayberry," said the old man, 
 tremulously, 44 1 killed your brother, but it 
 was in self-defense, as all the town knows." 
 
 Jefferson Hamlin laid his hand gently on 
 the old woman's shoulder as if to soothe her. 
 
M&at became of JBlatg 3EUen 279 
 
 "Mort Badham, James Evans is not in this 
 house. He was to have married my niece 
 to-night, but he has not come, and we don't 
 know where he is. " 
 
 Jim Evans not married, and missing! The 
 Colonel felt, in a blind kind of way, a greater 
 need of gaining credence, though his faculties 
 were too confused to grasp the situation thor- 
 oughly, and losing all caution and presence of 
 mind he began to rave. 
 
 "The snake ! The snake ! At the Chronicle 
 office — help — help — ' ' 
 
 At the word "snake," old Jeff motioned to 
 the men to take the Colonel away. All believed 
 him crazy from drink — all but Tom Wilson, 
 across whose mind flashed a sickening thought. 
 In half a minute he had dashed it into words, 
 and all the men present, with Tom at their 
 head, were flying to the Chronicle office. 
 
 It was the wildest, maddest race that Oak- 
 ville had ever seen. No one spoke, for no 
 one could spare the breath. Down one street 
 and across another, through the snow and 
 darkness and cutting wind, bareheaded, pell- 
 mell, they flew, with Tom, ever gaining, in 
 front. If anything had happened to Jim 
 through his agency, the boy felt that he could 
 not bear to live. Dear old Jim! And as he 
 
280 &laf)ama j&tutcfieg 
 
 ran, Tom wished, in his anguish, that he had 
 never been born. 
 
 The next moment he was at the office, and 
 with the throng at his heels, he burst in. 
 
 The room was empty. 
 
 With knives and pistols and canes and other 
 chance weapons, a search was instituted. 
 Tom showed the box with the broken slats in 
 which he had caged the anaconda. But a 
 thorough quest in the office and cellar failed 
 to discover any trace of the anaconda or of 
 Jim. The Colonel had been left behind in a 
 state of exhaustion, so they were devoid of 
 any information in regard to the broken win- 
 dow, and could only surmise if the old man, 
 Jim, the reptile, or all three had made their 
 escape through the opening. Inspection 
 beneath found blood stains in the snow, 
 which, with the broken glass and the recollec- 
 tion of the Colonel's appearance, sufficed to 
 clear him of Miss Betsy Mayberry's accusa- 
 tion, if her words had aroused suspicion in the 
 mind of any one. 
 
 Nothing further being discovered in the 
 rear of the house, a search was begun, to radi- 
 ate from the Chronicle office and embrace the 
 town, through which the discovery of the 
 anaconda by Tom Wilson and the disap- 
 
fflSJijat tSecame of JSIarg ISlUn 281 
 
 pearance of Jim Evans had spread like wild- 
 fire. 
 
 Hardly a minute later a cry was raised that 
 a hat had been discovered within fifty yards 
 of the Chronicle door, and all rushed to the 
 spot to ascertain if it was the hat of Colonel 
 Badham or of the missing bridegroom. The 
 hat was crushed in and had evidently suffered 
 rough treatment, but Tom Wilson, with a fear- 
 ful heart, identified it as the property of Jim 
 Evans. 
 
 But the uncertainty was nearly ended, for 
 before he had gone another block Tom's 
 young and anxious eyes spied something dark 
 beneath a large water-oak, and the boy sprang 
 forward with a cry and bent over Jim, lying 
 on his face in the snow, unconscious. A 
 large, half-decayed limb of the oak lying near 
 solved the mystery; dislodged by the fierce 
 wind, it had fallen upon his head. 
 
 The throng waited breathless while Doctor 
 Seyton examined Evans, and a great cheer 
 went up when the good doctor pronounced 
 Jim alive and his injury but a slight concus- 
 sion of the brain. 
 
 4 4 But there will be no wedding to-night/ 1 
 added the doctor. 
 
 So it came about that a month later, on the 
 
282 aiafiama Sfeetcf)** 
 
 14th of March, when all the land was ablow, 
 there was a daffodil wedding after all, which 
 Colonel Badham attended, in his right mind 
 and clothed in a wedding garment, to greet 
 the daffodil bride. 
 
 And Tom scooped the Argus and got five 
 hundred dollars reward, for the morning after 
 Jim's accident he found the anaconda under a 
 heap of snow-covered jimson-weed in a cor- 
 ner of the Chronicle yard, half frozen. Hind- 
 foot paid promptly on delivery of the snake at 
 New Orleans, and for weeks afterwards Tom 
 had the pleasure of seeing the escape and 
 recapture of Mary Ellen republished in all the 
 exchanges. 
 
