SCRAPS OF SONG 
 
 AND 
 
 M^^SM 
 
 OUTHERN SCENES 
 
 . MONTGOMERY M. FOLSOM 
 
 
 
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 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
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Scraps of Song 
 
 AND 
 
 Southern Scenes 
 
 BY 
 
 MONTGOMERY M. FOLSOM 
 
 A Collection of 
 
 HUMOROUS AND PATHETIC POEMS AND DESCRIP- 
 TIVE SKETCHES OF PLANTATION LIFE IN 
 THE BACKWOODS OF GEORGIA, 
 
 ATLANTA, GEORGIA: 
 
 CII AS. P. 15VRD, PUBLISHER 
 
 1H89 
 
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TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 A Christmas Gun • lo^ 
 
 A Deadfall •!' 
 
 A Fire Hunt 1 '3 
 
 A Girl of St. Augustine 9-^ 
 
 A Late Wild Rose 82 
 
 A iMessage ^^'^ 
 
 A Retrospect 30 
 
 A Spray of Heliotrope 31 
 
 A Swarm of Bees 1"^ 
 
 A Tribute ' 64 
 
 A Wild Hog Hunt 12*-^ 
 
 A Woman's Word 59 
 
 After-Thoughts 33 
 
 Almost Home 1^ 
 
 Beyond the Mountain 15 
 
 Beyond the Stars 48 
 
 Bustles and the BUly Goat • 83 
 
 Christmas Carol l*? 
 
 Child of the Confederacy ^^^ 
 
 Claribel 32 
 
 Cumberland 20 
 
 Deacon Dodds. 191 
 
 Dedication 5 
 
 Delirium 35 
 
 Despondency 90 
 
 Edgar Allan I^oe 21 
 
 P'arewell To Cedar _ Valley -15 
 
 Forgive and Forget 7JJ 
 
 Grandpa's N ew Year 1<'3 
 
II TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Her Eyes 54 
 
 Hounded Down 14 
 
 Is It Wrong? 19 
 
 Isabel, My Lady 43 
 
 i Love Somebody. 57 
 
 I Love You 76 
 
 I'll Never Come Back To You 58 
 
 It Is So Sad To Die! 62 
 
 Jeff Hancock's Bull 83 
 
 Lady Mine. 26 
 
 Litde One, Sleep. ' 41 
 
 Little Old Man of the Mountain . .. 37 
 
 Lieutenant Barney Lee 80 
 
 Love Me 42 
 
 Loneliness. ' 5.) 
 
 Lover's Oak — Brunswick 23 
 
 Major Duckworth's Mule j 66 
 
 Malachi l"-:8 
 
 My First Pair of Boots 138 
 
 My Lady's Eyes 53 
 
 My Lover in Richmond 40 
 
 My Wife's Picture 74 
 
 '' O ! Chamouni. " . . -. 60 
 
 October 61 
 
 Old Calico I(i9 
 
 One Hour With Thee 73 
 
 Old Penny 134 
 
 " Po Jo " in Autumn 91 
 
 Preface 3 
 
 Ponchartrain 99 
 
 Queen Mary 84 
 
 Rare Pink Wild Rose 13 
 
 Remorse 72 
 
 Revelation, 75 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. m 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Separation ' ' 
 
 She Sweetly Sleeps 28 
 
 Sleep On ^^ 
 
 St. Augustine ' 
 
 Snake Bit • ^^^ 
 
 The Abbey of Hope •^'' 
 
 The Blue Bird '^^ 
 
 The Coming of Winter 49 
 
 The Death of Summer ^\ 
 
 The Disappointed -"' 
 
 The Dream of Aaron Burr "^ 
 
 The Horse Swap. ■'•*"' 
 
 The Horton Ram ^^^ 
 
 The Jimmerson Bull ^^' 
 
 The Last Day of Summer • • <'^ 
 
 The Last Farewell '^ 
 
 The Witches l'*'"^ 
 
 The Woods ^^ 
 
 That Little Black Crepe Bonnet ^3 
 
 They Will Miss You ^^ 
 
 To The Memory of a Happy Day "1 
 
 Tube-Roses ^'^ 
 
 Unfurl your Banner ^^ 
 
 We Meet No More 1^ 
 
 W'en Craps Aire Short ^5 
 
 When Shall I See The Sun ? ^^ 
 
 Whip Poor Will ^7 
 
 1888- \S81) "^ 
 
Entered in the oflice of the Librarian of Congress, at Waslungton. D. C, 
 
 in the year 1889, 
 
 Bv Montgomery M. Folsom. 
 
PRKFACK. , 
 
 In placing before the public this little volume, I feel that I' 
 am appealing to an audience whose sympathies are already 
 mine. Yet, if the full measure of my anticipations be not wholly 
 realized, I shall still feel that the world has been so kind and 
 generous to me, that I can well afford to submit uncomplain- 
 ingly to a light reproof now and then. 
 
 Should these little emanations of my intellect meet with 
 favor in the eyes of those for whose pleasure they are written^ 
 and should they touch a responsive chord in the hearts of those 
 among whom my life has been passed, and to whom every 
 sympathy of my soul goes out in fond endearment ; then shall I 
 feel that I have not written in vain of the melody and memory 
 
 4 
 
 of my old plantation home. 
 
 Montgomery M. Folsom. 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 To HENRY W. GRADY. 
 
 True Friend 
 
 To Thee 
 
 In Love 
 
 To whom my heart hath turned 
 When in Life's skies in splendor burned 
 The Star of Hope. And oft to whom 
 My soul hath looked when deepest gloo7n 
 Of dark adversity appalled: 
 
 To whom I oft have called. 
 For help and sympathy and cheer 
 When clouds were dark and skies were drear 
 And never, never, called in vain; ^ 
 
 This modest tribute of my brain 
 
 I dedicate, and bring 
 With this a heart's free offering, 
 Through every change or ^wying mood. 
 Of deep, undying gratitude. 
 
 The Author^ 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 ST. AUGUSTINE. 
 
 A city built upon the sands 
 St. Augustine, the Ancient, stands. 
 Eastward, the black Matanzas' wave ; 
 Westward, Sebastian's waters lave 
 The marshes stretching toward the main • 
 Landward, a waste of barren plain. 
 So grim, so gray, and old, it seems 
 A realm of half-remembered dreams. 
 
 Where rose her walls there's scarce a clod, 
 Aspires above the levelled sod ; 
 Where trails and clambers, wild and free, 
 The fragrant rose of Cherokee ; 
 And clumps of stunted cedars grow ; 
 Gnarled willows in the moat below 
 Whose depth now measures scarce a span, 
 Shallow as the vaunt of boasting man I 
 
 Twin shafts of crumbling brick and stone, 
 The ancient gateway stands alone ; 
 Around those once commanding towers; 
 Now cling the golden jasmine flowers ; 
 While through yon great breach, yawning wide, 
 Oozes a stream whose listless tide, 
 Emboldened by the sad decay, 
 Unchallenged winds its sluggish way. 
 
 Fair even in age the Plaza gay. 
 
 Where fountains shower their crystal spray. 
 
 And wreaths of odorous orange bloom 
 
 Burden the air with rich perfume, 
 
 And whispering south winds sway and toss 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 The long festoons of sombre moss, 
 In shaded nooks where sunbeams play 
 At hide-and-seek, the livelong day. 
 
 But blackened ruins mark the spot — 
 On this fair scene the only blot — 
 Where once the old slave market stood 
 When trafficked men in human blood, 
 And Afric's sons were bought and sold 
 Like sheep and swine for Spanish gold j 
 And rude Oppression forced apart 
 The tenderest ties that bind the heart ! 
 
 Down by the placid river's marge, 
 
 Where sloop and schooner, bark and barge, 
 
 And gilded yacht at anchor lie, 
 
 And white-winged gulls are circling high j 
 
 Seaward the current sets, and fast 
 
 The ebbing tide goes rushing past; 
 
 The waves along the old sea wall, 
 
 In rythmic cadence, rise and fall. 
 
 With awe and reverence strong and deep, 
 I mount that castellated steep, 
 Beneath whose portals, roughly arched. 
 The mail-clad Spaniard proudly marclied, 
 While boom of thunderous cannon rolled. 
 And storms of martial music told 
 That Spain's broad banner still unfurled 
 It's conquering folds o'er half the world ! 
 
 The mitred abbot chanted here 
 The glad Te Deum, loud and clear, 
 And St. lago's name was praised 
 While trumpets rang and bonfires blazed. 
 Within this court yard's ample space 
 Proud Valor paid to Beauty's grace, 
 On bended knee, the homage due 
 From loyal knight to lady true. 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 Above yon rugged arch I trace 
 Lines that all time can ne'er efface- 
 Deep graven in the dark grey stone 
 The royal seal of Arragon ! 
 And just below the graver wrote 
 A name that like a bugle note 
 Stirred many a heart, nerved many a hand,. 
 The kingly name of Ferdinand ! 
 
 Deserted now each vaulted room 
 And voiceless is the donjon's gloom. 
 My footsteps in the lonely keep 
 Disturb the hermit echoes' sleep. 
 Th' " Alerta ! " of the sentinel 
 Is heard no more ; the castle bell 
 Is hushed; and 'neath the turret's crest 
 A brooding screech owl builds her nest- 
 Within that tower I sit and gaze 
 To'ard the dull bank of purple haze 
 Where earth and sky and ocean meet,. 
 And wild Atlantic billows beat 
 Upon the bar, where ghastly white 
 The sand dunes glisten in the light. 
 Like some dead isle's gaunt skeleton 
 Left bleaching, crumbling, in the sun.. 
 
 But day is dying ! Swift and fleet 
 The twilight speeds with flying feet, 
 While Anastasia's shores grow dim 
 Old Ocean chants his Vesper hymn. 
 A widowed seabird sadly croons 
 Her dismal lay among the dunes. 
 A thousand stars in silvery sheen 
 Look down on old St. Augustine 
 
10 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 ALMOST HOME. 
 
 Last Words of Hon. Benjamin Harvey Hill. 
 
 Where moaning rolls the troubled wave, 
 Whose tempest-tortured waters lave 
 Life's furthest shore, his spirit stands, 
 Half pausing on the crumbling sands. 
 Exultant words in triumph wrung 
 In joy from that long silent tongue. 
 He looks beyond the tossing foam, 
 And sweetly murmurs, " Almost home ! " 
 
 No more with woe and weakness cursed — 
 
 Disease and death have done their worst ; 
 
 The dream of life is left behind. 
 
 Though near are hearts whose chords are twined 
 
 Around his own. Forgetful quite, 
 
 His kindling eye reflects the light 
 
 Resplendent from the radiant dome 
 
 Of heaven. He whispers "Almost home!" 
 
 All heedless of the winds that wail 
 Along the lone and shadowy vale. 
 And recking not the storms that sweep 
 The desert strand, or eyes that weep 
 Salt dews in bitterest anguish shed, 
 Blent with the death-damps on his head. 
 Hark! Softly through the gathering gloom 
 The tremulous accents, "Almost home ! " 
 
 As when among the shivering leaves 
 The parting sigh of autumn grieves. 
 So comes the plaintive, shuddering gasp. 
 And snaps in twain the golden clasp. 
 The boatman plies his muffled oar, 
 The bark glides swiftly from the shore. 
 And from the faltering lips there come 
 The dying echoes, "Almost home ! " 
 
SCRAPS OF SOA^G, H 
 
 No more with pain or passion blind, 
 That kingly spirit, unconfined 
 By earthly fetters, bolts or bars, 
 Victorious mounts beyond the stars ; 
 And wings its flight with undimmed eyes 
 Across the plains of Paradise, 
 In freedom evermore to roam — 
 Not almost now, but quite " at home ! " 
 
 WE MEET NO MORE. 
 
 We meet no more ! In separate ways 
 
 Our feet must walk alone, 
 'With haunting thoughts of happier days 
 
 And pleasures past and gone. 
 Borne earthward by relentless fate 
 
 Whenever our hopes would soar, 
 For the light that came, came all too late, 
 
 And we shall meet no more ! 
 
 We meet no more ! Our longing eyes 
 
 Forever backward turned 
 To that dull dreary waste that lies 
 
 Where once love's beacon burned ; 
 Among the shadows wan and murk 
 
 That shroud the dismal shore, 
 Not even the ghosts of gladness walk, 
 
 For we shall meet no more ! 
 
 We meet no more ! The stars are dim, 
 
 The night winds grieve and moan ; 
 Along the far horizon's rim 
 
 The hills, now bleak and lone, 
 Recall the wildest, sweetest dream 
 
 That ever a summer bore; 
 But of all its light no lingering beam, 
 
 For we shall meet no more ! 
 
 We meet no more ! The radiant past 
 
 Intensifies the gloom, 
 ,As sorrow's twilight shadows fast 
 
12 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 Darken to deeper doom ! 
 I call your dear name once again, 
 
 As oft I've done before, 
 And my heart echoes the sad refrain 
 
 That we shall meet no more ! 
 
 We meet no more ! Each tender look, 
 
 Each smile since first you came, 
 Each golden page in memory's book 
 
 Contains your sacred name ! 
 Each scribbled note you wrote me, and 
 
 A bunch of flowers you wore. 
 Dearer than men can understand. 
 
 Since we shall meet no more ! 
 
 We meet no more ! O say it not. 
 
 But grant me this last prayer. 
 That all the past may be forgot. 
 
 And you will meet me there 
 At the old tryst, with radiant face, 
 
 Love-litten as of yore : 
 Ah, 'tis but a phantom hope I chase. 
 
 For we shall meet no more ! 
 
 We meet no more ! The sun may shine 
 
 In April's fairest skies, 
 And make the glorious earth divine 
 
 With summer's changing dyes; 
 The birds may sing in leafy woods. 
 
 When winter's storms are o'er. 
 While this sad soul in silence broods 
 
 That we shall meet no more ! 
 
 We meet no more ! My life, my love, 
 
 It is so hard to bear ! 
 In earth, nor sea, nor heavens above, 
 
 There's none my grief to share, 
 And not a joy this world can give 
 
 To cheer this bosom's core. 
 For I've nothing left for which to live,. 
 
 Since we shall meet no more ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 13 
 
 RARE PINK WILD ROSE. 
 
 Rare pink wild rose ! 
 When April's tender cheek first glows 
 With the warm kisses of the sun, 
 A fond caress she fain would shun ; 
 Yet with a maiden's witching wiles 
 Looks upward thro' her tears, and smiles ; 
 Then by the budding hedgerow blows 
 
 The pink wild rose. 
 
 Fair pink wild rose ! 
 How sweet the day when earth first throws 
 Aside her mantle and unfolds 
 Her robes of green, and one beholds 
 The wreaths of silvery mists that float 
 And twine about her slender throat, 
 Where, mingled with her blushes, shows 
 
 A wild pink rose ! 
 
 Ah ! pink wild rose ! 
 Although thy cultured sister grows 
 Where wealth, refinement, every care 
 Conspire to render her most fair; 
 Yet there's a charm about thee still 
 That aU the patient gardener's skill 
 Can ne'er attain, as well he knows — 
 
 Thou pink wild rose ! 
 
 Sweet pink wild rose ! 
 A soft and subtle fragrance flows 
 From thy pale petals. Oft it seems 
 A touch of half-forgotten dreams, 
 That bring to earth the chastened dyes 
 And pure perfumes of Paradise, 
 Kind heaven a precious boon bestows 
 
 In thee, wild rose ! 
 
14 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 HOUNDED DOWN. 
 
 "We are sorry, indeed, for the'widow," 
 Say the law-loving men of the town; 
 You are sorry, indeed, for the widow. 
 The bereaved one who sits in the shadow, 
 While sunshine floods wood, field and meadow — 
 You that hounded him down ! 
 
 Yes, his sorrow was of his own entailing, 
 
 But not of such heinous renown, 
 That you all should keep railing and railing, 
 When you saw that his body was ailing, 
 And you knew that his spirit was failing — 
 
 You that hounded him down ! 
 
 Who are you, that the sinner should tremble, 
 
 And quake at your virtuous frown? 
 With your proud pharisaical amble, 
 And your shrewd hypocritical shamble. 
 Who have taught your own hearts to dissemble — 
 You that hounded him down ? 
 
 Were you each a ringmaster of heaven. 
 
 And he but a pitiful clown ? 
 Were your souls by particular leaven 
 Made perfect — your sins all forgiven? 
 He alone left a sinner unshriven — 
 
 You that hounded him down? 
 
 God knows which of you will inherit 
 The stars and the glittering crown ; 
 And whether the martyr's meek spirit, 
 Or the strong-hearted hero will merit — 
 Whether he will deserve most to wear it,. 
 Or you that hounded him down ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. Ip. 
 
 BEYOND THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Beyond the mountain's rugged crest, 
 
 A pleasant valley lieth ; 
 A country blessed with peace and rest, 
 Beyond the glorious, golden west, 
 
 Where pleasure never dieth; 
 Through green fields spreading far and wide, 
 
 Floweth a shining river. 
 And side by side, upon that tide, 
 Our soul-ships shall at anchor ride. 
 
 Forever and forever ! 
 
 Beyond the mountain cold and gray, 
 
 The sun is ever shining, 
 Where softly play the lights of May, 
 Through all the calm and dreamful day 
 
 No shadow or declining ; 
 And we shall dwell where roses grow 
 
 With odorous dews aquiver. 
 And violets blow, bright waters flow, 
 And west winds whisper sweet and low 
 
 Forever and forever ! 
 
 Beyond the mountain brown and bleak, 
 
 Shall burst upon our vision 
 The sunlit peak and crystal creek, 
 And all the beauteous scenes that speak. 
 
 The poet-soul's elysian ; 
 There shall we feel and understand — 
 
 Suffering and fearing never, 
 But blithe and bland in that fair land, 
 Where we shall wander hand in hand 
 
 Forever and forever ! 
 
16 SCRAPS OF SOA'Lt 
 
 Beyond the mountain mists that shroud 
 
 The sunset's radiant splendor, 
 Hearts shall be bowed beneath a cloud 
 Of sin no more, but heaven-endowed 
 
 With feelings true and tender, 
 Aroused from earth's wild troubled dream, 
 
 And life's short, fitful fever, 
 Each living stream will catch the gleam 
 Of sacred truth's undying beam, 
 
 Forever and forever ! 
 
 Beyond the mountain dark and grim 
 
 No angry storms shall gather ; 
 No cloud shall dim the golden rim 
 Of life's rich cup filled to the brim 
 
 With endless summer weather. 
 No more the autumn winds shall wail, 
 
 Nor bare trees sigh and shiver ; 
 Each laden gale that sweeps the vale 
 Shall breathe anew love's tenderest tale 
 
 Forever and forever ! 
 
 Beyond the mountain grave and stern, 
 
 Forgotten hfe's sad story 
 Of hearts that burn and grieve and yearn 
 For joys that nevermore return, 
 
 And youth's departed glory ! 
 Beyond the pale of mortal woe. 
 
 Naught shall our spirits sever. 
 To loftier tone our spirits grown 
 With purer joys than earth hath known. 
 
 Forever and forever ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SOJVG. I'T 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 From the dark, snow-bound solitudes 
 Of lonely Lapland's wintry woods, 
 O'er ice-bound hill and frosty plain, 
 The King of Christmas guides his train. 
 Southward, ho ! he swiftly speeds, 
 Driven by six fleet-footed steeds, 
 And pausing not, he dare not stay, 
 He has too many calls to pay. 
 
 Busy, too, his treasures summing. 
 
 Old Santa Claus is coming. 
 
 Coming, coming, coming, coming,. 
 
 Santa Claus is coming, coming, 
 
 He is right now on the way ! 
 
 By frozen lake and sleety stream. 
 
 And wind-swept wastes that shivering gleam 
 
 In the twilight of the sickly noon. 
 
 Or wan rays of the widowed moon ; 
 
 From mystic regions cold and drear. 
 
 Where beetling crags of ice uprear 
 
 Bleak brows to meet the sunless day 
 
 Along the shores of Baffin bay. 
 
 With its foam-capped billows booming, 
 Old Santa Claus is coming. 
 Coming, coming, coming, coming, 
 Santa Claus is coming, coming, 
 He is right now on the way ! 
 
 By lordly hall and princely dome. 
 By many an humble cottage home ; 
 Through restless city spreading wide. 
 Through quiet, cosy country side ; 
 Beneath December's glittering stars 
 That peep through midnight's ebon bars ; 
 Through forest paths where sprite and fay. 
 Wood nymphs and fairies are at play ; 
 
IS SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 In the tender twilight gloaming, 
 Old Santa Claus is coming, 
 Coming, coming, coming, coming. 
 Santa Claus is coming, coming, 
 He is right now on the way ! 
 
 Ah ! many a childish heart is light, 
 And many a childish eye is bright. 
 And many a childish pulse beats fast 
 With every wail that wings the blast ; 
 As sinks the sunset's fading rim 
 Beyond the distant mountain's dim ; 
 And older hearts far backward stray, 
 Age is forgot and youth holds sway. 
 
 Once more their heart strings thrumming, 
 Old Santa Claus is coming. 
 Coming, coming, coming, coming, 
 Santa Claus is coming, coming. 
 He is right now on the way ! 
 
 Hark ! upon the crisp night air 
 Sound the revels loud and clear. 
 Awakened by the festive throng, 
 Boist'rous laugh, discordant song. 
 With startling clash and clamorous din, 
 The wondrous Day is ushered in; 
 And myriad tongues in glad array 
 Chant the anthems blithe and gay. 
 
 The deep-toned bells are drumming, 
 For Santa Claus is coming. 
 Coming, coming, coming, coming, 
 Santa Claus is coming, coming. 
 He is right, now on the way ! 
 
 O'er field and wood and frosty lea. 
 Along the dark, remorseful sea. 
 In Mirth's unloosed, abandon sweep. 
 Around the world, from steep to steep. 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 19 
 
 And bid the riotous echoes fly 
 From shadowy earth to arching sky, 
 From mist-robed mountains, grim and gray. 
 Up to the star-gemmed Milky Way ; 
 
 Send the echoes, throbbing, humming. 
 Old Santa Claus is coming. 
 Coming, coming, coming, coming, 
 Santa Claus is coming, coming. 
 He is right now on the way ! 
 
 IS IT WRONG? 
 
 Is it wrong 
 To love you madly, and to long 
 For your dear presence every hour 
 With all the concentrated power 
 And strength of heart and mind and soul, 
 When even the dream-bells toll and toll 
 The echoes of your sacred name ? 
 If it be wrong, I'll bear the blame 
 Of all these wild desires that throng 
 My heart, if it be wrong. 
 
 Is it wrong 
 To drift in loneliness along 
 The tide of life, and dream of lands 
 Beyond the stars, where these weak hands 
 Shall clasp thine own in warm embrace? 
 And, gazing in thy radiant face, 
 I shall read more than boasts the lore 
 Of all the ages gone before. 
 And weave your being in the song 
 That fills my heaven — Ah, is it wrong ? 
 
20 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 CUMBERLAND. 
 
 Oh, Cumberland, sweet Cumberland, 
 
 Thou placid land of summer calms, 
 Love-dream of summery slumberland. 
 
 Where chant the waves their softest psalms ; 
 In thy sun-burnished panoply 
 
 The gentlest winds around thee sweep, 
 Beneath heaven's azure canopy, 
 
 The silvery circlet of the deep. 
 
 The long, low stretch of mottled sands. 
 
 The spectral dunes that guard the beach. 
 The hungering billows — boisterous bands 
 
 Of bold marauders — upward reach 
 To break thy barriers, and to claim 
 
 Thee for their captive queen once more; 
 And each hath carved his barbarous name 
 
 In hieroglyphics on the shore. 
 
 Among thy woodlands, twilight dim. 
 
 The shrouded ghosts of history glide. 
 Breathing some legendary hymn 
 
 Through grey salt marshes spreading wide, 
 Where sombre mantled cedars brood. 
 
 And listlessly repeat again 
 To whispering reeds, in tones subdued. 
 
 The wild hexameters of the main. 
 
 And Dungeness, grim Dungeness — 
 
 Gray memory of a golden dream — 
 Where medieval loveliness. 
 
 With modern luxury, is the theme ; 
 Plantation days are vanished, but 
 
 Among yon brambly sedges gleam 
 The walls of many a crumbling hut — 
 
 Reminders of the old regime. 
 
SCRAPS OF SOA^G. 21 
 
 A lowly mound where sleeps some slave 
 
 In hearing of the restful sea; 
 Hardby the stone that marks the grave 
 
 Of gallant Lighthorse Harry Lee ! 
 The bondsman's chain is broken now, 
 
 His labor and his longings o'er; 
 Around the chieftain's laureled brow 
 
 The storm of battle bursts no more. 
 
 In contemplative attitude 
 
 The moss-draped oaks stand silent there — 
 Veiled sisters of the cloistered wood, 
 
 With reverent heads low bowed in prayer; 
 And many a soft " Our Father " sighs. 
 
 And low " Hail Mary," sad and sweet 
 As some faint waifling zephyr, dies 
 
 Among the violets at their feet. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 Proud genius scales the mountain height, 
 
 Slow drudgery plods the vale ; 
 In the blaze of a single meteor bright, 
 
 A hundred planets pale. 
 To thee immortal glory given 
 
 Above life's careworn crowds. 
 Far as the glittering stars of heaven 
 
 Are above the drifting clouds. 
 
 Thou wert no child of bondage, Poe, 
 
 But born to love the sun. 
 With a high contempt for earth's vain sbow 
 
 And its empty triumphs won. 
 Better the free wild flowers should twine 
 
 'Round tliy neglected grave. 
 Than thou shouldst fill the gilded shrine 
 
 Of an earth-bound, soulless slave. 
 
22 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 So touchingly sweet the wild refrains 
 
 That from thy soul upwell, 
 They rival the rare, melodious strains 
 
 Of that angel Israfel, 
 Doomed by a fateful destiny 
 
 Like thine to soothe each smart, 
 With chords of such grief-born melody 
 
 As filled thy desolate heart. 
 
 Through heaven's far sun-gilt solitudes. 
 
 The kingly eagle sweeps ; 
 In the haunted depths of the sombre woods, 
 
 The craven screech-owl sleeps ; 
 One soars aloft to meet his foes, 
 
 In the broad, bright beams of day, 
 The other steals forth at evening's close 
 
 To murder his weakling prey. 
 
 Misunderstood and oft misjudged. 
 
 Poor victim of despair. 
 Malice denied and envy grudged 
 
 The fame they could not share ; 
 And even amid death's solemn gloom, 
 
 Insatiate vultures vile. 
 They gathered about that sacred tomb 
 
 To desecrate and defile. 
 
 When honest critics' tongues were muce, 
 
 Because they could not wake 
 The music from that broken lute. 
 
 These ghouls e'en dared to break 
 The spell of thine undying fame, 
 
 With calumnies so black 
 Posterity hides its face in shame 
 
 And hurls the falsehoods back. 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 23: 
 
 LOVER'S OAK— BRUNSWICK. 
 
 There's many an oak in Brunswick wood, 
 
 And many a stalwart pine. 
 In solemn, stately attitude 
 The dark, majestic cedars brood; 
 
 Hardby the sobbing brine. 
 
 But in this woodland's deepest nook, 
 All scarred and seamed with age, 
 
 Uprears an oak of lordly look 
 
 Whose smallest branch might safely brook 
 The cyclone's wildest rage. 
 
 Down from its boughs the* gray moss creeps 
 
 Like beard of patriarch hoar, 
 Each fluttering lock that earthward leaps 
 Marks well the line its circle sweeps 
 A hundred feet or more. 
 
 A thousand times the vernal sun 
 
 Hath warmed its sluggish veins ; 
 Ten ages burned the summer noon, 
 Ten centuries hath fallen the swoon 
 Of chill November rains. 
 
 Eull many a tale this ancient tree 
 
 Could, if it would, impart ! 
 And many a tender history 
 Of budding love's dear mystery, 
 
 Locked in its rugged heart. 
 
 'Twas here, ere Art at Nature scoffed, 
 
 Or history had a name, 
 At twilight's sacred season oft, 
 With airy footsteps, swift and soft, 
 
 The Indian maiden came. 
 
'M SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 The plumed and painted warrior brought 
 
 The trophies of the chase ; 
 Knelt at her feet and there besought — 
 His soul with love's sweet madness fraught- 
 
 The comfort of her grace. 
 
 Here came the proud Castilian maid, 
 Whose languorous, melting eyes, 
 
 Like twinkling stars illumed the glade, 
 
 Half hopeful and yet half afraid, 
 She watched the purpling skies. 
 
 Her fiery lover fiercely pressed, 
 
 In whispers deep and low, 
 His suit — the story long suppressed — 
 While died far down the darkling west 
 
 The sunset's fading glow. 
 
 And when the ambient evening air 
 
 In fragrant freshness blew. 
 The Anglo-Saxon lass, so fair, 
 Came, with her lustrous, golden hair, 
 
 And eyes of summer hue. 
 
 And, like some frightened forest bird, 
 
 She fluttered in this bower; 
 And in love's tenderest accents heard 
 The same sweet tale, and drank each word 
 
 That blessed that holy hour. 
 
 And still the youth of Brunswick seek 
 
 This ancient tryst to spell 
 Affection's spotless page, and speak 
 To listening ears and flushing cheek 
 
 The tale so hard to tell. 
 
 Till Providence completes the sum 
 Of days that time shall be ; 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 25 
 
 Until creation's voice grows dumb; 
 Through all the years they still will come 
 To this old trysting tree. 
 
 There's many a tree in Brunswick wood, 
 
 Whose leaves the sea-winds kiss; 
 But none can touch the poet's mood 
 And furnish fancy such rare food 
 For golden dreams as this. 
 
 THE DISAPPOINTED. 
 
 A conquerer forced to act the clown, 
 
 Some vague experiment of fate, 
 With every grief to drag me down, 
 
 Though every gift to make me great; 
 I've searched the world for happiness, 
 
 A wanderer over land and sea ; 
 And learned, alas ! the joys that bless 
 
 For others are and not for me ! 
 
 A soul so sensitive that all 
 
 My lesser woes are magnified ; 
 I crouch beneath a shadowy pall 
 
 Of dumb remorse and sullen pride; 
 Walled in with weaknesses that crush 
 
 Each hope of what I long to be; 
 I cannot weep, I will not blush. 
 
 Knowing these hopes are not for me. 
 
 This willful heart, unreasoning, blind, 
 
 Hath cherished many a fond desire. 
 Trusting that gold of truth, refined 
 
 By erring passion's fiercest fire. 
 Might purchase peace and sweet content; 
 
 But destiny rejects the fee, 
 .And leaves my longing and regret 
 
 That dreams like these are not for me ! 
 
26 SCRAPS OF SOA'G. 
 
 LADY MINE. 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 As I kneel before the shrine, 
 Of the good saint. Lady mine, 
 I will breathe an humble prayer 
 That I once again may share 
 Those sweet hours that once we knew 
 When the violets drank the dew, 
 And I was your valentine, 
 Lady mine ! 
 
 Do not chide me, lady mine, 
 If by word and look and sign 
 I the secret sweet reveal 
 That my heart would fain conceal ; 
 And the world the secret learns 
 Through the blazing fire that burns 
 * In my soul like new made wine, 
 Lady mine ! 
 
 Here beside the surging brine 
 I am wandering, lady mine ; 
 Where the wild, grey billows roll, 
 Emblems of this restless soul ! 
 Where the storms of passion rave 
 As tempests lash the windswept wave. 
 Thoughts the earth cannot confine, 
 Lady mine ! 
 
 Lulls the gale. 'Mid scenes divi le 
 I am dreaming, lady mine. 
 Vagrantly my footsteps stray 
 Through the woodlands far away ; 
 In spirit now I hold thy hand 
 On the lone shores of Cumberland, 
 Watching daylight's slow decline.. 
 Lady mine ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SOXG. 27 
 
 Radiant stars in skies benign 
 Rise above me, lady mine ; 
 Swiftly from the distant deep, 
 Wraithlike sea mists stealthily creep. 
 Widowed spirits of the main 
 Doomed to haunt the shores in vain — 
 Doomed in sadness to repine, 
 Lady mine I 
 
 Upon the far horizon line 
 The young moon trembles, lady mine : 
 Down dim vistas, far remote, 
 Golden clouds at anchor float; 
 Half in sky and half in sea, 
 Freighted dreamships. drifting free, 
 Where the hope stars brightest shine, 
 Lady mine 1 
 
 Here the trailing jasmine vine 
 Buds and blossoms, lady mine; 
 Here the dark magnolia trees, 
 Stirred by the sensuous ocean breeze, 
 Whisper words of life and hope ; 
 While on a violet scented slope. 
 In listless languor, I recHne, 
 Lady mine ! 
 
 All these joys would I resign 
 For thy presence, lady mine ; 
 With those love-illumined eyes, 
 Brighter than Brunswick's bluest skies: 
 And to make the dream complete — 
 Those soft accents low and sweet, 
 Then would life its charms combine, 
 Lady mine I 
 
 Let thine arms around me twine. 
 Smile and kiss me, lady mine — 
 As the laughing breakers kiss 
 
•28 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 The summer shore, and, drunk with bliss, 
 Reel backward, turn and upward leap 
 Along the 3delding shores, and sweep 
 Its heaving bosom snowy fair. 
 With their shining, golden hair — 
 For I am thine, forever thine, 
 Lady mine ! 
 
 SHE SWEETLY SLEEPS. 
 
 She sweetly sleeps ! 
 Night wind that grieves and sweeps 
 Along the dark, deserted streets. 
 While Nature's heart in pity beats 
 O'er sins and sorrows of the day, 
 And those whose erring footsteps stray, 
 Beset with perils, passion blind, 
 Through ways and woes of human kind ; 
 Oh, wind, no need that wailing, thou 
 Disturb that calm and placid brow; 
 For there around that precious head 
 The dews of sinless sleep are shed; 
 'The restful zephyr softly creeps, 
 
 She sweetly sleeps ! 
 
 She sweetly sleeps ! 
 Unmindful of the heart that weeps 
 In loneliness and longing drear 
 For light that will no more appear 
 Above life's far horizon line. 
 And paint the world in hues divine, 
 Of soft blue skies and golden gleams, 
 September dies and Summer dreams! 
 Yet, whisper in her ear, oh, gale ! 
 The burden of a tender tale 
 That I would tell, were I the sprite 
 That shaped her visions of the night, 
 While bound in gentle slumber's deeps, 
 
 She sweetly sleeps ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG, 29 
 
 SLEEP ON! 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MISS JESSIE HARDEMAN. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on, fair mortal ; 
 
 Sweet shall thy slumber be ; 
 Beyond Life'S' closing portal 
 
 No dreams shall trouble thee. 
 
 Sleep on ! Thy calm, cool pillow 
 Supports a painless brow; 
 
 Time's farthest-reaching billow 
 Shall ne'er disturb thee now. 
 
 The sun shall shine above thee, 
 The moon shall rise and wane ; 
 
 The summer winds that love thee 
 Shall lisp thy name in vain ; 
 
 Ami miss the songs of gladness 
 That silent voice hath sung ; 
 
 Night dews shall weep in sadness 
 For one who died so young ! 
 
 But, oh, a wondrous story 
 Those mystic voices croon — 
 
 They tell of brighter glory 
 Than gilds the skies of June. 
 
 Of songs whose grander measure 
 In rythmic stanzas flow ; 
 
 And strains of purer pleasure 
 Than earth can ever know. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on, fair mortal ;. 
 
 Thy waking eyes shall see 
 Beyond Life's closing portal 
 
 Heaven's blest eternity. 
 
80 SCJ^APS OF SONG. 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 Sweet promise! But thy broken bow 
 
 Half spans the dreary lea ; 
 The wild despairing gales that blow 
 My heart's despondent throbs echo, 
 Dear love ! Ah ! you will never know 
 
 What you have been to me ! 
 
 The tiresome years will drag along 
 
 In dull monotony : 
 I mingle with the weary throng 
 That my poor lot is cast among, 
 With this the burden of my song — 
 
 What you have been to me ! 
 
 The time will come in after years, 
 
 As the remorseful sea 
 Gives up at last the dead it bears — 
 When retrospective sorrow sears 
 Your soul, you'll wonder through your tears 
 
 What you have been to me ! 
 
 Love grieves and, grudging, views the flight 
 
 Of hours that swiftly flee 
 Through days that bring no more delight. 
 Through the long watches of the night, 
 And memory mourns the life and light 
 
 That you have been to me ! 
 
 'Tis many a day since gladly beat 
 
 My heart from sorrow free ; 
 ■ The tripping of your dainty feet ; 
 Your gentle voice, each new conceit. 
 To others but a trifle, sweet, 
 
 But all the world to me ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 31 
 
 And oh, how I have madly prayed 
 
 To heaven that I might be — 
 With all my pain and passion stayed, 
 Through morn and noon and twilight shade, 
 In some new gift and guise arrayed — 
 
 What you have been to me ! 
 
 A SPRAY OF HELIOTROPE. 
 
 A withered spray of heliotrope. 
 With one poor faded blossom, 
 
 Fit emblem of a cherished hope 
 Borne in this restless bosom. 
 
 Were't like that " Resurrection Rose," 
 
 In Mexic legend tender. 
 That 'neath the showers of April blows 
 
 Anew in heightened splendor ; 
 
 So might that dead hope bloom again, 
 In beauteous form and fashion. 
 
 After the driving, blinding rain 
 Of some wild gust of passion. 
 
 Reminder of what I would forget — 
 
 The glamor and the glory. 
 The sacred joy, the vain regret 
 
 Of one sweet summer story. 
 
 Though shadows dark increase the scope 
 
 Of sorrows that enslave me, 
 I'll keep this spray of heliotrope 
 
 That long ago you gave me ! 
 
32 SCRAPS OF SOAG. 
 
 CLARIBEL! 
 
 Claribel, Claribel ! 
 Do you know adown the dell 
 Where Love's ministering spirits dwell, 
 
 Dearest one; 
 Trills the June gale's welcome note ; 
 Shines the humming bird afloat, 
 Like a flashing, golden mote 
 
 In the sun. 
 
 Claribel, Claribel! 
 Shadows lengthen, and the swell 
 Of the nightwind sounds the knell 
 
 Of the day ; 
 'Neath a pall of purple cloud, 
 Mists of amber for his shroud, 
 Lies in state its monarch proud, 
 
 Far away 1 
 
 Claribel, Claribel ! 
 Will you listen while I tell 
 That old story conned so well, 
 
 While afar 
 Glows the twilight with the mirth 
 That illumines all the earth. 
 And the heavens o'er the birth 
 
 Of a star ! 
 
 Claribel, Claribel ! 
 Ah ! the glamor and the spell 
 Of rare odors and the smell 
 
 Of the musk ; 
 Droops each dewy blossomed stalk 
 Just to listen to you talk. 
 As with dallying feet we walk 
 
 In the dusk !. 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 'Claribel, Claribel ! 
 Not for years of asphodel 
 Bordered Eden would I sell 
 
 One sweet hour 
 Of enjoyment such as this, 
 With the burden and the bliss 
 Of my lady's tender kiss 
 
 In her bower ! 
 
 AFTER-THOUGHTS. 
 
 Once more I clasp that soft white hand 
 In mine: Again my cheek is fanned 
 By that pure breath whose faintest swell 
 Pulsates a heart that loves me well. 
 
 Once more the love notes ebb and flow 
 Like murmurous May-winds, sweet and low. 
 And in those soul-illumined eyes 
 I gaze and dream of Paradise ! 
 
 The skies have caught a tenderer light, 
 The great stars burn more gladly bright, 
 The odorous dews fall light, and steep 
 My soul in love-dream soft and deep ; 
 
 And every hour I live to bless 
 That Power whose loving tenderness 
 Willed that this erring life of mine 
 Should know such sacred love as thine. 
 
 Ah, tell me not of code or creed ; 
 Love, this is life indeed, indeed ! 
 Time keeps no count, but crowds away 
 A hundred years in one short day ! 
 
34 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 THE BLUE BIRD. 
 
 When the welkin rings so gladly with the plough-men's voices cheery, 
 With the young lambs racing madly in the fallows making merry ; 
 And the sunbeams, mirth provoking, chase the tantalizing shadows ; 
 Then in winsome measure mocking comes across the distant meadows, 
 
 " Twittery tweet, tweet, tweet ! 
 
 Life is sweet, so sweet ! 
 
 Twittery, tweet, tweet, tweet ! 
 
 Life is sweet, sweet, sweet ! 
 
 Life is sweet, so sweet ! 
 Twittery tweet; tvvitteiy tweet ; twittery tweet ! 
 Life is fleet, life is sweet, so sweet ! " 
 
 Budding boughs by flashing fountains, laughing winds that sway and 
 
 toss them, 
 When the sun is on the mountains and the dew is on the blossom ; 
 When the mist-wraiths seek the dingle, when the rosy dawn is breaking. 
 And the woods are all ajingle with the songs the birds are waking — 
 " Twittery^ tweet, tweet, tweet ! 
 Life is sweet, so sweet ! 
 Twittery tweet, tweet, tweet ! 
 Gladly greet ! Life so sweet ! 
 Life is sweet ! Life is fleet ! 
 Twittery tweet, twittery tweet, twittery tweet ! 
 Life is sweet, sweet, sweet, so sweet ! " 
 
 Happy bird ! your notes are laden with a sweet soul promise bringing 
 Me the hope of some sweet Aiden with its joy bells ever ringing, 
 Where this passion-tortured spirit shall find rest from pain and 
 
 sorrow, 
 And life's twilight shall inherit all the wealth of heaven's morrovr! 
 " Twittery tweet, tweet, tweet ! 
 Life is sweet, sweet, sweet ! 
 Twittery tweet, tweet, tweet ! 
 We repeat ; we repeat ; 
 Heaven's retreat; promise sweet ! 
 Twittery tweet ; twittery tweet ; twittery tweet ! 
 Life is sweet, sweet, sweet, so sweet ! " 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 35 
 
 DELIRIUM. 
 