FAR FROM THE FRONT 
 
FAR FROM THE FRONT 
 
 ANNE LATHAM had not heard from her 
 husband, Benjamin Latham, in three 
 months. In time of war women grow accus- 
 tomed to long epistolary silences, but never 
 before had Anne been so long without tidings. 
 She was a hopeful woman, and had schooled 
 herself to look on the bright side ; nor had she 
 been unrewarded, for Latham had served in 
 Lee's army four long years unharmed by dis- 
 ease or bullet. During the past year, how- 
 ever, anxiety for the absent soldiers was not 
 the only trial that came to rack the hearts of 
 the women of the Confederacy. The wolf, 
 hunger, long kept at bay by good crop years, 
 scratched at the door. 
 
 It was not so hard to want themselves, but 
 it was sickening to see their children lack. 
 And it came to pass that many of the wives of 
 the poor non-slave-owning whites who dwelt 
 in the hills sometimes asked themselves if 
 they were not paying too dearly for the possi- 
 bility of some day owning a negro, and other 
 benefits promised by secession. 
 
 285 
 
286 aiatmma Sfeetcfje* 
 
 Anne Latham, in the hills of West Alabama, 
 had managed fairly well for three years. She 
 had a horse with which to do ploughing, and 
 she had raised corn, peas, and potatoes, which, 
 with the milk of her cow, fed her little family 
 of three; and with her spinning-wheel and 
 loom she spun and wove clothing for herself 
 and children. 
 
 For three years she had kept a brave heart, 
 and it was not till the Confederate government 
 pressed her horse into service that she began 
 to despond. 
 
 The children wept when they beheld old 
 Susie disappear down the piny hill road, but 
 something besides grief for the loss of the 
 faithful old mare set Anne's heart aching. If 
 the war should last another year, how was she, 
 without Susie, to cultivate the field and make 
 bread for her children? 
 
 She wrote the loss to Ben, but added that 
 she had enough to last her through the com- 
 ing winter, and bade him not to fret. That 
 was in the autumn. Spring came and found 
 her with little to subsist upon but the milk of 
 her cow, and the cow was going dry. 
 
 It was on a stormy night in April that 
 Anne's future seemed to her well-nigh as dark 
 as the skies. Everything that she knew was 
 
dFar from ti)e dfront 287 
 
 discouraging, and the unknown might be even 
 worse. For if he was not dead, why had her 
 husband not written? 
 
 It was full night when Anne came from 
 milking Susie, the cow, and built the fire to 
 bake a pone of corn-bread for the children. 
 
 When all was ready — the little all — she 
 divided the small pitcher of milk between the 
 children, and broke the pone of bread into 
 three pieces, taking the smallest herself. 
 
 "Mammie, where's your cup?" asked the 
 six-year-old Ben. 
 
 "I don't care for milk nowadays, sonnie," 
 replied Anne. 
 
 "You used to drink it, mammie." 
 
 "Yes; when we had a lot o' milk, somebody 
 had to drink it to keep it from spoiling. But 
 come, eat your supper," said the mother, 
 willing to change the subject, and forcing a 
 smile to her thin, hunger-stricken face; "it's 
 time little folks went to bed." 
 
 "I want some more milk, mammie," said 
 four-year-old Lucy, beating her empty tin cup 
 on the table. 
 
 "There isn't any more. Take some of my 
 bread. " 
 
 "No, mammie," said the boy, "give her 
 my cup. I've had enough." 
 
288 aiafiama Sfcetcf)** 
 
 A lump came in the little fellow's throat, 
 for he knew more of his mother's trouble than 
 she supposed, and throwing his arm about her 
 neck, he kissed her tenderly. 
 
 "Mammie, when is pap coming home from 
 the war?" 
 
 Anne replied to the child's query with forced 
 cheerfulness, and when the children were 
 tucked away in bed, placing a lightwood knot 
 upon the fading fire, she brought out her knit- 
 ting. The wind sobbed down the chimney, 
 and the rain rattled upon the cabin roof, for 
 the storm was growing fiercer. Everything 
 was gloomy but the blazing knot, and the old 
 gray cat which sat purring by the fire. Thank 
 God, the Government did not press cats — cats 
 and women were left at home to catch mice, 
 and bake, and plough. 
 