 Delirium ! delirium ! 
 
 The brain entranced and dead and numb, 
 The great nerve centers that control 
 The will and mind, the maniac soul. 
 Lashed, tortured, by a thousand wrongs, 
 Revels among new scenes and songs 
 Whose cadences are more than words 
 Can tell : Some straying tropic birds 
 Might, hovering 'round the polar zone, 
 Sing of wild joys unknown, unknown. 
 Regardless of all natural laws, 
 Confound the startled Esquimaux 
 Who hear with awe and wonder dumb— 
 Dehrium, delirium ! 
 
 Delirium, delirium! 
 The bitterist cynic overcome ; 
 The stohd stoic breaks his rule, 
 Takes lessons in another school, 
 Inhales a fair and freer breath 
 Along the border land of death 
 Than mortal lips have ever drawn ; 
 The soul, no longer held in pawn, 
 Throws off the weary chains that bind 
 To reason's realm the maddened mind ; 
 And Fancy, Psyche's wanton child, 
 In reckless mood, insanely wild; 
 One frightful plunge into the gloom, 
 Then thy weird light, delirium ! 
 
 Delirium, delirium ! 
 
 Deep the deafening thunders boom ; 
 
 Dazzling bright the lightning's play ; 
 
 Chaotic spirits wield and sway 
 
 The forces of the world, and, fraught 
 
 With power, they wrench the chains of thought 
 
36 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 Asunder, and the visions fade 
 
 And flash anew, and dreams are made 
 
 To come and go at will, poor ghosts 
 
 Of ruined reason's vanquished hosts, 
 
 Red-handed Frenzy first enslaves, 
 
 Kills, buries, dances on their graves ; 
 
 Recks not, heeds not, the frown of fate, 
 
 The smile of destiny, the prate 
 
 Of hopes that sing themselves to sleep 
 
 Among the shadows of thy doom. 
 
 Delirium ! delirium ! 
 
 THE ABBEY OF HOPE. 
 
 TO MRS. GALCAREX, OF HOPE NURSERY. 
 
 Dear Lady Abbess, in thy face 
 
 Calm faith and sweet content I trace ; 
 
 Reflected from thy sinless heart, 
 
 The smiles that light thine eyes impart 
 
 A saintly grace and beauty rare 
 
 That God's own hand hath written there J 
 
 Here in thy cloister's sweet repose, 
 The new blown lily and the rose 
 Their richest fragance softly blend. 
 And odors sweet to heaven ascend 
 From violet, with downcast head. 
 And radiant fuchsia, blushing red. 
 
 " Hope "—rightly named: true Abbess thou 
 
 A benediction on thy brow ; 
 
 Thy voice a blessing to console. 
 
 And in thy pure, unsullied soul, 
 
 Fair hopes like thine own roses bloom 
 
 When all the world is wrapped in gloom ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 37 
 
 LITTLE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 One dark and drear and dismal day 
 Among the hills I wandered, 
 
 By bare brown trees and bowlder gray, 
 
 And rifts of withered leaves that lay 
 
 Like mute reminders of the way 
 
 That autumn wealth was squandered. 
 
 The light was fading in the West, 
 When, pausing on the wintry crest 
 Of one that towered above the rest, 
 
 An uncouth form 
 Beside me uninvited stood — 
 One of that weird, uncanny brood, 
 Who, in the desert solitude. 
 
 Through sun and storm, 
 Beyond the reach of mortal scan, 
 Forever scheme and plot and plan 
 The fate and destiny of man. 
 
 His back was toward me ; yet, I knew 
 
 By that wan cheek of ashen hue. 
 
 And long blanched locks, where fitful blew 
 
 Each wintry gale, 
 Who it was, as he stood recounting 
 
 A doleful tale. 
 " 'Tis the Little Old Man of the Mountain ! " 
 
 " Yes, I am he, of whom they tell, 
 That speak of mystic sprites that dwell 
 In haunted cave and gruesome glen, 
 Far from the traveled track of men. 
 
 My home is nigh 
 Where the chime of the silvery fountain 
 
 Echoes ; and I 
 Am the Little Old Man of the Mountain ! 
 
88 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 Six sons, high-born and brave, each one — 
 Six daughters fair to look upon; 
 Eleven now are dead and gone, 
 And with the twelfth one, here alone, 
 
 I catch each breath, 
 And, the heart's faint flutterings counting, 
 
 I wait on death," 
 Groaned the Little Old Man of the Mountain! 
 
 " Young January, my first born. 
 Was first to die ; and with the morn 
 Came February, whose brief reign 
 Scarce rose ere it began to wane. 
 
 The shrouded earth 
 And the night winds querulous chanting, 
 
 Even from his birth," 
 Sighed the Little Old Man of the Mountain ! 
 
 " But March avenged his brother's wrongs. 
 And April crooned regretful songs ; 
 And tears wrung from the saddest hours 
 Brought back to life the faded flowers 
 
 That winsome May, 
 In her maidenly glee, kept counting 
 
 From day to day," 
 Sobbed the Little Old Man of the Mountain. 
 
 '- The odorous breath of queenly June 
 
 Set all the forest choir atune 
 
 From dewy dawn to dusky eve ; 
 
 And still the whispering south winds grieve 
 
 O'er her sad fate. 
 And the wail in the song of the fountain 
 
 Sounds desolate," 
 Moaned the Little Old Man of the Mountain. 
 
 " Then proud and languid July came. 
 
 In whose bright eye there burned the flame 
 
 Of summer lust. And next his twin, 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 39 
 
 Imperious August, with the din 
 
 Of tropic storms, 
 And the warrior's insolent vaunting," — 
 
 Thus waxing warm. 
 Cried the Little Old Man of the Mountain. 
 
 " September cooled the heated noon. 
 And hung the burnished harvest moon 
 Above his castle gate, and died. 
 Blue-eyed October came, the pride 
 
 Of my old age, 
 In her life not a charm was wanting," 
 Wailed the Little Old Man of the Mountain. 
 
 " November, born a fretful child, 
 Lived till the chill blast grew so wild. 
 She closed her troubled, tear-dimmed eyes, 
 And slept beneath the sullen skies ! " 
 
 His voice was low, 
 And was timed to the plaint of the fountain 
 
 In deepest woe — 
 Poor Little Old Man of the Mountain! 
 
 " December, last of all that claim 
 
 A kinship with my fated name, 
 
 In mortal pain lies gasping now. 
 
 With death-damps gathering on her brow." 
 
 A sudden chill 
 Stopped the quivering plash of the fountain. 
 
 And cold and still 
 Was the Little Old Man of the Mountain. 
 
40 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 MY LOVER IN RICHMOND. 
 
 I have a lover in Richmond, 
 
 And her eyes, so bonny blue, 
 Reflect the sunshine in her soul 
 
 And her heart so warm and true. 
 I have a lover in Richmond, 
 
 Though her name I dare not tell — 
 So often has she told me so 
 
 That I know she loves me well. 
 
 The flowers that bloom around Richmond, 
 
 And the winds that sweep the sea. 
 And the birds that sing so blithely there — 
 
 They all know that she loves me. 
 There flows a river by Richmond, 
 
 And upon each gentle swell 
 A tender message thrills my heart, 
 
 For I know she loves me well ! 
 
 So fair my lady of Richmond 
 
 That, in shame, the roses turn 
 Aside their heads, and those bright eyes 
 
 Make the stars with envy burn. 
 To claim my lady of Richmond 
 
 Might a monk forsake his cell — 
 But she is mine, and mine alone, 
 
 And I know she loves me well ! 
 
 Green be the valleys of Richmond, 
 
 And undimm'd the summer skies ; 
 May sunshine gild the placid seas 
 
 Where her boat at anchor lies. 
 Soft blow the winds about Richmond. 
 
 Where my fondest hopes all dwell 
 And all the joy I ask on earth 
 
 Is to know she loves me well ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 41 
 
 LITTLE ONE, SLEEP. 
 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 
 Dear withered bud! we will not weep, 
 
 For God, in His wise providence. 
 
 Knew best and took thy spirit hence. 
 
 And where His angels vigil keep, 
 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 In restful slumber soft and deep. 
 Beneath the brown November leaves. 
 Where the wind of autumn moans and grieves 
 Though wintry tears thy grave shall steep, 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 For soon the April sun shall peep 
 
 Above the hills, green leaves will spring. 
 Around thy bed wild birds will sing. 
 And springtime's earliest roses creep — 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 
 Ne'er dreaming of the storms that sweep 
 
 The human soul when mortal sin, 
 
 And foes without and fears within 
 
 New griefs on bitterest anguish heap — 
 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 Thy happier lot shall be to reap 
 Joys with no sorrows dark to sow ; 
 Smiles where no blinding tears must flow ; 
 J'rom life to life one painless leap — 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 
42 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 Thy memory in our hearts we keep. 
 Striving to turn the joy we miss 
 Into a hope of holier bliss, 
 When these dimmed eyes no more shall weep — 
 Little one, sleep ! 
 
 LOVE ME. 
 
 I wander through the blooming woods, 
 Where no unhallowed thought intrudes,. 
 And song and sunshine fall in floods ; 
 I hear among the budding trees 
 Contentment sighing in the breeze. 
 
 And even the winds reprove me, 
 For crying out 'mid scenes like these^ 
 
 " Love me ! Love me ! Love me ! " 
 
 I mingle with, yet walk apart, 
 The crowds that throng the busy mart,. 
 And silent bear my breaking heart, 
 And live — Oh, life ! with pain replete, 
 So sweetly sad, so sadly sweet. 
 
 With only one hope to move me ; 
 These echoing heart-throbs still repeat^ 
 
 " Love me ! Love me ! Love me !" 
 
 The pinions of the day are furled. 
 And night enshrouds the sleeping world 
 But still, like restless billows hurled 
 Upon the shore, my spirits flies 
 From star to star with weary eyes 
 
 Through the pitying skies above me,. 
 And in its hopeless anguish cries, 
 
 " Love me ! Love me ! Love me ! " 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 4^ 
 
 ISABEL, MY LADY. 
 
 Face aglow with life and hope, 
 
 Love and light, My Lady, 
 The daygod climbs the dew-gemmed slope 
 
 Beaming bright, My Lady ; 
 Morning's brow, so lightly kissed, 
 Blushes through her veil of mist ; 
 Isabel, My Lady ! 
 
 Earth is glad when day is young ; 
 
 One by one, My Lady, 
 Each dumb creature finds a tongue 
 
 In unison. My Lady. 
 My thrilling heart is ringing, too ; 
 I laugh, and sing, and think of you., 
 Isabel, My Lady! 
 
 And every bloom beneath my feet, 
 
 Looking up. My Lady, 
 With many a promise rare and sweet 
 
 Fills the cup. My Lady. 
 Anticipation's low refrain — 
 " Soon shall I see thy face again, 
 Isabel, My Lady ! " 
 
 With swift, impatient steps, I come 
 
 Soon to meet My Lady, 
 Lips with heart-full joy grown dumb, 
 
 I come to meet My Lady ! 
 I gaze into those shining eyes. 
 Where love's light boat at anchor lies 
 Isabel, My Lady ! 
 
 Awake each promised joy that sleeps 
 
 In their beams. My Lady, 
 And let me have their golden deeps 
 
 For purest dreams. My Lady ; 
 
44 SCRAPS OF SOAV. 
 
 And I will press that gentle hand 
 So close that you will understand, 
 Isabel, My Lady ! 
 
 In fond affection's tenderest tone 
 
 I will tell, My Lady, 
 This tale to other ears unknown, 
 
 " I love you well, My Lady ! " 
 With mists and shadows cleared away 
 We'll live again one perfect day, 
 Isabel, My Lady! 
 
 l'envoi. 
 
 Tho' false th' alluring fires that glow, 
 
 All may prove, My Lady, 
 The faithless world can never know 
 
 How I love My Lady ! 
 Tho' disappointment's sombre pall 
 Like midnight's deepest gloom may fall ; 
 Tho' sorrow hold my heart in thrall. 
 Thou art my life, my light, my all, 
 Isabel, My Lady ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 45 
 
 FAREWELL TO CEDAR VALLEY. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, a long farewell ! 
 
 Sweet City of the Valley ! 
 Where music-murmuring waters well. 
 And bird-notes blithe the music swell, 
 
 And whispering breezes dally — 
 And wooded height and shadowy nook, 
 
 And all the gentle pleaders 
 That melt my heart with fond rebuke. 
 And dim my eyes as last I look 
 
 Upon the Vale of Cedars ! 
 
 When first a wanderer I came, 
 . Wild roses were abudding ; 
 The maple trees were all aflame, 
 Burned April's cheek with maiden shame ; 
 
 A golden light was flooding 
 The valleys and the swelling slopes, 
 
 The skies with promise beaming, 
 And all the tender trills and tropes 
 A-thrill with chords of cherished hopes 
 
 And soft, sweet summer-dreaming ! 
 
 'Mid purpling shades or morning dew 
 
 My soul was ever moving 
 With some fresh beauty, strange and new, 
 And all the long, long summer through 
 
 Kept loving, loving, loving ! 
 I caught June's languid airs that breathed 
 
 Rare mysteries of the mountains ; 
 I watched the autumn mists that wreathed 
 Their brows till winter darts were sheathed 
 
 Deep in the quivering fountains. 
 
 Now, when in death's pathetic hush 
 
 December's hand hath bound thee, 
 I turn away to hide the rush 
 Of blinding tears. I cannot crush 
 The ties that cling around me ; 
 
46 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 The frost is on thy pallid cheek, 
 
 Its chill is on thy bosom ; 
 Wild blasts a-down the valley shr iek ; 
 In vain with hungering heart I seek 
 
 The purple clover blossom. 
 
 Across gray Signal's aged face 
 
 The storm wrack's spectral shadows 
 Flit swiftly, and with gloom replace 
 The laughing gladness and the grace 
 
 That reigned upon the meadows ; 
 And where the June brook hummed a song, 
 
 Its waters ebbing, flashing, 
 A mountain torrent raves along, 
 Storm-beaten billows moan among 
 
 The cold, black bowlders dashing ! 
 
 Farewell ! But oft among my dreams 
 
 That best-beloved elysian 
 Of deep green vales, and running streams, 
 And crested peaks, and golden gleams. 
 
 Shall dawn upon my vision, 
 Where bright-eyed joy on buoyant wings 
 
 Floats in the sun-gilt splendor 
 Of mists that rise from hidden springs. 
 Where fair Euharlee sighs and sings 
 
 Her love-songs true and tender. 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 47 
 
 WHIP POOR WILL. 
 
 When purpling shadows westward creep, 
 And stars through crimson curtains peep, 
 And south winds sing themselves to sleep ; 
 From woodlands heavy with perfume 
 Of spicy bud and April bloom, 
 Comes through the tender twilight gloom, 
 
 Music most mellow, 
 
 " Whip po' Will— Will oh ! 
 
 Whip po' Will— Will, oh ! 
 Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will, Whip po' W ill— Will, oh!' 
 
 The bosom of the brook is filled 
 With new alarm, the forest thrilled 
 With startled echoes, and most skilled 
 To run a labyrinthine race, 
 The fireflies light their lamps to chase 
 The culprit through the darkling space — 
 
 Mischievous fellow, 
 
 " Whip po' Will— Will, oh ! 
 
 Whip po' Will— Will, oh ! 
 Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will— Will, oh!" 
 
 From hill to hill the echoes fly, 
 
 The marshy brakes take up the cry, 
 
 And where the slumbering waters lie 
 
 In calm repose, and slyly feeds 
 
 The snipe among the whispering reeds. 
 
 The tale of this wild sprite's misdeeds 
 
 Troubles the billow : 
 
 " Whip po' Will— Will, oh ! 
 
 Whip po' Will— Will, oh ! 
 Whip po' Will,Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will— Will,oh!" 
 
 And where is he of whom they speak ? 
 Is he just playing hide and seek 
 Among the thickets up the creek ? 
 vOr is he resting from his play 
 
48 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 In some cool grotto, far away, 
 Where lullaby-crooning zephyrs stray, 
 
 Smoothing his pillow, 
 
 " Whip po' Will— Will, oh ! 
 
 Whip po' Will— Will, oh ! 
 Whippo' Will,Whip po' Will,Whip po' Will— Will,oh!'' 
 
 BEYOND THE STARS. 
 
 There is a land beyond the stars 
 
 Where I shall rest some day, 
 Healing the scars of the wasting wars 
 
 That are wearing my Hfe away; 
 Drying the eye that wearily weeps, 
 
 Soothing the agony sore ; 
 Contentment sleeps in those azure deeps,. 
 
 And my heart shall ache no more ! 
 
 There hope in sweet and sure release 
 
 Each dream shall realize, 
 And every breeze that sweeps the seas 
 
 Echoes its satisfied sighs ; 
 Grown pure and strong from paths of wrong. 
 
 My spirit shall gladly soar, 
 And I'll turn my sorrow into a song 
 
 And my heart shall ache no more ! 
 
 Forgotten the fears and the blinding tears 
 
 That shadow this sin-cursed sod, 
 Illumed by a glorious light that cheers 
 
 From the face of the living God ; 
 No longer ahead glooms the haunting dread 
 
 The future may hold in store ; 
 Rapt with the beauties around me spread. 
 
 And my heart shall ache no more ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 4Sf 
 
 Though the night of death fall chill and cold. 
 
 And the way be dark and drear, 
 Dawn shall unfold with a joy untold 
 
 As I wake in its brightness there. 
 Fairer than Fancy's imaging fine, 
 
 Or Philosophy's deepest lore. 
 Is the life divine that will all be mine, 
 
 And my heart shall ache no mere ! 
 
 Beyond the stars I shall seek and find 
 
 Fulfillment of each desire 
 That has thrilled my mind, in its groping blind, 
 
 With a wild, unearthly fire : 
 Blooming and bright with a new delight, 
 
 I shall walk on a sun-blessed shore. 
 No longer to roam like a child of the night, 
 
 And my heart shall ache no more ! 
 
 THE COMING OF WINTER. 
 
 There's a cloud on the brow of the mountain, 
 
 A mistiness hangs on the vale ; 
 A film dulls the flash of the fountain. 
 
 There's a sob in the sigh of the gale. 
 All the brightness the summer king brought them 
 
 Is dimmed by the sadness of Autumn, 
 
 The pensive forebodings of Autumn ! 
 
 The golden rod bloometh in splendor, 
 The sumach's red banners float free ; 
 
 And the rich purple meadow weeds render 
 The woodlands most wondrous to see. 
 
 With the glories the season hath wrought them 
 Rich dyes for the mantle of Autumn, 
 The glamour and glory of Autumn ! 
 
60 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 A wail that is piteously thrilling, 
 
 And sad as a lover's last words, 
 Is heard in the tremulous, trilling 
 
 Farewells of the lingering birds ! 
 Sad lays that the chill winds have taught them 
 
 To chant at the coming of Autumn, 
 
 The plaint and the pathos of Autumn ! 
 
 The harvest fields, shriveled and sober, 
 
 The unfruitful fallows all brown. 
 Have yielded to solemn October 
 
 Their jewels to weave in her crown. 
 With the grasp of a miser she caught them 
 
 To weave in the diadem of Autumn ; 
 
 The costly crown-jewels of Autumn ! 
 
 J a the distant abyss of dark heaven. 
 
 From the pitiless, glittering eyes 
 <'0f the stars, cheerless glances are given 
 
 Earthward from the cold, dreary skies. 
 -Not the guardian spirits we thought them. 
 
 But the slavish magicians of Autumn, 
 
 Of the magic and mystery of Autumn ! 
 
 And faded the hopes that I cherished 
 
 Since Summer's full pulse-beats are stilled — 
 With the dream of the Summe;- they perished — 
 
 And their promises all unfulfilled ! 
 /Ah, vatnly in sorrow I sought them 
 
 'Mid the wreck and the ruin of Autumn, 
 'iThe dark desolation of Autumn ! 
 
 'Oh God! How I clung to my treasures. 
 With devotion deep, passionate, wild, 
 
 .From a heart that is willful, and measures 
 Its desires like an unreasoning child; 
 
 'JJut I know now how dearly I bought them ; 
 Like the life-purchased pleasures of Autumn, 
 The death-doomed enjoyments of Autumn! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 51 
 
 THEY WILL MISS YOU. 
 