 The fire sent lights and shadows dancing 
 about the room, now leaping across the raf- 
 ters, now lingering on the bed where the chil- 
 dren lay peacefully sleeping. Anne stopped 
 knitting and leaned her head upon her thin, 
 worn hand. She was hungry, but her heart 
 was hungriest of all. What was beyond the 
 storm and darkness, far away? Where was 
 her husband to-night? If she could only 
 know he was alive and well she could battle 
 
Jpax from tfje jfxont 289 
 
 with want a while longer. Perhaps with the 
 coming grass the cow would still give milk 
 enough for the children. She herself would 
 continue to exist some way. She could boil 
 herbs, or catch fish in the creek. She thought 
 if she could only get a letter from Ben she 
 could live through anything. 
 
 The cat stopped purring, and Anne, with 
 her tired head upon her hand, began to nod 
 from very weariness. In a semiconscious 
 state she crooned softly a lullaby that she 
 sung her children to sleep with. Then she 
 fell asleep. Hungry people are prone to 
 dream, and Anne dreamed of far-off Virginia. 
 She was with her husband, and yet she was 
 most unhappy, for she had left her children 
 behind, and she could hear them, far away, 
 crying with hunger and calling for her. 
 
 Suddenly she woke and sprang to her feet. 
 What was that? A step on the cabin porch. 
 Whose could it be at this hour? Whoever it 
 was did not knock. Instead, the door was 
 suddenly opened. She shrank back. 
 
 4 4 Ben! Ben!" she sobbed, and a tattered, 
 travel-stained, dripping figure in Confederate 
 gray clasped her tightly in his arms. 
 
 The next moment she drew her husband to 
 the fire, and as she heaped on the wood her 
 
290 aiafianta Stutcfjes 
 
 trembling and tearful laughter was pitiful to 
 witness. She could not control herself. 
 
 4 4 Oh, Anne," cried Latham, "how thin and 
 starved you look!" Then he walked to the 
 bed where the children lay. 
 
 Leaving the fire she stood beside him. 
 
 "Don't wake them," he said; and bending 
 down he kissed them. 
 
 "I hadn't heard from you in three months, 
 Ben, and I feared you were dead," said Anne; 
 "and now you are here — oh, Ben, I am so 
 happy!" 
 
 "I was sick in the hospital," said the man, 
 with his arm around her waist; "and when I 
 got back to camp, John Holmes had a letter 
 from his wife in which she said you and the 
 children were nigh starvation, and when I 
 heard that word I started for home." 
 
 Latham gazed at his wife tenderly. 
 
 "And you — oh, Anne! — you are starving!" 
 he exclaimed, for Anne's thin face turned 
 gray, and reeling, she would have fallen had 
 he not caught her in his arms. 
 
 "Thank God, there's some bacon left in my 
 knapsack," said Latham, placing his wife in a 
 chair. 
 
 In a few minutes the frying-pan was sput- 
 tering on the fire, and the frying bacon filled 
 
dFar from tfje jfxont 291 
 
 the cabin with its savory scent, and a hurriedly 
 made hoe-cake lay baking before the hot coals. 
 
 "Oh, Ben, how long is your furlough? ,, 
 asked Anne, suddenly, as she sat by her hus- 
 band's side with the color coming slowly back 
 to her hollow cheeks. Hunger and sorrow 
 forgotten in the joy of Latham's return, the 
 only mote that could mar her happiness was 
 the thought of a future parting. 
 
 "Never mind about the furlough,' ' replied 
 Ben, moving uneasily in his chair. "We 
 won't talk about it to-night. After a man's 
 been fighting four years he has a right to kiss 
 his wife and children without thinking about 
 the war." 
 
 "How long is it going to last, Ben?" 
 
 Latham had risen to his feet and was walk- 
 ing the cabin floor. 
 
 "God knows! But it can't last much longer 
 unless men learn to live without food and 
 clothes. It's got mighty high to that pass 
 now. We can't hold out a year. It's two to 
 one, and we ain't had any luck since Stonewall 
 Jackson was killed. The men fight as well as 
 ever, but how they have the heart to keep it 
 up is a wonder, with letters coming from home 
 telling of wives and children in woeful want." 
 
 Ben Latham stopped and looked at his wife 
 
292 aiafmma Sfeetcije^ 
 
 with a reddish light shining in his haggard 
 eyes that almost frightened her. 
 
 "The men are fighting for their country, 
 Ben," said the wife, encouragingly. 
 
 "For their country!" exclaimed Latham. 
 "What is country to a man when wife and 
 children are starving?" 
 