 I am sure the birds will miss you 
 
 Bye and bye ; 
 Whispering winds will long to kiss you 
 
 When the sky 
 Wears a veil of teary sadness, 
 Shadowing the summer gladness, 
 
 When you die ! 
 
 Flashing waters, lowly humming 
 
 Out of tune. 
 Blossoms bright, that loved your coming 
 
 As a boon ; 
 Smile no more, but grieve and wonder — 
 Busy bees will sadly ponder 
 
 As they croon ! 
 
 Starry eyes of night will glisten 
 Through their tears ; 
 
 Chant the whip-poor-will and listen 
 Through the years. 
 
 Ever sighing and recalHng 
 
 That 'tis not your light step falling 
 That he hears ! 
 
 Children, too, with sober faces. 
 
 They will tell 
 How that you, with all your graces. 
 
 Loved them well ! 
 Treasured memories will awaken 
 With your name, in hearts forsaken, 
 
 Isabel! 
 
 But one heart e'en now must languish. 
 Sob and moan — 
 
52 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 Bear its load of pain and anguish — 
 
 And unknown, 
 Like some tortured soul un shriven, 
 Watch the guarded gates of heaven, 
 
 All alone ! 
 
 Yes, I know the world will miss you 
 
 When life's done ; 
 But I envy now the winds that kiss you, 
 
 And the sun 
 Who, with rapturous caresses. 
 Touches now your shining tresses — 
 
 Happy one ! 
 
 From December to December, 
 
 All the way 
 Through life's dechne will I remember 
 
 That bright day 
 When, upon your snowy bosom, 
 Bloomed a spray of apple blossom 
 
 In the May ! 
 
 Oh! the words I cannot fashion. 
 Though I try ; 
 
 For th' unfathomed depth of passion 
 Drowns the cry ! 
 
 You will know it all and feel it. 
 
 When mists of earth no more conceal it- 
 Bye and bye ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SOA'G. 53 
 
 MY LADY'S EYES. 
 
 My Lady's eyes 
 
 Are like the dyes 
 Of Indian summer's bluest skies ; 
 
 And in their deeps 
 
 An angel keeps 
 His watch, while infant Cupid sleeps. 
 
 Her brow is white 
 
 As snow, and bright 
 As April's incandescent light, 
 
 When south-winds bring 
 
 And gently fling 
 Their treasures at the feet of Spring. 
 
 Nor dark nor fair 
 
 Her twining hair, 
 But all the rays of evening share ; 
 
 Each tender touch 
 
 And tint is such, 
 I only know I love them much. 
 
 The rich rays seek 
 
 Her rounded cheek, 
 Like sunber.ms clustering 'round some peak 
 
 Where ebbs and flows 
 
 And burns and glows 
 The blended light oi suns and snows. 
 
 Her sweet breath tips 
 
 Those rosy lips 
 With honey dew the brown bee sips 
 
 From fragrant flowers, 
 
 In woodland bowers, 
 At evening's calm and tranquil hours. 
 
54 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 Ah, Lady mine, 
 
 May light divine 
 From fairest suns around thee shine, 
 
 Till golden skies 
 
 Before thee rise 
 Beyond the walls of Paradise ! 
 
 HER EYES. 
 
 O wondrous eyes ! 
 Within their depths the blended dyes 
 Of every star that brightest glows. 
 Of tenderest tints that paint the rose, 
 Of purest rays of sunset skies — 
 O wondrous eyes ! 
 
 Expressive eyes ! 
 Hiding the thought that in them lies, 
 Yet, in their efforts to conceal 
 Another secret they reveal. 
 Of some new joy, some sweet surprise — 
 Expressive eyes ! 
 
 O glorious eyes ! 
 Full of the genial warmth that dries 
 The last drop from the bitterest cup. 
 And bids the suffering soul look up 
 Toward hope's inviting paradise — 
 O glorious eyes ! 
 
 Ah, tender eyes ! 
 That softly shine through sobs and sighs, 
 That mourn the sad and cruel fate 
 Of love that came, but came too late, 
 And o'er this cruel sacrifice 
 Weep, tender eyes ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 55 
 
 LONELINESS. 
 
 I am lonely, oh, so lonely ! 
 And I think if I could only 
 
 See her face, 
 I could warm my heart and sun it 
 In the light that shines upon it, 
 
 And the grace 
 In her eyes like beams from heaven, 
 When some sinner stands forgiven 
 
 In its ray ; 
 And the shackles fall asunder 
 'Mid that new life's golden wonder, 
 
 Far away ! 
 
 In my memory still lingers 
 The soft touch of fairy fingers, 
 
 But I miss 
 That sweet comfort of her presence— 
 That divine, delicious pleasance, 
 
 Purest bliss 
 That can thrill a mortul bosom, 
 Add a tint to every blossom 
 
 On the spray ; 
 And the tones the angels taught her 
 Mock the rythm of falling water 
 
 Far away ! 
 
 There's a melancholy madness 
 •In the sunshine, and a sadness 
 
 And a swoon ; 
 All the stars have lost their lustr^^, 
 And the dismal cloud wracks cluster 
 
 'Round the moon ! 
 And the songful winds are listless 
 Since my soul has lost its mistress; 
 
 And the day 
 
58 SCRAPS OF SOA'G. 
 
 And its brightness are bereft me — 
 Now that she has gone and left me, 
 Far away ! 
 
 Birds are Hsping, bees are humming, 
 With the gladness of her coming, 
 
 And I know 
 That there's not an accent wanting 
 In the winsome waters' chanting 
 
 As they flow : 
 Chills my soul with bleak December 
 When her absence I remember, 
 
 Though 'tis May; 
 When the odorous airs are ringing 
 With the songs that she is singing 
 
 Far away ! 
 
 Oh, impatient thoughts are thronging 
 Almost hopeless, yet still longing 
 
 As 1 yearn, 
 Through the days that drag so dreary, 
 Through the nights that liang so weary, 
 
 Her return ! 
 Ere 1 close my eyes in slumber. 
 Every lonely hour I number, 
 
 While I pray 
 That God's angels bright may render 
 Every blessing and attend her 
 
 Far away ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 57 
 
 I LOVE SOMEBODY. 
 
 At the foot of the mountain a silvery brook 
 Goes merrily, cheerily, tripping along, 
 
 By lichen-grey boulder and shadowy nook, 
 Rehearsing its rythmical burden of song, 
 
 In strains of deep passion that tenderly flow : 
 " I love somebody, I love somebody ; 
 
 I love somebody, I know — I know — 
 I love somebody, I know ! " 
 
 On the uppermost twig of a light swaying bough, 
 A wild bird is dreamily trilling his lay; 
 
 The murmured refrain of a true lover's vow. 
 That lightens the hours of a long summer day, 
 
 With rapturous melody, soft, sweet and low : 
 " I love somebody, I love somebody, 
 
 I love somebody, I know — I know — 
 I love somebody, I know ! " 
 
 And the whispering west wind its love-laden sighs 
 Deliciously breathes in my hungering soul, 
 
 Perfumed with the fragrant aromas that rise 
 From flowery thicket and bloom-scented knoll. 
 
 And pools where the pond lily's starry eyes glow: 
 " I love somebody, I love somebody, 
 
 I love somebody, I know — I know — 
 I love somebody, I know ! " 
 
 Flow on, flashing waters ; your musical trills 
 In unison tuned with my heart's fondest note ; 
 
 Sing on happy lover, the carol that thrills 
 My soul as it swells fiom thy quivering throat! 
 
 Westwind, in bewildering ecstacy blow — 
 For I love somebody, I love somebody, 
 
 I love somebody, I know — I know — 
 I love somebody I know ! 
 
58 ' SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 I'LL NEVER COME BACK TO YOU. 
 
 Ah, heart of my heart ! The moon may rise 
 
 In splendor most divine ; 
 In fathomless depths of purpling skies 
 
 The stars in splendor shine ; 
 The carol of birds in woodlands deep 
 
 Where sunbeams sip the dew ; 
 The wanderer's eye will wake to weep, 
 
 For I'll never come back to you, love — 
 I'll never come back to you ! 
 
 Ah, love of my love ! When gladsome Spring 
 
 Comes dancing down the glen ; 
 When whip-poor-wills make the echoes ring 
 
 In darkhng depths again ; 
 When storm-beaten branch and leafless bough 
 
 In freshness bloom anew, 
 The breeze will fan one aching brow, 
 
 For I'll never come back to you, love — 
 I'll never come back to vou ! 
 
 Oh, soul of my soul ! When riotous brooks 
 
 Through ranks of waving fern 
 Are brawling their songs in shadowy nooks, 
 
 In joy o'er summer's return ; 
 When quivering field and shimmering sky 
 
 Assume their mellowest hue. 
 Then out of the depths my soul shall cry. 
 
 For I'll never come back to you, lo^e — 
 I'll never come back to you ! 
 
 Ah, life of my life ! A hungering pain 
 
 Will weigh my spirit down. 
 When mournfully hangs a fringe of rain 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 59- 
 
 On woodlands autumn brown. 
 From season to season those days of bliss 
 
 And joys that once I knew 
 Shall haunt my spirit, and saddest is tl^.is, 
 
 That I'll never come back to you, love — 
 I'll never come back to you ! 
 
 A WOMAN'S WORD. 
 
 I told you nay when last we met ; 
 
 I know 'tis inconsistent, yet, 
 
 Upon reflection, I confess 
 
 Wells from my heart the answer '• Yes ! " 
 
 Uncertain as a humming-bird 
 
 Upon the wing, a woman's word ! 
 
 I love you, but I've changed my mind; 
 I do not mean to be unkind ; 
 I see it in a different light, , 
 And really must say " No," to-night. 
 No leaf by varying breezes stirred 
 So changeful as a woman's word. 
 
 Oh, love, pray press your lips to mine, 
 Once more your arms around mc twine 
 Now, that life's tide is ebbing fast, 
 I will be consistent, true, at last ! 
 Heartsick from hope too long deferred- 
 A woman's word ! A woman's word ! 
 
60 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 "O! CHAMOUNI." 
 
 Without the night was dark and chill, 
 
 All sounds were hushed, the winds were still; 
 
 The glowing stars shone bright and fair 
 
 Thro' depths of crisp November air. 
 
 Then came to my delighted car 
 
 A sweet voice, rising soft and clear ; 
 
 That voice of matchless harmony 
 
 Sang " Chamouni, sweet Chamouni ! " 
 
 I paused a shadowy tree beneath, 
 Entranced I stood and held my breath. 
 That sweet and low half-pensive swell. 
 Which on the night air rose and fell. 
 Was like the tender, wooing sighs 
 That soft winds breathe 'neath southern skies. 
 Such pure, delicious harmony — 
 " O ! Chamouni, sweet Chamouni ! " 
 
 I knew that vale w^as far away 
 Where Alpine wanter, wan and gray, 
 'Neath skies where burns the hectic glow, 
 Sit* throned amid wild wastes of snow. 
 And this young heart was throbbing now 
 With rich, warm, southern blood, and how 
 And whence this burst of harmony — 
 " O ! Chamouni, sweet Chamouni ! " 
 
 The cheerful light assistance lent ; 
 With stealthy steps my course I bent, 
 And noiselessly I entered where 
 There sat a maiden young and fair. 
 So light she touched the trembling keys 
 Methought she feared she might displease 
 The sprite that lent this harmony — 
 " O ! Chamouni, sweet Chamouni ! " 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 61. 
 
 The drooping lashes half concealed 
 The kindhng love-light, half revealed 
 Within those soft, brown eyes that shone 
 Like twilight in some tropic zone, 
 And softened by some fairy spell 
 Like sacred chime of silver bell, 
 Her voice a perfect harmony— 
 " O ! Chamouni, sweet Chamouni ! " 
 
 And never more can I forget 
 That air which haunts my mem'ry yet. 
 Sweet echoes from some far-off shore — 
 Rare, touching strains ne'er heard before 
 Thrills half of pleasure, half of pain, 
 Sweet voice I ne'er shall hear again, 
 Enchanting, rapturous harmony, 
 "O! Chamouni, sweet Chamouni !" 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 TO A FRIEND ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Once more our princess hath unrolled 
 
 Her silken tresses brown. 
 Burnished with misty dust of gold. 
 
 From Summer's broken crown. 
 
 And blue-eyed Autumn's favorite child. 
 
 Enthroned upon the hills, 
 With wondrous beauty, rich and wild, 
 
 The merry woodland fills. 
 
 She comes to add another pearl 
 
 Unto that silver thread ; 
 Another year scarce weighs a curl 
 
 Upon that queenly head ! 
 
'62 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 May thrice as many more, my love, 
 
 Be added ; then I ween 
 October, princess now, will prove 
 
 Well worthy to be queen. 
 
 And may your own sweet, starry eyes 
 With undimmed lustre shine, 
 
 As now, with love's first shy surprise, 
 They look straight into mine ! 
 
 IT IS SO SAD TO DIE! 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF WALES WYNTON. 
 
 When May is blooming into June, 
 And Summer days are nigh ; 
 When pleasure sings her sweetest tune, 
 When glory points to mounting noon. 
 It is so sad to die ! 
 
 The sun sinks down the western skies, 
 
 The stars shine forth on high ; 
 As fade the sunset's changing dyes. 
 The lifclight faded from his eyes ; 
 It is so sad to die ! 
 
 And he so bright, so brave, so young ! 
 
 A sparkling spring gone dry ; 
 A bhghted branch where green leaves hung, 
 A sweet-toned harp that's all unstrung — 
 
 It is so sad to die ! 
 
 Come closer, mother, bend thine ear. 
 And catch the faint, low sigh ; 
 
 It is the last that thou shalt hear 
 
 Forever more from lips so dear — 
 It is so sad to die! 
 
 'Tis passed ! Where conflicts were so rife 
 No shadows 'round him lie ; 
 
 To earth the sorrow, pain, and strife, 
 
 The sadness all belongs to life — 
 It is not sad to die ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 63 
 
 THAT LITTLE BLACK CREPE BONNET. 
 
 Had I the poet's pleasing power 
 
 I'd pen a dainty sonnet, 
 Not to some fair and transient flower 
 That blooms within my lady's bower, 
 But I would raptured measures shower 
 
 On that little black crepe bonnet ! 
 
 No jeweled diadem ever claimed 
 
 A queenlier head to don it, 
 Nor scheming Nature ever aimed 
 That brighter radiance had shamed 
 The sunshine, than the face that's framed 
 
 In that little black crepe bonnet ! 
 
 A puzzling question 'tis, to me, 
 
 A pleasure, too, to con it; 
 I know I never can be free, 
 Nor ever can quite happy be. 
 Until I solve the mystery 
 
 Of that little black crepe bonnet ! 
 
 There's not an extra turn or touch 
 
 That 1 can see upon it, 
 Yet there's an air about it such 
 That I, bewildered, vainly clutch 
 At every clue — I'm worried much 
 
 By that little black crepe bonnet ! 
 
 There's not a feather, fringe or frill 
 
 Or a bit of ribbon on it 
 Unusual ; still for good or ill 
 There's magic that might cure or kill. 
 And I, poor foolish dreamer, will 
 
 Love that little black crepe bonnet! 
 
64 SCRAPS OF SOA^G. 
 
 The happiest man on earth were I 
 
 To know that I had won it, 
 With its fair wearer, proud and shy 
 In all her radiant beauty — why, 
 Look ! There she goes a-tripping by 
 With that little black crepe bonnet! 
 
 A TRIBUTE. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES H. CAMPBELL, PROPRI- 
 ETOR OF THE MACON TELEGRAPH. 
 
 Hope in the morning soared on high, 
 With plumage white as snow new driven. 
 
 But fluttered, feebly, home to die. 
 On torn and ble^iding wings at even'. 
 
 With deepest grief my heart is wrung 
 
 That hope so bright should die so young. 
 
 And o'er my soul a storm has swept — 
 Its bitterest drops siill dim my eyes, 
 
 Such as heart-broken Adam wept 
 When gazing last on Paradise, 
 
 As night, thrice darkened by the frown 
 
 Of an offended God, came down. 
 
 How cold and cruel art thou. Death ! 
 
 To rend such loving friends apart ; 
 To steal away that precious breath. 
 
 And chill for aye that generous heart ! 
 Why cut him down before his time, 
 Just in manhood's glorious prime '^ 
 
 Why force the draught from that dark stream, 
 Whose waters, deep and cold, possess 
 
 The power to quench Life's fondest dream 
 In deep and long forgetfulness } 
 
 Was there naught else that we might give. 
 
 And let our choicest spirit live? 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. (55 
 
 But he is gone ! His weary feet 
 
 Shall press time's desert sands no more. 
 
 I can but pray that we may meet 
 One day upon some fairer shore; 
 
 Beyond this land of grief and pain 
 
 Such soul as his must live again. 
 
 Although in gloom I sit and sigh, 
 
 I feel that he is happier now; 
 Though closed to earth that sparkling eye, 
 
 And still and cold that pallid brow — 
 His soul was tired, and God knew best. 
 And kindly took him home to rest. 
 
 TUBE-ROSES. 
 
 TO ONE WHO WORE THEM IN HER HAIR. 
 
 Tube-roses ! 
 Rare and passing fair 
 
 As maiden's brightest dream, 
 Their breath perfumes the evening air 
 While in my lady's shining hair 
 
 The star-eyed blossoms gleam. 
 
 Tube-roses — 
 Fragrant, fresh and sweet. 
 
 They are to me a part 
 Of such dear memories, fond though fleet, 
 As quicken every throb and beat 
 
 That thrills my inmost heart. 
 
 Tube-roses ! 
 Modest, pure and chaste, 
 
 'Neath blue September skies, 
 Into life's dull and cheerless waste 
 Their gentle presence brings a taste 
 
 Of man's lost paradise ! 
 
66 SCRAPS OF SO.VG. 
 
 THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER. 
 
 'Tis the last day of summer, My Lady, 
 And sunset is gilding the west, 
 
 As I sit here and watch for your coming, 
 My Lady, that loves me the best ! 
 
 My eyes they are weary with watching. 
 
 And over the landscape so fair 
 A shadowy mantle is falling, 
 
 The gloom of a hopeless despair ! 
 
 Rare summer ! The fairest and fleetest 
 That brought you and made you my own ! 
 
 Rare summer ! The saddest and sweetest 
 That ever this wild heart has known ! 
 
 Tis the last day of summer. My Lady, 
 My waiting and watching are vain ; 
 
 As I sit here and long for your coming 
 And know that you'll come not again ! 
 
 1 sit here and sigh for your coming, 
 O ! come in your beauty and grace, 
 
 And let me stay here in the twilight 
 And gaze on your radiant face. 
 
 No planet that burns in the heavens, 
 
 'Mid clearest of October skies, 
 Compares with the light that is beaming 
 
 In the depths of your luminous eyes. 
 
 No music of soft-falling water, 
 Nor bird-note in summer-green grove, 
 
 So sweet to my soul and so soothing 
 As the sound of that voice that I love. 
 
SCRAPS OF SO AG. 
 
 But the brightness and glory have faded, 
 And hushed is the soul-cheering voice, 
 
 Tho' the skies shine again in new splendor 
 And the woods with new music rejoice. 
 
 For me 'tis the last day of summer, 
 And sad-hearted autumn has come 
 
 To bury the hopes that I cherished, 
 And weep by their desolate tomb ! 
 
 THE DEATH OF SUMMER. 
 
 Low in the west the hectic flush. 
 
 The doom of day implying; 
 Across the skies the storm wracks rush. 
 And swiftly fades the last faint blush — 
 
 Dying, dying, dying! 
 
 Around King Summer's couch of pain 
 
 September gales are sighing. 
 While sadly falls the mournful rain, 
 Like one who weeps and weeps in vain — 
 
 Dying, dying, dying ! 
 
 And weird and wild there comes a wail — 
 
 A night bird shrilly crying— 
 And shivering in her widow's veil 
 The rayless moon sits wan and pale — 
 
 Dying, dying, dying! 
 
 The shuddering maples cast their leaves 
 
 Grim death takes no denying ; 
 Though Nature's troubled spirit grieves 
 While gathering in her harvest sheaves — 
 Dying, dying, dying ! 
 
68 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 No more through purpling shadows come 
 
 The blithesome echoes flying; 
 Drear autumn taps the muffled drum 
 Through desolate woodlands dark and dumb- 
 Dying, dying, dying ! 
 
 Out of the silent night I call 
 
 To one whose form is lying 
 Beneath the withering turf, and all 
 The sound that pierces night's dark pall— • 
 
 "Dying, dying, dying!" 
 
 UNFURL YOUR BANNER. 
 
 Unfurl your banner, Christians ! 
 
 To the pure soft breeze of heaven. 
 Let none remain of all that train 
 
 Of sinners unforgiven. 
 
 Unfurl your banner. Christians ! 
 
 Beneath its folds divine 
 In reverence heard that magic word — 
 
 "Jesus ! " the countersign. 
 
 Unfurl your banner, Christians! 
 
 Shake out its purple hem ; 
 Along your lines in splendor shines ♦ 
 
 The Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Unfurl your banner, Christians ! 
 
 Lift up your standard high 1 
 Let the broad girth of heaven and earth 
 
 Echo your battle cry. 
 
 Unfurl your banner. Christians I 
 
 And march to victory, 
 For it shall wave beyond the grave 
 
 In Heaven's eternity. 
 
SCRAPS OF SOjVG. 69 
 
 WHEN SHALL I SEE THE SUN? 
 
 Oh, clouds that drift in sorrow 
 
 Across the leaden sky, 
 Pray tell me if, to-morrow, 
 
 The sun shall shine on high. 
 Or is it thus they perished, 
 
 The joys so dearly won. 
 The dream so fondly cherished — 
 
 When shall I see the sun ? 
 
 My heart is sunk in sadness, 
 
 None guess the bitter woe 
 That goads my soul to madness, 
 
 No matter where I go. 
 No bird of hope is singing 
 
 Its song of tasks well done, 
 15 ut requiem bells are ringing — 
 
 When shall I see the sun ? 
 
 The stars may set in splendor, 
 
 In splendor rise again ; 
 New flowers may bloom as tender 
 
 Beneath the summer rain. 
 Lut man. Misfortune's plaything. 
 
 Once down, Life's favors shun : 
 Long he may watch the dayspring, 
 
 And never see the sun ! 
 
 I've lost the flowers I gathered 
 
 In valleys green and gay; 
 Unwatered, dry and withered, 
 
 They mark my lonely way; 
 No stone, though I'm so weary. 
 
 To lay my head upon ; 
 Though night falls dark and dreary 
 
 When shall I see the sun ? 
 
70 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 THE DREAM OF AARON BURR. 
 
 As I con the page of history and step by step retrace 
 
 The unfolding of the mystery, the peopling of the space, 
 
 Of those undiscovered regions that beyond the river lay 
 
 Where he marshalled all the legions that his fancy held in sway ; 
 
 With the valleys and the mountains and the stretch of fertile plains, 
 
 Lakes and streams and living fountains yielding up their golden gains ; 
 
 Oft the wonder of the story and its amplitude recur, 
 
 Through the glamour and the glory of the dream of Aaron Burr ! 
 
 From the broad and blue Pacific to the Gulf of Mexico, 
 From those tropic lands prolific to perpetual peaks of snow ; 
 With the waste of wild Sierras and the plains of Arkansaw, 
 With the mines of Cordilleras and the ports of Panama ; 
 Swept his vision on the pinions of ambition grown so bold, 
 That the scope of his dominions half a continent controlled ; 
 Reckless, daring and undaunted, whom no danger could deter, 
 The gorgeous empire-haunted dream of dashing Aaron Burr ! 
 
 He would set his throne in splendor, proud Napoleon of the West, 
 Every charm that power can render would his royalty invest; 
 Mighty hosts would march victorious with his banner floating free, 
 Ships of battle, grand and glorious, w^ould in triumph sweep the sea ; 
 From exalted domes of learning brands of wisdom would be hurled, 
 And each torch of knowledge burning would illumine all the world; 
 While the stride of man's advancement set ihe universe astir. 
 With his own great name's enhancement in the dream of Aaron Burr ! 
 
 Fearless, fascinating, kingly ! born to lead his fellow-men. 
 Braved a mighty nation singly; beaten, but not conquered, then 
 Watched the hand of Fate undoing every project that he loved. 
 And beheld the wreck and ruin of his fortunes, all unmoved ; 
 Bravely chose alone to wander forth upon a foreign shore. 
 Rather than his plea should pander to the pride of men who wore 
 Power's cheap tinselled badge of Faction he would banishment prefer, 
 Crowning conquest, life and action, filled the dream of Aaron Burr ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 71 
 
 From the storm of Revolution and the camp of Washington, 
 From chaos to Constitution, many a deed of daring done ; 
 Then with equal valor wielded in the council of the state 
 Weapons of the mind, and yielded to no foeman in debate ; 
 With the mark of Cain deep branded on his forehead, doomed to roam 
 Up and down the earth red-handed, far from country friends and home. 
 Blennerhasset — dark dishonor — Theodosia ! Through the blur 
 Of the fate that fell upon her, fades the dream of Aaron Burr! 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A HAPPY DAY. 
 
 When fell the light of morning 
 
 On field and wood and stream, 
 The dull gray rocks adorning 
 
 With many a silvery beam : 
 When trembled on each leafy spray 
 
 A diadem bright of dew. 
 Up the wooded heights I took my way 
 
 And oft I thought of you. 
 
 I reached the misty summit 
 
 When the noontide reigned on high, 
 And the light clouds floated slowly 
 
 Across the soft May sky; 
 And I turned my face toward the east, 
 
 Toward the dim horizon blue 
 And I thought of a day that now is past, 
 
 And then I thought of you. 
 
 I stood on Signal Mountain 
 
 And watched the sun go down. 
 In robes of royal splendor 
 
 Behind the mountains brown; 
 Their last rays touched each purple peak 
 
 With a gorgeous, golden hue ; 
 With a heart too full of love to speak, 
 
 I gazed — and thought of you. 
 
72 SCRAPS OF SOA'G. 
 
 REMORSE. 
 
 Wayward, willful, prone to wander 
 
 From the paths of truth and right, 
 Every Godlike gift to squander 
 
 In the wastes of vain delight ! 
 As I watch the storm-clouds gather. 
 
 Wreck and ruin in their train, 
 I would give this world, O Father ! 
 
 Just to be myself again ! 
 
 Dimmed the hopes that shone sublimely, 
 
 Summer-dreams that faded fast; 
 Down the vale of life untimely 
 
 Sweeps the Autumn's withering blast ! 
 Doubts and fears are gathering 'round me, 
 
 Shadowing all I longed to be ! 
 Severing all the ties that bound me. 
 
 In my weakness, Lord, to Thee ! 
 
 Madly gnaws the wild heart-hunger. 
 
 And the cold and cruel clasp 
 Of this dark remorse grows stronger — 
 
 Faints my soul within its clasp ! 
 Ghosts of Memory's weird creation 
 
 Menace now, with threatening frown, 
 In the gloom and desolation. 
 
 Where the star of Faith went down ! 
 
 In my weak and helpless fashion. 
 
 From the depths of black despair. 
 In Thine own divine compassion, 
 
 Father, hear my penitent prayer ! 
 With my sins and sorrows take me, 
 
 This the burden of my plea : 
 Cleanse my heart, O God ! and make me 
 
 All that Thou wouldst have me be I 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 73 
 
 ONE HOUR WITH THEE. 
 
 One hour with thee, when in the dell 
 The twilight's tawny shadows fell, 
 Checkered with bars of silvery sheen 
 That fell from purpling skies serene, 
 Where, in the sunset's fading light. 
 Queen regnant of the summer night, 
 In splendor shone the maiden moon ; 
 And crickets chirped a pleasant tune. 
 And katydids low vespers hummed. 
 And in the darkling branches drummed 
 The drone of some belated bee ; 
 I spent the last sweet hour with thee. 
 
 One hour with thee ! So silent then. 
 With thoughts too deep for mortal ken; 
 Involved in that delicious trance. 
 Our hearts too full for utterance. 
 Our spirits blended into one. 
 Our pulse-beats timed in unison ; 
 We watched the day's departing glow 
 And caught the cadence sweet and low, 
 Of summer winds that swept the woods, 
 Filling the scented solitudes 
 With strains of music wild and free — 
 One hour with thee, one hour with thee ! 
 
 One hour with thee ! Can I forget, 
 Though by the cares of life beset, 
 The warm hand-clasp, the soft caress. 
 The look of melting tenderness; 
 The greeting smile, the parting sigh. 
 And then, at last, the fond " good-bye ! " 
 And after we such joys have known. 
 In sadness each must walk alone. 
 And hide beneath each placid brow 
 A heavy heart that's aching now ; 
 Oh ! how I long, and long, to be 
 If but an hour — one hour — witli thee ! 
 
U SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 MY WIFE'S PICTURE. 
 
 Ever before me that dear face, 
 So calm and patient, pure and true; 
 
 In every curve and line I trace 
 
 Divinest beauty, rarest grace. 
 Human perfection ever knew. 
 
 In those brave eyes, the radiant light 
 
 Of trusting faith and love, deep drawn, 
 Still burns unclouded, clear and bright 
 As when my eyes first read aright 
 The illumined skies of love's fair dawn. 
 
 Above that shining brow there gleams 
 
 A coronet of shining hair. 
 Gilt with the light one sees in dreams ; 
 So rich the varying tints it seems 
 
 Imprisoned sunbeams languish there ! 
 
 Upon that rounded cheek the sheen 
 Of summer mornings concentrate; 
 
 'Twixt those half-parted lips serene, 
 
 A lurking smile of joy, I ween, 
 
 But mocks the darkest frown of Fate. 
 
 But oh ! this cunning counterfeit 
 
 Scarce half portrays my lady's grace. 
 Leaving the brilliancy and wit 
 With which that high-born soul is lit, 
 And painter's hand can never trace ! 
 
 Here at her feet my soul I fling; 
 
 Whate'er of joy or grief betide, 
 I ask of life but this one thing : 
 That she accept my offering. 
 
 And keep me ever by her side I 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 75 
 
 REVELATION. 
 
 I knew not how fair was the blossom 
 That blooms on a bare, leafless tree, 
 
 'Till close to your pure, loviag bosom 
 You folded a wand'rer like me ! 
 
 Every clime has its own choicest season, 
 But spring is the same everywhere ; 
 
 Every soul has its governing reason, 
 But love to all hearts is most dear. 
 
 Since the night when I first learned the story 
 You taught me of light, life and love, 
 
 All the stars have grown brighter in glory 
 And grandeur and beauty above. 
 
 The songs of the brooks are more tender. 
 And softer the summer winds' sigh ; 
 
 The sun in superior splendor 
 Illumines the fair summer sky. 
 
 And sweeter the blush of the morning, 
 And richer the mockingbird's note. 
 
 And purer the dew-gems adorning 
 The pond-lily's delicate throat. 
 
 The fields with green harvest hopes fairer, 
 More soothing the hum of the bees ; 
 
 And the light and the shadows fall rarer 
 
 Through the boughs of the low-sighing trees. 
 
 Oh ! words that my lips cannot fashion — 
 Lips with unmeasured ecstacy dumb ; 
 
 Borne down by wild torrents of passion, 
 Soul, body and mind overcome. 
 
 Dead all other emotions that move me, 
 Banished nightmares of sorrow and strife ; 
 
 Oh, tell me once more that you love me — 
 It is all that I ask for in life. 
 
SCRAPS OF SOjVG. 
 
 I LOVE YOU. 
 
 " I love 5'ou ! " 
 This sweet, simple phrase 
 
 The purest gem of earth contains. 
 Not all the great world's meed of praise 
 Such perfect happiness conveys 
 Or lingers long in after days, 
 
 When little else of joy remains. 
 
 " I love you ! " 
 All sufficient this 
 
 To bind the heart in chains of gold ; 
 Like young affection's first warm kiss, 
 The soul desires no higher bliss, 
 The "book of life — no leaf amiss — 
 
 And not a sentence left untold. 
 
 " I love you ! " 
 Swift have sped the years 
 
 Since, like the south-wind, breathing low. 
 That soft voice on my raptured ears 
 P'ell like the gentle sighs one hears 
 When dew-drops fall like happy tears 
 
 Beneath the sunset's dying glow. 
 
 " I love you ! " 
 Oh, the blessed thought 
 . That one true heart is all my own: 
 And nearer earth to heaven is brought, 
 While in the soul what wonders wrought ! 
 A thousand glories new are taught, 
 And hopes unfold before unknown. 
 
 " I love you I " 
 As the sunbeams burst 
 
 Through clouds that shroud the sullen skies: 
 A star when storms are raging worst — 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 77 
 
 Soft rain to burning lips that thirst — 
 So comes this holiest bliss uncursed, 
 A sacred joy that never dies. 
 
 " I love you ! " 
 All that grieves and harms 
 
 Is driven from out the throbbing heart. 
 Abides a soothing peace that charms 
 All cares and sorrows' wild alarms, 
 And in those close entwining arms 
 
 Content is found, and perfect rest. 
 
 SEPARATION. 
 
 So near and yet so far apart, 
 
 Dear faithful heart! 
 Day after day we meet and greet, 
 
 Upon the street. 
 With words so calm and dignified. 
 
 Such well-feigned pride. 
 None guess we love — ah, none»can know!- 
 
 Each other so ! 
 
 And yet, though circumspect and wise, 
 
 Our tell-tale eyes 
 Give — unvoiced thoughts we dare not say- 
 
 Our souls away ; 
 And, wakened by their ardent beams 
 
 From blissful dreams, 
 The youthful god, with mischief rife. 
 
 Renews the strife. 
 
 So far apart, and yet so near, 
 
 We linger here ; 
 The radiance in your love-lit eyes 
 
 The tear-drop dries 
 In mine, just as the distant sun 
 
 Drives, one by one, 
 The dew-drops off, that tremble on 
 
 The cheek of Dawn. 
 
78 SCRAPS OF SOA'G. 
 
 THE LAST FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell ! 
 Ambition bore my spirit up 
 'Till touched my feet this dreary waste ; ■ 
 Tongue cannot tell 
 
 How hard it is to drink this cup — 
 Bitterest of all that man should taste. 
 
 Oh, God ! 
 
 The anguish of my throbbing heart 
 That aches and still must ache in vain — 
 Cold as the clod 
 
 That of some bleak spot forms a part, 
 Where falls no more the summer rain. 
 
 I loved — 
 Ah, Heaven! How madly, wildly sweet 
 Those rarest of all unearthly dreams ! 
 Alas ! they proved 
 
 False fires that led my wand'ring feet 
 By loneliest sorrow-haunted streams. 
 
 Oh, Death ! 
 
 Mayst not thy kind though chilly hand, 
 In mercy, now, take this, mine own — 
 E'en let my breath 
 Be hushed ; lead me to that dark land 
 Where hope and memory are unknown. 
 
 To-night 
 I can but sit and grieve and moan 
 In this, my soul's dumb agony. 
 From human sight 
 Concealed, God only hears each groan 
 Of more than mortal misery ! 
 
 Good-bye ! 
 The only comfort left me now : 
 The thought, though sorrowful it be. 
 That bye and bye, 
 
 In memory of our sweet past, thou 
 Wilt drop one pitying tear for me ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 79 
 
 18S8-1889. 
 
 The hand, along time's dial plate, , 
 Moves slowly, as I contemplate 
 Its last faint flutterings, and mark 
 How calmly dies the 3'^ear; but hark ! 
 The clock is striking. With a sob 
 The Old Year dies, and now the throb 
 And thrill of vigorous life strikes through 
 The pulsing arteries of the new. 
 One dies that the other may be born ; 
 Night buries the Old that shining morn 
 May wed the New. Ah, the last stroke fell, 
 'Tis twelve o'clock, and — all is well! 
 
 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 As, when a stormy day is done. 
 
 There flashes from the dying sun 
 
 A parting smile of tender love 
 
 Ere falls the night, oh, wilt thou prove 
 
 Thyself as kind, and backward fling 
 
 One look in pity offering. 
 
 Just now when all life's ill beset me. 
 
 Forgiving if you must forget me ! 
 
 My heart is heavy, and my soul 
 Aches with muflled bells that toll 
 My last hope's dreary requiem ; 
 As, o'er the plains of Bethlehem, 
 The bright star of forgiveness rose. 
 So let the kindly light that glows 
 As brightly as when first you met me, — 
 Let those dear eyes forgive — forget me. 
 
80 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 LIEUTENANT BARNEY LEE. 
 
 [In 1861 Captain Piirtel] was the only man in the Fulton Blues who had attained 
 his majority, and the next oldest was Barney Lee, aged 19, who was commissioned 
 First Lieutenant in the emergency. He has kept the old commission on his person 
 every day since he received it.] 
 
 Scant five feet four, a boyish form, 
 A sapling youth to face the storm 
 Of war, that in its withering wrath 
 Laid strong-limbed oaks along its path. 
 But nineteen summers, mild and meek, 
 Had blown the roses on his cheek ; 
 Their fairy fingers wrought the casque 
 Of soft brown locks— a dainty task — 
 That bound his forehead fair and free, 
 The boy lieutenant, Barney Lee ! 
 
 That boyish band in garb of gray, 
 
 " The Fulton Blues," drilled every day. 
 
 The call was urgent ; Governor Brown 
 
 And all his counsellors sat down 
 
 Discussing various means and ways 
 
 By which they might battalions raise. 
 
 *' The Blues ? We know their captain well, 
 
 A manly soldier, brave Purtell, 
 
 But should his fall stern fate decree 
 
 There's but that stripHng, Barney Lee ! " 
 
 " How old ?" asked Governor Brown. " Nineteen," 
 
 Replied another. " His canteen 
 
 Will weight him down ; as for his sword 
 
 I do believe, upon my word, 
 
 That as he marches with the band 
 
 He'll trail its scabbard in the sand ! " 
 
 The governor stroked his long, gray beard. 
 
 Observing slowly : " I have heard 
 
 That boys make men, sometimes, and we 
 
 AVill just commission Barney Lee ! " 
 
SCRAPS OF SOjVG. 8? 
 
 Among the bleak Virginian hills, 
 
 Whose snows were streaked with crimson rills, 
 
 The weary march, the battle's press 
 
 Manassas and the Wilderness ; 
 
 Through seven States he saw recoil 
 
 The shattered ranks who drenched the soil 
 
 With blood, from Mississippian plain 
 
 To Carolinian woods — again 
 
 Among the hills of Tennessee ; 
 
 The young lieutenant, Barney Lee ! 
 
 Beneath the blue Floridian sky 
 
 Olustee heard their battle cry ; 
 
 With arms and ammunition gone 
 
 They hurled great ponderous blocks of stone 
 
 Upon the struggling, surging mass 
 
 Hemmed in the rugged mountain pass 
 
 Beneath old Lookout's lofty brow. 
 
 And taught the advancing foeman how 
 
 Each triumph dearly bought must be 
 
 With foes like those with Barney Lee ! 
 
 With half-clad limbs and shoeless feet,. 
 Driven inch by inch, that long retreat, 
 That with a trooper marked each rod 
 Of federal march on Georgian sod; 
 The nights so drear, the days so raw. 
 From Cumberland hills to Kennesaw ; 
 And wasted farm and burning town 
 Behind the army marching down 
 As Sherman's legions sought the sea — 
 Still in the vanguard, Barney Lee ! 
 
 The fire in that dark eye grew dim 
 
 When Dixie's stirring battle hymn 
 
 Was hushed for aye ! the world grew cold ;■ 
 
 Neglected, prematurely old 
 
 His warworn brow ! Yet, mark the flash 
 
 Of light beneath his gray mustache 
 
 As he unfolds, all stained and torn, 
 
 That old commission he has borne 
 
 Nigh thirty years of grief and glee 
 
 That made " Lieutenant Barney Lee ! " 
 
82 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 A LATE WILD ROSE. 
 
 April was bright with its tenderest light, 
 
 And May with its wealth of flowers, 
 When falling in floods through the tuneful woods 
 
 Came sunshine in silvery showers. 
 Fragrant was June from morn to noon, 
 
 With aromas of woodsy musk ; 
 -And the sweet dews fell on the languid swell 
 
 Of the wind in the golden dusk. 
 
 I loved them all from the sunflower tall 
 
 To the diletant larkspur blue ; 
 And no one the best for all were possessed 
 
 Of a witchery fair and true ; 
 But late in the year, when the leaves were sere 
 
 And summer was growing gray, 
 I found a rose at the dreamful close 
 
 Of a sweet September day. 
 
 But a late wild rose, yet strangely I chose 
 
 To gather it close to my breast, 
 For because of the fate that it bloomed so late 
 
 It was dearer than all the rest. 
 'There is never a rose in the garden grows 
 
 Can match its rare perfume ; 
 There is never a hint of its delicate tint 
 
 In a forest of bud and bloom. 
 
 Ah, I love that rose, and it feels and knows 
 
 That my heart is most sincere. 
 And strong and deep, tho' I watch and weep 
 
 In my passionate longing here 
 For the sorrowful fate that it bloomed too late — 
 
 Oh, desolate grief so vain ! 
 -December snows will wither my rose. 
 
 Found but to be lost again. 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 83 
 
 JEFF HANCOCK'S BULL. 
 
 Jeff Hancock's my neighbor. One mornin' last spring, 
 
 When skeeters were jist a beginnin' to sing, 
 
 I went over thar to git one of his plows, 
 
 And found him a pennin' a fine bunch of cows. 
 
 " What news ?" says I, " neighbor, you've jist come from town ?'» 
 