 The scant meal was now ready and the two 
 sat down to eat. There was much to be heard 
 and told. In answer to her husband's ques- 
 tions, the wife gave the story of her struggles 
 and makeshifts. When she had finished, 
 Latham inquired how much food there was in 
 the cabin, and Anne replied that there was 
 enough meal for two days, but when it was 
 gone there was no more corn in the barn to be 
 ground, and the potatoes had all rotted weeks 
 ago. 
 
 Then the man said the country was full of 
 game. During the four years' strife between 
 North and South there had been little hunt- 
 ing, with the result that the wild creatures, 
 unharmed, had multiplied almost beyond 
 belief. So that Latham told Anne he was 
 sure he could trap enough game to keep the 
 family till garden and field could yield their 
 produce; and furthermore, till the truck grew 
 he could also weave fish-traps of white-oak 
 
dfax from fyt jfxtmt 293 
 
 splints, and catch fish in Sipsey River. Oh, 
 he could manage, said the husband. 
 
 "But won't you have to go back to the army 
 before the crop's made?" said Anne. 
 
 The little supper had been eaten and the 
 woman was now clearing the table. 
 
 "Anne," said Latham, with a touch of im- 
 patience, "I've just come; don't let us talk of 
 my leaving." 
 
 "I'm sorry I spoke of it, Ben; but I'm so 
 glad to have you back again, the thought of 
 your leaving keeps rising before me like a 
 ghost," replied the wife, with tears in her sad, 
 weary eyes. 
 
 "Well, let ghosts alone to-night. I've seen 
 enough dead men," said Latham, with a mirth- 
 less laugh that sounded dry and forced. 
 
 Husband and wife continued to talk, but 
 something as intangible as a shadow marred 
 all efforts at cheerfulness. At last Anne, 
 after a silence, exclaimed: "How glad all the 
 neighbors will be to see you, Ben. They'll 
 have a thousand questions to ask. There 
 hasn't been anybody home from the army in 
 six months." 
 
 "I don't want to see any of the neighbors," 
 said Latham, almost shortly. 
 
 "Oh, Ben!" 
 
294 aiatmma &kttt$t8 
 
 Anne looked at her husband in grieved sur- 
 prise, and the tattered soldier continued, as if 
 by way of necessary explanation: "I haven't 
 time, Anne, for going about saying howd'ye 
 and shaking hands. That's for people with 
 fat barns and smokehouses. I must forage 
 for you and the children. I shall be away 
 most of the daytime hunting and fishing." 
 
 Anne was troubled. Something was wrong, 
 and she could not fathom it. A vague appre- 
 hension of some unseen evil haunted her. She 
 longed to question her husband in order to 
 relieve her mind of anxiety, but she knew not 
 how to form her questions, even had she not 
 feared to ask them. Ben was keeping some- 
 thing from her, she was sure. 
 
 The latter viewed his wife's sorrowful face, 
 and his conscience smote him. He kissed her 
 several times. 
 
 "There, Anne; come, cheer up. Neighbors 
 be hanged! I don't want to think of anybody 
 but you and the children to-night." 
 
 Anne forced a smile, and Latham lit his 
 pipe, but it did not seem to soothe him. In a 
 few minutes he was again walking the floor. 
 Meantime the storm raged outside. 
 
 "Anne, do you have visitors often? Is 
 there much passing on the road?" 
 
jfar from tf)e jFnmt 295 
 
 The wife replied that few people came to 
 the house, and there were few wayfarers. 
 
 "I'm glad of that," said Latham, in a tone 
 of relief, resuming his seat by the fire. 
 
 This remark, so unlike the Ben Latham of 
 old, was too much for Anne. Bursting into 
 tears, she threw her arms about her husband's 
 neck. 
 
 "Oh, Ben! Ben! what is it? I'm so fright- 
 ened. You are not as you used to be. Some- 
 thing dreadful has happened or is going to 
 happen. Tell me — tell me what it is?" 
 
 "Nothing is going to happen, Anne. What 
 nonsense ! You've been so much alone you've 
 grown notiony. What'll happen is that you'll 
 be seeing spirits and ghosts if you don't rid 
 your brain of such fancies," said the man, 
 kissing his wife and laughing. 
 
 But the laugh was nervous and hollow, and 
 the next moment he started to his feet. 
 
 "What's that, Anne? Don't you hear some- 
 thing?" 
 
 "Nothing but the storm," said the wo- 
 man. 
 
 "Yes; there's some one at the gate — it's 
 a man's tread — he's coming to the door. 
 Great God!" exclaimed Latham, excitedly. 
 