 " No news, 'cept I've my arrangements with Brown, 
 
 To git my supplies of guanner an' bacon ; 
 
 He said 'twer the fortieth mortgage he'd taken." 
 
 *' You've got some fine stock." " Yes, jist look at that calf; 
 He's the fines' bull yearlin' round 'ere by half; 
 His horns sets jist right, and do look what a neck! 
 His daddy's half Jersey, and his mammy's Ole Speck. 
 
 *' His hair is jist es soft an' es fine es split silk; 
 I'll let 'im run out an' have all of her milk, 
 An' then, he'll improve all my cattle, ye know." 
 " Well, yes," says I, " Jeff, that is shore to be so." 
 
 The yearlin,' he growed and got powerful fat, 
 An' is hide were es slick es the Parson's new hat; 
 His horns set es purty as purty could be. 
 An' the beatenes' neck that ye ever did see. 
 
 One day, 'twere along 'bout the middle of June, 
 An' I were a smokin' an' takin' my noon — 
 Flooked an' seed Jeff come apokin' along, 
 An' I knowed right imejitly sumthin' were wrong. 
 
 " Come in — have a chair — been to dinner ? " says I. 
 " I've been through the motion," says he, mighty dry; 
 " But as shore's ye're borned, it's a mighty poor eat, 
 When a feller's got dinged little bread an' no meat. 
 
 " That yearlin' is not near so fine es he wus ; 
 
 His hair it aire sorter beginnin' to fuzz ; 
 
 His neck aire so spinlin' he never can't fight ; 
 
 His legs aire too long, an' his horns don't set right ; 
 
84 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 " He are gittin' to be — though I s'pose he aire sound — 
 The ugliest yearlin' on top o' the ground ; 
 My crap's but half made, an' my store account's full, 
 An' it's do on short rashuns, or butcher that bull." 
 
 " Hoi' on," says I ; " Jeff, ye're in too big a haste ; 
 To kill that bull yearlin' aire absolute waste." 
 " I know it; but I can't work 'thout eatin,' ye know." 
 " Well yes," saj^s I ; " Jeff, that aire shore to be so." 
 
 So this were the eend of Jeff's big specerlation, 
 Improvin' 'is stock with 'is big calkerlation. 
 They eat up 'is meat, used his tail for a cracker, 
 An' bartered 'is hide fur some salt an' terbacker. 
 
 Now this aire the moral, or else I'm mistaken: 
 Ye can't have fine stock till ye raise ye're own bacon; 
 Men's notions aire big when their stummicks are full; 
 It were skacetv of bacon kilt Jeff Hancock's bull. 
 
 QUEEN MARY. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF LAURA BOWERS, AS " MARY, 
 QUEEN OF SCOTS." 
 
 The rain beats on the window pane 
 
 In monotone so dreary, 
 And 'neath the eaves the storm wind grieves, 
 As one by one I turn the leaves 
 
 Of thy sad tale, Queen Mary. 
 
 Ah ! loyal Scott, thy task is done ; 
 
 Through eyes grown dim and teary, 
 I turn to trace, on yon sweet face. 
 The beauteous lines of regnant g' ace, 
 
 Of Laura Bowers's Queen Mary." 
 
 Rehearsing oft the story sweet. 
 
 Of which I never weary, 
 I see again the young queen reign, 
 And gladly join th' applauding train, 
 
 And cry " Long live Queen Mary ! "" 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 85 
 
 WEN CRAPS AIRE SHORT. 
 
 Wen craps aire short an cotton low 
 Ther's shore to be a pow'ful snow, 
 
 An' then hard times come in; 
 The meat gives out, the trains all stop, 
 An' folks can't git a speck o' sop 
 
 To roll the'r taters in. 
 
 Wen craps aire short, and spesh'ly corn, 
 Ther's shore to be a baby born 
 
 Along about the time 
 A feller feels his poorness wus' 
 And has to set aroun' and cuss, 
 
 An' haint got nary dime ! 
 
 Wen craps aire short guanner bills 
 Grow bigger than the rocky hills 
 
 Wher'on ye spread the stuff ; 
 Yer 'backer 'lowance comes so short 
 Ye're 'bleeged to chaw the ho' made sort 
 
 An' use the stems for snuff. 
 
 Wen craps aire short yer store account 
 Runs up to sich a big amount 
 
 It leaves ye ' way behin'; 
 Ye almos' lose yer confidence 
 In Scripter an' in Providence, 
 
 An' all of human kin' ! 
 
 Wen craps aire short you can't atten' 
 Yer church— no use in meetin', then. 
 
 To try to make a spurt ; 
 Ye can't show out ye feel so slack 
 With britches patched, an' to yer back 
 
 Ye've sca'cely got a shirt! 
 
86 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 Wen craps aire short ye lose the use 
 Of all ye knowed afore, so loose, 
 
 Can't even try to I'arn : 
 Ye scol' yer wife an' buse yer frien's. 
 The bag to hoi,' open at both en's, 
 
 An' life ain't wo'th a darn ! 
 
 THE WOODS. 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE FORESTRY CONGRESS OF 188S, AND READ BY 
 
 LOLLIE BELLE WYLIE. 
 
 The woods, the woods, the grand old woods 
 That stretch o'er hill and dale and plain : 
 
 Oh, how I love the soHtudes 
 Of Nature's free and fair domain. 
 
 'Tis sweet, so sweet, the sun to greet. 
 When every bough is gemmed with dew, 
 
 With odorous blooms beneath my feet, 
 And o'er my head the boundless blue. 
 
 Each sturdy oak on feebler folk 
 
 A benediction from on high 
 In loving kindness doth invoke. 
 
 As through its leaves the south winds sigh. 
 
 The towering pine to heights divine 
 With inspiration thrills the soul. 
 
 And points to where in splendor shine 
 The stars that mark my spirit's goal. 
 
 The shadows fall from cypress tall, 
 
 And cedar dark and sycamore, 
 Gnarled elm and ash, that oft recall 
 
 The half-forgotten days of yore. 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 87 
 
 At Summer noon, when airs of June 
 
 In idling dalliance fan my brow, 
 How sweet to hear the brown bees croon 
 
 Low rythms around some blooming bough. 
 
 In Autumn time, when vespers chime 
 And wake such pensive melodies, 
 
 With earth sublime in pictured rhyme, 
 How glorious are the dear old trees. 
 
 When gaunt and grim each leafless limb 
 Shrinks shivering in the wintry b'ast, 
 
 I gaze adown the vistas dim 
 Upon the shadows of the past. 
 
 Then on the scene, some evergreen 
 A ray of hopeful promise throws. 
 
 Its constancy and faith serene 
 Brings to my weary soul repose. 
 
 The woods, the woods, the wondrous woods. 
 Where all life's purer fancies dwell; 
 
 Where silence of the ages broods 
 
 O'er dreams no mortal tongue may tell. 
 
 And truant brooks through shadowy nooks 
 Flow from the noisy world apart ; 
 
 With lore not found in sages' books, 
 Their mystic murmurs fill my heart. 
 
 I love the woods, the haunted woods 
 Where untold pleasures are concealed, 
 
 Where no discordant note intrudes. 
 Where God and Nature are revealed. 
 
 When I am dead, may I be laid 
 
 Deep in some wild and wooded dell ; 
 
 Let forest treasures deck the bed 
 Of one who loved them all so well. 
 
SS SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 A MESSAGE. 
 
 From the scene of my sadness, my dearie, 
 
 I'll send you a message to-day, 
 Though the skies be darksome and dreary, 
 
 And the world so cheerless and grey. 
 I'll release my dream-ship from its moorings; 
 
 From this harbor of sorrows set free. 
 My spiKit shall seek in its soarings 
 
 One glimpse of the sunshine and thee ! 
 
 In fancy I'll walk there beside thee, 
 
 And breathing the fresh salt-sea air, 
 I'll gather the blossoms that bide thee 
 
 To twine in thy sunny brown hair. 
 I'll hear that sweet voice like a blessing. 
 
 And thirstily drink each low tune. 
 And feel the soft, tender caressing 
 
 Of that gentle hand in my own. 
 
 And oh, let me breathe in this message 
 
 The longing that throbs in my breast, 
 And may its sad plaint be the presage 
 
 Of years of contentment most blest. 
 When the days of my conflict are over. 
 
 And the nights of vain watching are past, 
 When the heart beats of loved one and lover 
 
 Keep time to life's music at last ! 
 
 Hark ! Mingled with chimes of the vespers 
 
 Old Ocean is chanting, and hear 
 Faint and afar the low whispers 
 
 Of hope that I breathe in your ear. 
 And borne on the night-wind's soft sighing 
 
 Warm kisses for one that I miss, 
 And love and devotion undying 
 
 In the touch of each passionate kiss ! 
 
SCRAPS OF SOA^G. 
 
 CHILD OF THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MISS WINNIE DAVIS, ON THE OCCASION OF HER 
 
 VISIT TO GEORGIA, IN COMPANY WITH HER FATHER, 
 
 HON. JEFFERSON DAVIS, MAY IST, 1886. 
 
 Fair daughter of a kingl)^ sire ! 
 Nurtured amid the fiercest fire 
 
 Of battle's stern array ; 
 Thy lullaby the cannon's roar, 
 Or war note wild, of those who wore 
 That stainless garb of grey. 
 
 Too young to heed the mournful knell 
 Or feel the shock when Richmond fell. 
 
 And the star of hope went down ; 
 But now the brightest, purest, gem 
 In that illustrious diadem — 
 
 A throneless monarch crown ! 
 
 Each throbbing breeze that gladly sweeps 
 Adown our rugged mountain steeps. 
 
 In generous rivalry, 
 Hastens to bear the truest proof 
 Of homage rendered in behoof 
 
 Of Georgian chivalry. 
 
 The memories of these gallant men 
 Run back to that dark season when, 
 
 In chains, the conquering powers 
 Bore our loved leader far away ; 
 But, ah, we bring him back to-day 
 
 In gyves of fragrant flowers. 
 
 Fear not to clasp each rough brown hand. 
 For gentle as they're brave these grand 
 
 Old veterans of the war; 
 Tho' each hath grasped a saber hilt, 
 And fruit of many a bloody tilt 
 
 Each bosom bears a scar ! 
 
90 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 With Stuart's peerless band they bled, 
 Or marched where Stonewall Jackson led 
 
 His victory-winning host ; 
 And wept with Lee, when in defeat 
 Each warrior, rather than retreat, 
 
 Fell bleeding at his post. 
 
 Unflinchingly they bore the brunt 
 Along the weary battle front 
 
 In those wild days of strife ; 
 And for each thread of silver now 
 That glistens on thy father's brow, 
 
 These men would pawn a life. 
 
 A prosperous people now, and free. 
 To Georgian soil we welcome thee, 
 
 Storm-cradled child of Mars! 
 These guns are they that loudly boomed 
 'Round thee, best cherished bud that bloomed 
 
 Beneath the Stars and Bars ! 
 
 A thundering chorus welcoming 
 Attests the tribute that we bring, 
 
 Instead of war's alarms. 
 With gifts of love within our gates. 
 The Empress of the Southland waits 
 
 To fold thee in her arms ! 
 
 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 Heartsick, dispirited. 
 Sorrow inherited. 
 Suffering unmerited, 
 Burdens so heavy and anguish unknown. 
 Sadly the wanderer 
 Walketh alone ! 
 
 Walketh alone in the midst of the throng. 
 Who gladden the world with gay laughter and song ;. 
 Looketh on pleasures, yet claimeth no part ; 
 Walketh alone with a pain at his heart. 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 91 
 
 "PO JO" IN AUTUMN. 
 (Sugg-ested by the poem, " Po Jo," by Orelia Key Bell.) 
 
 *"PoJo!" 
 
 Drooping with plumage all ruffled and rumpled, 
 'Mid blackened November leaves, wiihered and 
 
 crumpled, 
 Pipeth pathetic, sad hearted is he— 
 " Joreter, joreter, joreter, joree ! " 
 
 "Po Jo!" 
 
 Dog fennel milkweed, all 
 
 Dead and decaying. 
 
 By the stark thistles tall, 
 
 Chill winds are straying; 
 
 Prone on the sodden ground 
 
 "Po Jo" is lying, dying ! 
 
 O'er the fields Autumn bound 
 
 Gray locks aflying ; 
 
 None to caress him, 
 
 For walketh no more 
 
 She that would bless him 
 
 With the smile that she wore ! 
 
 Waileth so wearily, weirdly — ah, me ! 
 
 " Joreter, joreter, joreter, joree ! " 
 
 -^Pojo!" 
 
 Dark clouds are drifting 
 
 Above the long sweep 
 
 Of the hills that are lifting 
 
 Bare brows to the deep 
 
 Sunless heaven, whence shifting 
 
 Gaunt shadows that creep 
 
 Down earthward to weep 
 
 In the drear solitudes 
 
 Of the death silent woods. 
 
 Lonely and longingly over the lea — 
 
 ••Joreter, joreter, joreter, joree ! " 
 
 • " Po Jo " is a ragged wild flower that infests Southern fields*. 
 
92 SCJ^APS OF SONG. 
 
 "Pojo!" 
 
 Mournful the strain 
 
 Of the low sobbing rain, 
 
 And the echoes that chorus a dismal refrain, 
 
 Sorrow and sadness, 
 
 And the longing and haunting and hungering pain; 
 
 Anguish and madness 
 
 For the joy that will come not to gladden again ! 
 
 And so often recalling 
 
 When twilight is near 
 
 That the light footstep falling 
 
 No more shall he hear, 
 
 Pensive and plaintive from yonder bare tree. 
 
 " Joreter, joreter, joreter, joree ! " 
 
 "PoJo!" 
 
 When springtime returns, - 
 
 And the deHcate ferns 
 
 Peep shyly by banks where the wood violets blow; 
 
 And blithesomely burns 
 
 The star of the evening, and the West is aglow } 
 
 And wild roses bloom 
 
 In the soft, tender gloom; 
 
 Again wilt thou come, 
 
 Down-trodden and dumb, 
 
 " Po Jo !" all the taunts 
 
 And upbraidings to bear 
 
 Of the Mayweed that flaunts 
 
 Her gold-powdered hair, 
 
 And the insolent dog-fennel, base-born andlow: 
 
 None hath compassion or pity on thee ! 
 
 '•Joreter, joreter, joreter, joree ! " 
 
 " Po Jo ! " 
 
 Grieveth the wind in the valley, and lone 
 
 The sighs of bare branches, the river's low moan; 
 
 Somber the garments the dark mountains wear, 
 
 Murk as the gloom of a hopeless despair : 
 
 :Sad as the pain-burdened heart that I beir! 
 
SCRAPS OF SONG. 93 
 
 The spring may return, but the sunshine will bring 
 
 No brightness to me, and the wild birds may sing 
 
 When green boughs are weighted with odorous flowers, 
 
 And dream-bells are tolling the long drowsy hour^ : 
 
 Far dearer to me 
 
 Than each dew-laden blossom ! 
 
 A withered late violet 
 
 That died on her bosom. 
 
 Tearfully, tenderly touching — ah, me ! " 
 
 " Joreter, joreter, joreter, joree ! " 
 
 A GIRL OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 
 
 Along the narrow, winding -^treetj 
 I stroll with half reluctant feet, 
 Where sunbeams struggle with the gloom. 
 Heavy with fragrant orange bloom. 
 Where feathery palm and clinging vine 
 And waving strands of moss entwine, 
 Anvd happy birds their songs attune — 
 Spring's hopeful lays to airs of June. 
 
 Through spreading oaks and cedars tall, 
 A glimpse of lichen-covered wall ; 
 Proud mansion, once, of some great dame- 
 Of old Castilian birth and name ; 
 Upreared in bold Menendez' time, 
 When Augustine was in its prime— 
 A fragment, now, of history's page, 
 Relic of some forgotten age. \ 
 
 But through the narrow casement high. 
 Whose arching roof shuts out the sky, 
 I catch a glance of melting eyes 
 With soft and languorous glow that vies 
 In splendor with the radiant light 
 Of brightest stars that shine by night, 
 When the last film of mist is driven 
 From off th' u?^<;louded brow of heaven. 
 
94 SCRAPS OF SONG. 
 
 Beneath a crown of shadowy hair , 
 A maiden's face, divinely fair — 
 On brow and cheek, in sweet repose, 
 There blend the olive and the rose ; 
 A neck as white as virgin snow, 
 Whose proudly curving outlines show 
 That through each lightly-penciled vein, 
 Still throbs the haughtiest blood of Spain. 
 
 Enraptured, there I stand and gaze ; 
 My heart beats fast in fond amaze, 
 Till bird and blossom, vine and tree, 
 Are lost in silent ecstacy ! 
 'Tis gone. A stranger's ardent look 
 Her modesty could never brook ; 
 But bears my heart its deep impress — 
 That dream of perfect lovehness. 
 
 Ah, lady! Dared my fond desire 
 To'.ird heights sublime as they aspire— 
 Dared idly dream thy window there 
 The faintest ray of hope might wear. 
 At twilight hour would I return 
 To watch that kindling taper burn. 
 And wake such chords as well might move 
 Thy soul to hear my tale of love I 
 
SOUT^HKRN SCENES. 
 
 PONCHARTRAIN. 
 
 Grandpa was the best man I ever saw but be bad some 
 exceedingly peculiar notions. 
 
 One of his funny habits was the way he named things. 
 
 His favorite littie darkies had to grow up under the bur- 
 den of such tremendous names as ** Thaddeus of Warsaw,' 
 •''Carl of Copenhagen" and "Lord Delaware." 
 
 If a mule was to be named, Grandpa would hang an 
 appellation like a mill-stone about the neck of the quad- 
 ruped. 
 
 Once he became the proud possessor of a clay colored 
 puppy, and in spite of the earnest expostulations of the 
 family, he insisted on naming that unfortunate descendant 
 of a half dozen different breeds of dogs, by the high sound- 
 ing title of " Ponchartrain." 
 
 Well, we got even with him, for when that puppy became 
 <i pot-bellied burlesque on his mongrel race, we shortened 
 the name to " Ponch, " and it was so excessively appropriate 
 that it used to make me laugh in my sleep. 
 
 All about the plantation you could see this pair. Grandpa 
 was very, very fat, and Ponchartrain took after him and 
 kept after him till he got the very waddle of his portly 
 master. 
 
 Hot summer days Grandpa would absent-mmdedly walk 
 off from the house without his shoes, and he would visit 
 the watermelon patch and go around thumping them, chuck- 
 ling to himself and making comments to Ponchartrain. 
 
 Suddenly he would come across his own track and it 
 would look like where a mule had wallowed, and he would 
 pause and examine it carefully. 
 
100 * SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 '*Ah, Ponchartrain, there's no devil if some nigger hain't 
 b'en in here. Come here, Ponchartrain, phew-ew ! Phew-ew \ 
 Good boy ! Smell his track Ponchartrain ! Sooboy ! We'll 
 catch up with that thievish marauder !" 
 
 Ponchartrain would flap one ear and gaze intently at 
 the hole in the ground, and then he would look up in his 
 master's face and whine, and Grandpa would encourage him. 
 
 "Go it, me boy ! Sick'im Ponchartrain ! You got the 
 blood in you. Just a leetle more practice and you'll be the 
 finest nigger dog in this beat." 
 
 Then Ponchartrain would whine and wag his fat tail^ 
 and begin to paw in the sand in search of a doodle. 
 
 But one day Grandpa and Ponchartrain got into a scrape. 
 
 The yellow-jackets had taken up their lodging in an old 
 stump in the big new-ground, but Grandpa hadn't found it 
 out. I knew, for if there was a yellow-jacket or guinea- 
 wasp nest in a mile of the plantation, I always found it out 
 right speedily. 
 
 Grandpa was out there about three o'clock one sunny 
 afternoon to see how his pumpkin patch was thriving. The 
 place was a very rich piece of ground, and the vines grew 
 luxuriantly. It looked powerful snaky, but Grandpa always 
 boasted that he was not afraid of snakes. He said that only 
 drunkards and hypocrites need fear serpents. 
 
 A spreading adder had bitten him on the toe once, and 
 the toe being so tough that the snake made no impression, 
 I think that emboldened the old man. 
 
 He said that Ponchartrain was not afraid of snakes be- 
 cause he was double-dew-clawed, and snakes could not hurt 
 dogs that were double-dew-clawed. 
 
 The sun beat down fiercely, and the sweat hung in beads 
 on the old man's ruddy brow, and Ponchartrain had ^his. 
 tongue out. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 101 
 
 Suddenly there was a rustle among the pumpkin vines, 
 and a great brownish-black head was thrust upward, and 
 two glittering eyes regarded the approach of the intruders 
 with a look of surprise and indignation. 
 
 It was the old brown coach-whip that had been the 
 terror of my waking thoughts and the prime factor in my 
 nightmares for several summers. 
 
 " I — yi ! You old son-of -thunder !" ejaculated the old 
 man. " See 'im Ponchartrain } Sick 'im boy ! We'll settle 
 with the old villyun right now. ' The seed of the woman 
 will bruise the serpent's head,' saith the scripter. Go for 
 'im, Ponchartrain ! " 
 
 But Ponch was not in a fighting humor, and he drew 
 back betwixt the old man's legs, and the latter turned to 
 pick up a runner oak root, simply remarking : 
 
 "Well, I s'pose I can finish the old — Great Jewhillikins ! 
 Yeow-oo ! " he yelled as something that felt like a coal of 
 fire struck the plump calf of each leg simultaneously, and 
 the old man fetched a leap, tripped over the dog and fell 
 flat of his back, and the coach-whip went skinning across 
 his legs like a streak of lightning. 
 
 It was hard to tell which scrambled to his feet first. 
 Grandpa or Ponchartrain, but when they rose they rose 
 running, and in their rear the pumpkin leaves quivered in 
 the sun like the water in the wake of a pair of porpoises. 
 
 I was sitting in the shade of the mulberry tree as they 
 came puffing and blowing by, and I saw Grandpa's hat and 
 the big bandanna that he carried in it, as they floated 
 away, and, oh golly ! how I laughed. 
 
 Grandpa jumped the bars, and Ponchartrain wiggled 
 through a crack, and as they went tearing down the lane 
 the dust rose like a cloud. 
 
 Parson ^IcCook was riding toward them on his moon 
 
102 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 eyed mare, and she suddenly awoke from her reverie, and 
 wheeling about, went flying away at the head of the pro- 
 cession. 
 
 I gathered up Grandpa's hat and his bandanna, and then 
 I went on toward the house and rescued Parson McCook's 
 hat and his saddle-bags, and just as I reached the steps, 
 f:he parson came riding up to the gate. 
 
 ** Light, light. Brother McCook," said the old man, as 
 he shifted from one foot to the other ; " ye see I have been 
 atryin' to get my dog in practice to run the niggers out of 
 my watermelon patch, and we had a purty tight chase of 
 It, but I beat him a fair race. Here, Ponchartrain, come 
 
 here, puppy." 
 
 But Ponch was hidden in the tea weeds, and there he 
 stayed till he heard the dishes rattling for supper. 
 
 •>* ^ ^ — <* 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 103 
 
 GRANDPA'S NEW YEAR. 
 
 Grandpa was a very industrious man. 
 
 Had he been as economical as he was industrious, hi& 
 posterity would never have been forced to edit a weekly 
 newspaper. 
 
 The only thing he was ever economical in was his in- 
 dustry. 
 
 But he was a very industrious man. 
 
 His industry was of that painfully intermittent variety 
 that always robbed a Saturday afternoon in the midst of the 
 bream fishing season of all its sweets, and turned a holiday 
 into a day of disappointment and gloom. 
 
 He had a queer superstition, which he pretended was 
 handed down from Benjamin Franklin, or some other 
 worthy of cranky notions. It was that if you did a good 
 day's work Monday y«)u would get there every day during 
 the week, and if you spent New Year's in idleness, you were 
 sure to lose a great deal of time during the following Anno 
 Domini. 
 
 In living up to these notions he caused himself much 
 unnecessary and unprofitable labor, and made me suffer 
 divers disappointments and sundry inconveniences that 
 hang like mill stones about the neck of my most cherished 
 memories unto this day. 
 
 For instance, he would forget all about that Monday 
 work until Saturday dinner, and then he would suddenly 
 remember it, and would say : " Well, my son, it is never 
 
104 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 too late to mend, so we will attend to that work now, for if 
 we lose Monday's work we are likely to lose the week." 
 
 Then the sawyers, that I had so diligently sought by 
 skinning a dozen pine logs, with which to entice the shy 
 sun pearch and the blue bream, had to dry up and wither in 
 the bait gourd while I delved and toiled at some Monday 
 task that had been laid over until Saturday evening. 
 
 And just as sure as I laid up to enjoy a New Year's 
 day, just so sure did that industrious old gentleman knock 
 all my plans into flinderations. 
 
 One time, I remember well. New Year came on a sun- 
 shiny day, with the blue skies full of glorious light, and the 
 crisp air burdened with joy bells of promise, and I awoke 
 with pleasant anticipations of a perfect winter holiday. 
 
 We had planned a big rabbit hunt, and the dogs had 
 been kept in training, and I had cut off Ponchartrain's 
 rations for a whole week beforehand, so that he could stand 
 a show with those long, hungry, flop-eared hounds of the 
 Webb boys, that would lie down and roll over on a rabbit 
 track three days old, and yell as if their hearts would break, 
 and then get up and run forty miles in forty hours with a 
 long-drawn howl at every jump. 
 
 All the morning I spent in fixing up for the hunt. Uncle 
 Mose had made me a blowing horn out of the right horn of 
 the Jimmerson bull, and he had polished it up as slick as 
 glass and fastened a long, white buckskin string to it, so 
 that I might sling it over my shoulder. 
 
 I spent several hours in the back yard trying to learn 
 how to blow the horn, and I had tied Ponchartrain to the 
 big locust tree, so as to^train him to the sound of the horn. 
 
 When I would wind a blast Ponch would look up at me 
 in a pathetic sort of way, and toward the end of the seance 
 I thought that dog looked real unwell. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 105 
 
 / would have forgotten all about dinner, but for the fact 
 that Grandma sent Hetty, the house girl, out there to see if 
 the motherless yearHng had got his head hung in the fence. 
 When Hetty reported that it was me practicing, the re- 
 hearsal came to an abrupt conclusion. 
 
 At the dinner table Grandpa suddenly leaned back and 
 
 said : 
 
 " Well, my son, this is New Year's day. You know if 
 
 we do a good day's work to-day we are likely to keep it up 
 
 all the year ; but if we spend it in trampoosing around, we 
 
 are likely to idle about and do nothing all the balance of 
 
 the time." 
 
 "Dat's so, boss, de Lawd knows," ejaculated Uncle 
 Mose, who was standing just outside the door. He was a 
 deceitful old hypocrite, and didn't want to work any more 
 than I did, but the hope of a dinner induced him to sanc- 
 tion Grandpa's statements. 
 
 " Hey, is that you, Moses ? Give him some dinner, 
 Hetty ; you know this is New Year. And Moses, just as 
 soon as we get through we'll go on ove^ the creek and get 
 some timber for axe helves." 
 
 " Desso, boss, an' tankee, sah. I's wid you, sho's you 
 bo'n." 
 
 And I gazed longingly at the new horn hanging on a 
 nail^ and thought how much I was going to lose on that 
 rabbit hunt. 
 
 After dinner Grandpa bustled about and got the axe, and 
 Uncle Mose got a maul and wedge, and I was told to brmg 
 -along a couple of gluts, and away we went. It looked like 
 a funeral procession. Grandpa led the way, discoursing at 
 great length on the profitableness of labor and the beauties of 
 industry, and Uncle Mose followed close behind, trying his 
 iDest to step in Grandpa's tracks, and keeping up a string of 
 
106 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 " Desso's," and " Adzackly, sah's," and '' Dat's w'at I says,"" 
 and all such agreeable answers that served to mollify 
 Grandpa and increase his respect for Moses. 
 
 Next came myself, burdened with hopeless disappoint^ 
 ment, and wishing that Uncle Mose had the rheumatism 
 and that Grandpa had to go to court that day. Behind me, 
 with nonchalant air, and listless eye, and drooping tail, and 
 wagging ears, came Ponchartrain, without any special mis^ 
 sion, a simple looker-on in Venice. 
 
 Suddenly a bright thought occurred to me. I knew 
 where the bumble-bees had gone into winter quarters at 
 the root of a fine young hickory tree, and I knew further- 
 more that this sunny weather would stir the blood in their 
 torpid veins, and cause them to polish their stingers for the 
 summer campaign. 
 
 I peartened up my gait, and getting close to Grandpa, 
 I said eagerly: 
 
 "Grandpa, I know where there is the pur — tiest hick'ry^ 
 tree you ever saw. It's the very thing you want." 
 
 " I yi, my son, show it to me, and I'll see what you know 
 about axe-handle timber." 
 
 " Dat's so. Sma't chile dat is. Mek 'e ma'k some er 
 dese days, sho's yo' bo'ned. 
 
 I led the way to where the tree stood, near the bank of 
 the creek, and when Grandpa saw it he shaded his eyes^ 
 with his hands and looked at it critically from top to bot- 
 tom. Then he walked around and examined it from every 
 side. 
 
 "Moses, the boy is right. It's the very dinktum, eh.^" 
 
 " Dat's so, de Lawd knows, boss, an' it's des as I say r 
 dat's de sma'test boy in dis diggin's. Mek 'e ma'k some 
 day, sho's yo' bo'ned ; bet yo' dat he shakes hands wid de 
 gov'ner yit." 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 107 
 
 " Moses, what do you think of getting a maul out of the 
 butt cut?" 
 
 " Dat's de t'ing, de very t'ing, boss ; des dig 'em up by 
 de roots, an' ye got 'em, sho. Oh, I tell ye, dat chile's got 
 sense." 
 
 So they began to work. The soft, mellow loam was easy 
 to cut, and Uncle Mose chopped all around with the axe, 
 and then began to grabble the dirt away from the root of 
 the tree. Grandpa sat on a stump to give directions, and 
 Ponchartrain sat on his haunches, as he intently observed 
 Uncle Mose's proceedings. 
 
 I withdrew a few steps in search of sparkleberries, for I 
 had a premonition that there would be hvely times around 
 there presently. 
 
 " Hi ! " cried Uncle Mose, stopping short and assuming 
 a listening attitude. " Wat's dat } " 
 
 " What's what .?" said Grandpa. 
 
 "I heah sump'n 'zoom-m in dar. Spec its er snake." 
 
 "Tut, tut. It's just the water in the creek. Go ahead, 
 Moses." 
 
 Ponchartrain shifted his position, sniffed the air and 
 whined. 
 
 " Be quiet, sir," said Grandpa. " What's the matter w — " 
 
 "Wow-ow! Oh, Jesus, marster ! I'm snek bit!" and 
 with a yell Uncle Mose jumped up and down, and with a 
 roar like the rush of many waters the bees burst forth. 
 
 One struck Grandpa in the burr of the ear just as an- 
 other plumped against his chin, and he tumbled off that 
 stump and rose running. 
 
 " Kerslosh ! " I heard him hit the water, and in a mo- 
 ment I heard Uncle Mose as he plunged in after him. 
 
 I made a dash to catch up with the procession and see 
 the fun, and I got there just time enough to see Ponchar- 
 
lOS SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 train land squarely on top of Grandpa's bald head as it 
 popped up, and to catch Uncle Mose's "Jesus, marster! " 
 as he went under, 
 
 I was screaming with laughter, and ready to die, when 
 a bumble-bee took me in the back of the neck, and in I 
 went on top of Uncle Mose, who spluttered "Jesus, Mar- 
 ar-sh — " as he disappeared again. 
 
 Finally we crawled out on the opposite bank, and I 
 -scrambled through the thicket and came to the open field. 
 
 It was the most woe-begone looking party you ever saw. 
 
 Grandpa's left eye was closed, and his nose looked like 
 a frost-bitten potato. Uncle Mose's under lip hung down 
 like a half-cured ham, and Pon chart rain's head was as big 
 as a bull dog's. 
 
 The sun was low in the west and a cold wind was spring- 
 ing up. 
 
 "Going to be searching weather," said Grandpa, after 
 we reached the lane and were nearly home. 
 
 "Dat's so, boss, an' de Lawd knows hit don' hatter 
 's'arch fur ter fin' us." 
 
 V — s^ — / 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 109 
 
 OLD CALICO 
 
 When I was small and young (and I always was smaller 
 than I was young), I think I passed through some as tough 
 experiences as most tow-headed boys do. 
 
 Right here let me say a word of encouragement to tow- 
 headed boys. Their heads will not always be that color, for 
 mine is now getting grey very fast. Then boys, ought not 
 to grieve about whiskers I did, and now it costs me ten or 
 fifteen cents a week, according to the quality, to get a 
 shave. 
 
 I used to be the cow-pen boy, and no boy who has had to 
 serve an apprenticeship as a cow-pen boy in the flat woods 
 will ever pine to go West and become a cow boy In fact, 
 he will never want to be any other sort of a boy any more. 
 
 Oh, I used to have to paddle round on damp and drizzly 
 evenings, when the toads and frogs were conducting con- 
 cert more dismal than a Salvation Army pow-wow ; and their 
 " squa-a-n-k ! " and " squo-o-n-k ! " came in croaks and 
 squawks from every puddle. 
 
 Then I'd have the ground-itch, and my toes would crack 
 open, and I'd pour hot tallow in them and cut up all sorts 
 of shines. Of all the concentrated essences of the most 
 exquisite good feeling on this earth, scratching the ground- 
 itch IS the ne plus ultra. 
 
 We used to have a variety of remedies that I would love 
 to give you the benefit of now, but I guess this generation 
 never suffers such tortures as we did. Gourd vines, salt 
 water, red oak ooze, and all sorts of queer compounds were 
 used with varying success. 
 
 When great, gaping seams opened in our heels, we had a 
 
110 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 ^ . . 
 
 way of greasing a piece of woolen string, slipping it into 
 
 the crack, and then wearing it until the place healed over 
 
 and the ends of the string wore out, and in these heels of 
 
 mine there is now enough woolen yarn to knit a small pair 
 
 •of socks. 
 
 Cow-penning time was the bane of our lives. It was 
 hunt the cows of an evening, and hunt the calves of a morn- 
 ing, and we were ever in search of something which ex- 
 plains, in part, that yearning, hungry look in the eyes of 
 we sons of crackerdom. 
 
 Mother had an old cow called Calico, and that cow cost 
 me more than the world can ever know. But for old Calico 
 I might have been president, or I might have been in 
 •charge of a fat judgeship, or I could at least have ridden 
 the circuit. 
 
 But let by-gones be by-gones. I have forgiven her. 
 
 One time, however, I got even with old Calico. 
 
 Mother thought there was no cow so gentle and placid 
 as old Calico. I knew that her gentleness was laziness and 
 her placidity was deceit. That old cow would stand behind 
 a clay root and chew her cud for half an hour when I was 
 huntijig high and low for her, and then, when at last dis- 
 covered, she would look at me in a quizzical way that was 
 maddening. 
 
 One dreary morning, in early autumn, I was ordered to 
 go for the calves, and after searching about three hundred 
 acres of wood and field, I succeeded in gathering the sad- 
 eyed, woolly little wretches together, and arrived at the 
 cow-pen full of guile toward the whole bovine tribe. 
 
 Mother began milking, and I had to mind the calves off. 
 
 One by one the patient kine stalked languidly in to be 
 milked, and mother "so'ed," and " back-your-leg-ged," and 
 managed to get all milked but Calico. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. ' 111 
 
 I had hit upon an idea. I had a pin in my hand fooling 
 with my pet toe that had an aggravated case of ground itch, 
 and I got to thinking and thinking and thinking. 
 
 My thoughts cogitated as to whether as big a thing as 
 a cow could feel as small a thing as a pin, and I didn't 
 much believe that she could, or even if she could, whether 
 she would pay any attention to it or not. 
 
 Mother was milking Calico. 
 
 Calico was gentle. 
 
 Would Calico feel a pin prick ? 
 
 If so, would she mind it ? 
 
 No. 
 
 In the first place, she was too big to feel such a little 
 thing. 
 
 Secondly, she was too everlasting lazy to pay any atten- 
 tion to it. 
 
 The time of action had arrived. 
 
 I was standing on one foot near the gap. 
 
 I changed on to the other foot a step nearer to Calico. 
 
 I was on the off side. 
 
 Mother was on the nigh side. 
 
 Here was the time for the solution of a scientific 
 problem. 
 
 Should I miss it ? 
 
 I whistled a bar from my favorite tune, '' Cotton-Eyed 
 Joe." 
 
 I moved a little nearer to Calico, and then I paused and 
 pondered, and mother said, "So, Calico! " 
 
 Thinks I to myself, " I'll make you reap where you have 
 not sowed if you are not entirely bereft of all sensibility." 
 
 I expected to simply startle her from her reverie. She 
 shifted her cud and continued to chew with a long, rythmic 
 
112 ' SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 movement of her under jaw, and her ears laid back con- 
 tentedly. 
 
 I moved a step nearer, and could hear the " chu-r-r, 
 chu-r-r, chu-r-r" of the flowing milk, and then mother 
 remarked mechanically, '^ So, Calico!" 
 
 Painful was the moment of suspense as I reached out my 
 hand and leant over till I could touch her broad hip, and 
 then—!—!—! 
 
 With a wild bellow of surprise, pain and indignation, 
 Calico raised herself on her fore feet, and I flew over the cow 
 pen gap and fell with a dull thud among the wet potato 
 vines ; the bucket shot up and fell on mother's head in an 
 inverted position, and, choking with [ra^e and warm milk, 
 she gasped out ''s-so-o. Calico !" 
 
 But Calico was tearing through dog fennels and jimson 
 weeds like there was a whirligust ofjgad :flies at her heels,. 
 and the calf was doing his level best to catch up with her. 
 
 Then mother saw me. 
 
 " Wiiat did you do to that cow .? " 
 
 " Nothin'." 
 
 " I know better." 
 
 "No'm, I didn't." 
 
 "Yes you did, come 'ere to me." 
 
 I had to snicker or burst, although I knew my doom 
 was sealed. 
 
 " Yes-s, you're laughing, are you } I'll make you laugh 
 t'other side of your mouth." 
 
 As I reached the top of the fence she collared me, and 
 there was weeping and wailing and gnashing^of teeth. 
 
 Ah me ! At this distant day I can feel my legs tingle,, 
 but oh, my crackey ! I got even with old Calico. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 11 S 
 
 A FIRE HUNT. 
 
 Cold and drear was the aspect that greeted my eyes, as 
 I sat upon the old draw-bars by the horse lot and gazed 
 across the brown expanse of Blue Spring plantation. Wild 
 gusts of wind swept the fields at brief intervals, dying away 
 in a melancholy sigh, and succeeded by a depressing still- 
 ness, during which the eddying rifts of golden leaves of the 
 old China tree banked themselves in the fence jambs. In 
 the west the sun was setting, the only sign of his august 
 presence being the faint glow of the dark and dull reddish 
 tinge upon the banks of grey cloud that stretched across 
 the horizon. The great pine woods to the eastward rose 
 in shadowy gloominess, each bough and branch of the tall- 
 est trees fully outlined against the leaden sky. From the 
 northeast came a flock of wild ducks, flying high, and 
 directing their course to the more genial deeding grounds 
 toward the southwest. Half a dozen cattle were standing 
 in a crouching attitude in front of the draw-bars, their 
 rough coats looking all the more shaggy from their drawn 
 and pinched appearance. Now and then a yearling would 
 bleat in a peculiar whining, long-drawn kind of a way, and 
 the mother would answer in a subdued " mo-oo " that was 
 a sad thing to hear. And the hogs were squealing plain- 
 tively, and in fact everytliing wore an aspect of desolation. 
 
 While I was standing in the lane, thinking of the pit- 
 iableness of the animals that must spend the night outside, 
 I saw Uncle Mentor come out of the crib with a big basket 
 of corn on his shoulder. 
 
 " Where are you going .•* " I asked. 
 
 "Gwine ter feed de fatt'nin' hogs. Wan' ter go wi' 
 me.?" 
 
114 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 Of course I wanted to go. So away we went, down by 
 the old persimmon tree to the potato patch, where a large 
 number of phimp hogs were rooting in the soft earth, or 
 disporting themselves among the vines. Uncle Mentor 
 began throwing the corn right and left and calling, " Goo- 
 oop, goo-ooy, pig-goop," in the monotonous way he had, 
 and here they came from every direction. Some would 
 smell of the corn, then wheel about and kick up in a dis- 
 dainful manner. 
 
 " Dat's des de way dey do. Er fat hog's de sassies' fing 
 in de worl'. Dey don' squeal nudder. An' ef yo' let yo' 
 hog squeal in de pen 'e sho' not to git fat. Look at dat 
 ole sutty sow, da' ; she des too biggity fo' any use. Nevah 
 min', ole lady ; yo' git fixed fo' long." 
 
 , Before we left, the old man picked up several large 
 "nigger-killers" and put them in his basket. "Gwine ter 
 have roas' tater ter-night, an' ef yo' come down ter my 
 house I'll tell yo' 'bout'n er funny scrape ole man Dave an' *e 
 boss, Mars' Roderick, got inter one night sorter lack dis." 
 
 After supper I obtained permission to attend the seance. 
 When I reached the cabin Uncle Mentor was sitting on a 
 bench busily engaged in mending a basket. I watched 
 him as he dexterously twisted the long whiteoak splits into 
 shape, humming his familiar tune : 
 
 " Oh, walk in, walk in, walk in I say. 
 