 Startled by her husband's wild look, a 
 
296 aiafcama &kttti)t8 
 
 dreadful thought came to Anne. Had hard- 
 ship and hunger turned his brain? 
 
 "Ben! Ben!" she cried, wringing her hands, 
 "nobody is coming to harm us." 
 
 "Anne, I mustn't be seen," said Latham, 
 greatly agitated. 
 
 There was a knock at the door. 
 
 "Anne, wife," said the man, grasping the 
 woman's arm, "I'm a deserter. When I 
 heard John Holmes's wife's letter, I deserted. 
 I ran off in the night. I couldn't stay when 
 I knew you and the children were starv- 
 ing." 
 
 The knock came again. 
 
 "It I'm seen, I shall be disgraced, and the 
 punishment for desertion is death," whispered 
 Latham, hoarsely. 
 
 Anne Latham looked at her husband. If he 
 had deserted, it was not by reason of coward- 
 ice, nor to go over to the enemy, but for love 
 of her and his children. Patriotism is born 
 at the hearthstone, and man fights and dies 
 for it. What is country but an assemblage of 
 homes? There was an enemy far from the 
 front attacking Ben Latham's home — an 
 enemy that only he could battle with, and he 
 had come home tattered and war-worn to fight 
 hand-to-hand with hunger for those he loved. 
 
dFar from X%t dFront 297 
 
 These or similar thoughts came to Anne 
 Latham, and with them a flood of affection for 
 her husband. 
 
 "Hush, Ben," she said, "and open the door. 
 Most likely it is some traveller who has lost his 
 way, and doesn't know you." 
 
 The knock rang again, for the third time, 
 and as Ben Latham opened the cabin door a 
 dripping man in a captain's uniform of Con- 
 federate gray entered the room. 
 
 Anne Latham recognized the" officer. It 
 was Ben's captain, and with a cry of alarm she 
 clutched her husband's arm. 
 
 "Great Scott! Latham, is it you! I was 
 lost and rode for the first light. By Jove, 
 it's a stormy night — as bad as some we had 
 in Virginia. In heaven's name, man, why are 
 you staring so? What's the matter?" 
 
 Ben Latham stood indeed like a man 
 frozen, and gazed at his Captain dazed and 
 speechless. 
 
 "Who would have believed you'd have 
 treated your Captain so? And after fighting 
 under him for four years! Man, I'm ashamed 
 of you. Don't forget you're a soldier." 
 
 Still Ben Latham was silent, and the Cap- 
 tain looked at him astonished. 
 
 "This is your wife, I presume, and these are 
 
298 aiafiama S&etcijea 
 
 your children.' ' The officer went to the bed 
 and surveyed the little sleepers. 
 
 As he did so Latham fell into a chair and 
 began to sob as he had not done since he was 
 a child. His wife stood over him filled with 
 bewildered distress. She turned to the Cap- 
 tain. 
 
 "Captain," she said, "you have a furlough, 
 and you are going home to your family. Be 
 merciful to a man who couldn't get a furlough 
 and hadn't seen his wife and children in three 
 years." 
 
 "Why, I never knew that! If I had known 
 the fact he should have had leave long ago." 
 The Captain looked at Anne thoroughly mysti- 
 fied. "But I can't understand your husband's 
 strange conduct toward me." 
 
 "Captain," continued Anne, "my husband 
 may have done wrong, but he couldn't help it. 
 He heard that his wife and children were 
 about to starve, and he hurried home." 
 
 "I've hurried, too. It is not more than 
 ten days since Lee's surrender." 
 
 "What, sir?" asked the wife, eagerly. 
 "Lee's surrendered?" 
 
 "Yes; and the war's over. Hasn't your 
 husband told you?" asked the Captain. 
 
dfar from i^t dFront 299 
 
 Ben Latham's sobs ceased, and he sat like 
 a man in a dream. 
 
 "Mrs. Latham," said the Captain, kindly, 
 "there wasn't a braver man in my company 
 than your husband, but he's worn out, and I 
 fear he's going into a fever. That only can 
 account for his strange behavior to-night." 
 
 But Anne was not listening. She was kneel- 
 ing by her husband. 
 
 "Ben, did you hear the Captain? Lee's 
 surrendered, and the war's over. The Cap- 
 tain thinks you must have left for home the 
 same day he did." 
 
 The Captain had gone to the door to view 
 the weather. The storm was over. 
 
 "Do you understand, Ben? You were 
 never missed from the company, for Lee sur- 
 rendered a few hours after you left, and — and 
 nobody knows your secret but me." 
 
 THE END