 Walk in de pa'lah ter heah de banjo play. 
 
 Walk in de pa'lah ter heah de banjo ring, 
 
 An' watch de niggah fingah w'ile 'e pick it on de string." 
 
 Before the fire lay several big potatoes which, from 
 time to time, he turned around, so that they might be 
 thoroughly cooked without scorching. 
 
 " Now, tell me about the fire hunt, Uncle Mentor," said 
 I, with boyish impatience. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. ] 1 5 
 
 "Fiah hunt, didn' yo' say? Oh, yes, well I done 
 fo'got 'bout dat twel yo' mentioned it. Go dere in de 
 co'ner an' feel in dat big gou'd, an' yo' fin' some groun' 
 peas w'at I done had seasonin'. Yes, dat was er bad 
 scrape, I tell yo'. Yo' see ole man Dave 'e wus Mars 
 Roderick's right han' man. Ev'ywher' one go de yudder go. 
 Mars Roderick 'e wus de beatenes' man ter fiah hunt yo' 
 evah heerd uv. 'E in de woods mos all de time, an' Dave, 
 'e al'us went long wid 'e boss, 'e did, an' 'e was es good as 
 'e boss wus. I tell yo, w'at, 'e wus er good un. Mars Roder- 
 ick 'e tuck'n built Dave er cabin out on de roadside, erway 
 f'om de quatah, an' Dave an' 'e wife live out da' in gran' 
 style. But dey bu'nt a hole frough de back sticks of de 
 chimbly, an' Dave kep sayin' 'e gwine to fix it, but 'e didn't, 
 an' bime by dey bu'nt nudder hole frough right side uv de 
 fus one, an' neider one wusn't bigger'n an auger hole. 
 
 " One night, Mars Roderick an' Dave dey puts out in 
 de woods on er fiah hunt, dey did, an' de night was dahk es 
 pitch. By some means dey rambled 'round twel dey los' 
 de way, and dey* wan't no stars to tell 'em wey dey wus, an' 
 Mars Roderick, 'e say ' Dave, wey yo' reck'n we is 1 ' Dave, 
 'e so smart, 'e say, 'W'y, boss we right back uv de new 
 ground', wey I been gitt'n boa'ds.' ' No, we not,' Mars 
 Roderick say, 'we must be down close to de big flat wey I 
 built de hog pen.' F'om dat dey got to argyin', an' las' 
 Dave 'e say, 'Boss, I know de way home, I got two big 
 ole niggah-killer tatahs in de fiah, an' I'se hongrey, an' ef 
 yo' des go de way I tell yo' we be home in no time.' Den 
 dey started off, an' it 'gun to sorter mist er little. Las, dey 
 cum ter er tree what been fresh cut down, an' dey bofe 
 'membered dat it was a rail tree at de back side uv de new 
 groun'. Den dey bofe broke out in er laff, an' 'greed dat 
 dey was right, an' wusn't mo' dan er mile f'om home. Den 
 
116 SO UTHERN SCENES. 
 
 dey walked erlong right brisk, Mars Roderick keepin' de 
 light in de fiah-pan mov'in' 'bout 'hind 'im so es ter shine 
 de deeah's eye, ef 'e happen ter run 'pon one. Dey had'n^ 
 walked mo' dan er hund'ed yards w'en Mars Roderick 'e 
 stop right short an' reach 'e han' 'round so, an whispahlow 
 an' easy to Dave, '* Han' me de gun. We right close 
 tu de biggest ole buck in de range." Dave looked erhead, 
 an' sho' nuff, right out da' wus de eyes, des es plain es 
 day, an' de deeah mus' be mighty close 'case 'e eyes show 
 wide erpa't. Mars Roderick, 'e tuck de gun, 'e did, an 
 "bang!" went de gun, an' dem eyes des flew all to pieces, 
 an' somefin' des set up er squall dat yo' could er heerd er 
 ha'f a mile or mo', an' old Dave 'e broke off in de d'rection 
 uv de racket des er hollerin' an' say, * Oh Lo'd, Mars Rod- 
 erick, yo' done kill Patsy, an' mint my 'taters w'at I had er 
 roas'in, fo' God ! Mars Roderick, yo' done kilt Patsy ! ' 
 W'en 'e dashed inter de cabin Patsy wus up on de table er 
 yellin' lack de Old Nick. 
 
 " Patsy, Mars Roderick say, * wey yo' hit ? '' 
 " Oh, Lo'd ! Boss, I hit right yere in *de head, an' my 
 brains is comin' out." 
 
 " Ya! ya ! ya ! I can' he'p but laff w'en I fink about dat 
 scrape. W'en dey got er light, dey foun' out dat Patsy,, 
 fool lack, had des lay down wid 'er head to de fiah, des lack 
 er niggah, an' de tatahs was done cooked to er mush, an*^ 
 de fiah died down, an' Patsy went to sleep, an' was des er 
 snorin' er way. Dave an' Mars Roderick, dey wus 'fooled 
 'bout wey dey wus, and dey see de coals uv fiah frough dem 
 holes in de chimbly, an' dey fought dey wus de deeah's eyes, 
 an' v/'en Mars Roderick shot, 'e des scattered de coals, an' 
 ashes, an' de saf tatah all over de ole fool 'oman, an' hit's 
 er wondah de shot had'n' ter hit 'er, but dey did'n', an' old 
 Dave, ole cuss, 'e got so mad 'bout losin' 'e roas' tatahs 
 twel 'e lack ter. jump right on Patsy an' larrup 'er good 
 fashion 'bout it." 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. 1 1*7 
 
 A DEADFALL. 
 
 Mother was a great lover of geese, not for their own 
 intrinsic sake, but for the revenue derived from their feath- 
 ers ; and I always thought that the louder the goose cackled 
 the deeper the place it occupied in her housewifely heart. 
 
 I was never partial to geese, and especially to masculine 
 geese, for we had an old white gander that was the terror 
 of my infantile existence. I have worn blue spots on my 
 slim shins for many a weary day, inflicted by that gander. 
 
 Ganders never die. They may grow old and grey in 
 sin, but dead ganders are as scarce as dead gray mules. 
 
 Well, that old gander was boss of the bone-yard, and 
 he knew it, and he never missed an opportunity of showing 
 his maliciousness toward me. If I sat in the crib door, 
 -shucking corn, and happened to hang my foot outside the 
 door, first news I would know, that unrighteous fowl would 
 fetch a dig, and I would get up rather sudden and surprised 
 like, and stand on my hind legs and howl for a much longer 
 time than it takes to tell this. 
 
 Through the crack of the worm fence, he assaulted my 
 unprotected feet ; and he lay in wait under the kitchen 
 door-step, in the gloaming, and smote me hip and thigh. 
 
 I used to throw rocks at him, and lightwood knots, and 
 corn cobs, and everything I could get hold of. I concealed 
 minnow hooks in grains of corn and fed them to him. I 
 prayed that forty million forked streaks of lightning might 
 strike him under the left ear, but it all did no good. 
 
 His days were long upon the earth, and for ten gener- 
 ations, regularly every Spring, he had the plumpest goose of 
 last year's brood for a mate ; and he strutted around and 
 snatched the tail feathers out of the younger ganders who 
 
118 SO UTHERN SCENES. 
 
 dared pay any attention to her. When there were goslings 
 he cut lip and cavorted Hke the fowl fiend. (Copyright.) 
 I used to know a little song: 
 
 "O, lookee, lookee, here, 
 
 O, lookee, lookee, there, 
 O, lookee, lookee, 'way over yander : 
 
 For don't you see 
 
 That old grey goose 
 A-smilin' at the gander ! " 
 
 I used to sing it, whistle it, hum it, and dream about it. 
 The air was weirdly pathetic, and appealed to my inner soul. 
 
 Mother didn't relish the hymn, nor the tune, either, to 
 any alarming extent, and she generally ordered nie to get 
 out the minute I began to pipe — 
 
 " O, lookee, lookee, here, 
 O, lookee, lookee, there — 
 
 and, like a dutiful son, I generally got out at once. 
 
 One day I conceived a project by which I might slaugh- 
 ter a whole covey of partridges at one fell swoop. I had 
 been killing sparrows by setting a plank on triggers ; and 
 I argued that, if half a dozen sparrows were slain by a 
 single plank, a whole host of partridges might be crushed 
 by one fall of a shutter. 
 
 With me, to conceive a scheme was to put it in opera- 
 tion. That is how I came to get my heels locked behind 
 my neck, and couldn't get them undone; but of this an- 
 other time. 
 
 I went to the lint room at the gin house and secured a 
 big shutter. It was so heavy that I could scarcely carry it; 
 but by much toil and travail, I managed to drag it to the 
 edge of the plum orchard where the birds used. 
 
 Carefully adjusting the triggers, I scattered bait in lib- 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 119 
 
 eral profusion under the triggers, under the shutter and for 
 a considerable distance around it. 
 
 Then with a malignant leer of prospective triumph I 
 stole away on tiptoe, humming — 
 
 " O, lookee, lookee, here, 
 
 O, lookee, lookee, there, 
 O, lookee, lookee, 'way over yander ; 
 
 For don't you see 
 
 That old gray goose 
 A-smilin' at the gander ! " 
 
 The first day I went to see about my scheme I found 
 some of the bait gone, but the birds were shy and would 
 not come too near the formidable looking trap. 
 
 Next day I went, and still no sign. But that afternoon 
 mother said : 
 
 " Son, I'm going up in the field to wring broom straw, 
 this evening, and I want you to help me." 
 
 "Yesm." 
 
 " Don't run off now, for I'm compelled to attend to it 
 this evening." 
 
 "No'm." 
 
 " You be ready when I call you now, and don't fool 
 around about it." 
 
 "Well'm." 
 
 But I thought I'd get a peep at my deadfall as I went, 
 and when we came near the plum orchard I lagged behind 
 and finally got on a stump so I could see it. 
 
 " What are you doing } " 
 
 " Lookin' to see if my trap's down." 
 
 ** Where's the trap.?" 
 
 •* Yonder by the plum orchard, and — Whoopee ! It's 
 down, and I bet I've got a whole drove of partridges," and 
 1 dashed off through the briars at the top of my speed. 
 
 Mother came on more leisurely, and I had time to take 
 
120 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 in the situation before she came up, but I was afraid they 
 were not all dead and some might get away. I jumped 
 around when I saw the bait was all gone, and at last I 
 raised the shutter carefully. 
 
 Horror, of horrors ! As I peeped cautiously under it I 
 saw the tip of a white goose feather, and honeyed expec- 
 tancy turned to the gall of disappointment, and I wished I 
 were dead and gone to Alabama. 
 
 Just then her majesty appeared on the scene. 
 
 '' How many did you get } " 
 
 ^'Dunno'm." 
 
 ■" Haven't you looked ? *' 
 
 " Yes'm, but I didn't go to do it. I declare I did'nt," I 
 whindled. 
 
 ''Didn't go to do what.?" 
 
 ''To— to— to— " V 
 
 She had raised the shutter and there lay that wicked 
 old son of Belial of a gander cold in. death. He was mashed 
 as flat as a fritter, and he hardly knew what did it. 
 
 I lifted up my voice and wept as I felt a vigorous hand 
 laid on the slack of my pantaloons, and then I hit the 
 ground, " Kerblim ! " 
 
 " You little rascal !" Her voice was thick with emotion. 
 " Kill my geese ! " She raised the shutter. " I'll teach 
 you to kill up my geese ! " " Kerwhop ! " the shutter came 
 down on me. *' I'll make you set dead falls ! " She was 
 getting excited. " All you think about ! " She had got on 
 top of the shutter. " Always studyin' up some meanness ! " 
 Patter, patter, went her feet as she danced up and down on 
 the shutter, and I felt like a house had fallen on me, and 
 just as I got so flattened out I couldn't holler, the shutter 
 was thrown aside, and grabbing that dead gander by the 
 neck she wore his corpse out on me, and the feathers flew. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 121 
 
 Next day I was sitting on the fence wondering if two 
 snakes were to start to swallow each other what would hap- 
 pen, when I absent mindedly began to whistle — 
 
 " O, lookee, lookee, here, 
 O, lookee, lookee, there, 
 O, lookee, lookee, 'way over yander ; 
 For don't you see 
 That old grey — " 
 
 The memory of that tragedy overcame me, and I sud- 
 denly realized that the edge of the rail hurt me where I 
 was sore, and the whistle died away on my lips. 
 
 o^-»— ■ — — ^ ^ »^o 
 
122 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 A WILD HOG HUNT. 
 
 Sometimes — I may say very frequently — hogs would 
 stray off into the river swamp while young and go wild. 
 Within the impenetrable fastnesses of our Southern swamps 
 they would increase and multiply to an alarming extent, 
 and the plantation stock would become thoroughly demor- 
 alized by them, and they would get to be regular marau- 
 ders, breaking into the cornfields at night, then tearing 
 down corn and eating as much as they chose, when they 
 would betake themselves to the swamp again. 
 
 Early on a fine morning about the first of October,. 
 Grandpa came out on the piazza and called for Mentor. 
 
 The old man was soon on hand, and, feeling that there 
 was some new project on hand, I hung around to investi- 
 gate the matter. 
 
 " Mentor, come here and get a dram. We'll have some 
 rare sport to-day if Ponchartrain is in trim." 
 
 " Your bery good healt, sah," said the old man, as he 
 swallowed the generous bumper of New England rum. 
 ** Ponchartrain is all right, boss ; an' I bin thinkin' some 
 time dat ef yo' wuz gwine to do anyfing 'bout dem* hogs 
 yo' bettah niak' 'aste 'bout it, fo' de time run off mighty 
 fas'." 
 
 "Well, as soon as we get breakfast we'll go down to the 
 river and see if we can jump any of 'em." 
 
 I pricked up my ears, for I knew that a wild hog hunt 
 was up. 
 
 " Grandpa, couldn't I help ? '' I asked, thinking that I 
 would be surer of gaining my point if I tendered my ser- 
 vices. 
 
 " Help ? Great jewhilikins ! What could you do with a 
 big wild barrow with his bristles up ? " 
 
SOUTH E RN SCENES. 1 23 
 
 ** I dont know, sir, but I could carry the strings to tie 
 em with.'' 
 
 ** Ha ! ha!" laughed grandpa, ''That's a capital idea. 
 Well, I reckon you can go, but Jake says you got scared at 
 a 'possum under a clay root, and I consider you a poor sol- 
 dier."' 
 
 I retired in confusion, but I was on hand when Uncle 
 Mentor harnessed old Beck to the lumbering cart, and 
 grandpa, mounted on old Bill, his favorite riding horse, with 
 his hogskin saddle with its low pommel, looked every way 
 like a hunter to my unsophisticated eye. *' Come on, Pon- 
 chartrain," and the dog leaped about and yelped for joy as 
 the cavalcade rolled off down the lane. I sat in the cart 
 behind Uncle Mentor, and plied him with various questions 
 regarding the wild hog business, and he, grumbling good 
 naturedly, entered into all the little details. 
 
 " A-h, chile ! yo' do lack all boys ; yo' wants ter know all 
 'bout men's wo'k 'long w'en yo' too little ter doit, an' des es 
 soon es yo' gits big 'nough yo' gits too lazy, an' meks out dat 
 yo' done fo'got how ter do anyfing. Lack ole man Jeff say 
 w'en 'e see de monkey. 'E tuck'n say, 'e did : * Hello ! 
 Bubbah, can' yo' talk } ' An' de ole monkey 'e grin at Jeff, 
 den Jeff he tu'n 'roun' an' 'e laff and say, 'e did: ' Ya ! ya ! 
 ya ! Bubbah, yo' no talk 'case yo' 'fraid yo' marsa put yo' to 
 wo'k.' Hit's mos'ly des es Jeff say, too, sho's yo' bo'ned 
 hit is." 
 
 " But how about the wild hogs .''" 
 
 " Oh, bless yo' h'a't, well, dey des gits off a'ter de nice 
 juicy aco'ns, an' de sweet pine mas', an bimeby dey gits 
 kin' 'er sullen, an' dey say goo-oo, guff! w'en yo' frows de 
 co'n ter 'em, an' nex' fing yo' know dey done gone wil', an 
 sot up fo' deyse'l in de rivah swamp. An' I tell you' right 
 now, don' yo' nevah put pen'ence in er hog w'at show de 
 
124 , SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 white uv 'e eyes. Dey same like er dish-faced mule — dey 
 gwine ter play yo' er trick/sometime, sho.'' 
 
 Just at this time we came to the edge of the river 
 swamp. We called it the Half Moon Bluff, from the fact 
 that the sand ridge ran right up to the channel of the 
 stream, which left the swamp above and curved around 
 against the face of the hill in a beautiful crescent, entering 
 the swamp again about five hundred yards below. Grandpa 
 had done fastened old Bill to a stout sapling, and Beck was 
 soon tied to a swinging limb, because she rubbed the bridle 
 off so bad, and then we started for the swamp. 
 
 About twenty feet below us flowed the beautiful wine- 
 colored water, and under the willows, across the stream, 
 there glistened a snowy sand-bar. 
 
 Where we entered the gloomy swamp a dry lagoon led 
 off between two solid walls of black gums, water oaks and 
 tupeloes. In narrow places their interlacing branches met 
 overhead, shutting out the sunlight, and causing a soft 
 brown twilight that made the gnarled, knotted and water- 
 lined trunks of the trees appear beautifully fantastic. The 
 IdIuc berries of the black gums hung thick among the varie- 
 gated foliage, and the drooping branches of the tupeloes 
 "bore great clusters of the green, yellow and scarlet fruit. 
 So pretty it was that I would bite one now and then, and 
 make a wry face at its sharp, acid flavor. 
 
 ''Yerewey dey bin, boss, Jemini ! Wat er track. Dis 
 must be dat ole black barrer w'at runned de boys out'n de 
 new groun' las' week. De ole cuss lack ter tare up dat 
 little fiste uv Jake's." 
 
 " Yes, that's a big hog, boys, and we'll have some fun. 
 He has been here this morning, too, but he is lying up now. 
 Come here, Ponch ! — hogs, boy, hogs ! Sick 'em, old man," 
 and away went the dog on the trail. But it was a cold scent. 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. \ 25 
 
 and he got along slowly. This gave me an opportunity to 
 watch the crested blue jays as they gossipped and chattered 
 among the acorn trees, and the little, tiny, swamp canaries, 
 with their puffy yellow bodies, and the little black hood tied 
 coquettishly under their chins. As we passed a little pool 
 an Indian pullet, a bluish-purple water bird that flits about 
 like a shadow, perched on a branch in some thicket and 
 poked its long neck out to investigate the surroundings. 
 It seldom utters a sound, and its movements are as noise- 
 less as a shadow. But its bright yellow eyes are always on 
 the lookout, and you seldom surprise it. Then I saw a 
 great horned owl with his speckled body perched bolt up- 
 right on the lower limb of a big tupelo, his horn-like tufts 
 erect, and his near-sighted eyes staring down at us in evi- 
 dent perplexity. He turned his head slowly as we passed, 
 keeping those solemn eyes fixed upon us, without moving 
 his body at all. 
 
 " Ef yo' des wan' ter kill a owl don't was'in' yo' 
 ammernetion ; des keep 'im tu'nin' 'roun' an' erroun", 
 'twel 'e git 'e head mos' clean facin' 'e tail, an' den des mak' 
 er long leap, an' 'e try to foller yo' so suddint lack 'twel 'e 
 brek 'e necks, so dey say," said Uncle Mentor ; but just then 
 Ponchartrain became very active and set off through an 
 almost impassable thicket of palmetto and brambles, and in 
 afewminutes we heard the "Goff ! goff ! goff !" of a startled 
 hog, and then old Ponchartrain barking furiously as he 
 gave chase. We ran down the open lagoon, and arrived at 
 a bend just time enough to get a glimpse of the great black 
 beast with his long tusks, flapping ears and bristling hair, 
 as he rushed from the covert, crossed the opening and 
 plunged into the tangled swamp below. We all yelled at 
 the top of our voices, and Uncle Mentor ran down toward 
 the river, while Grandpa turned out so as to reach the open 
 
126 SO UTHERN SCENES. 
 
 woods, and as he was too fat to run fast I followed him. 
 
 After tripping up over a thorny bramble that scratched 
 my shins pretty badly, I emerged from the swamp just as 
 Grandpa stopped to catch his breath and to send out a 
 startling whoop of encouragement to Ponch, who was now 
 baying the hog away down the swamp. Away we went, 
 and in five minutes were in a little opening in the center of 
 a dense thicket of thorny vines and bushes. Ponchartrain 
 was jumping around the thicket barking, and we could just 
 discern the dim outlines of the great, shaggy monster, and 
 hear the champing of his muscular jaws and the deep 
 growls from his muffled throat. 
 
 Just then Uncle Mentor came up from the other 
 side, and cried, "sick 'im, Ponch, take 'im boy!" and 
 threw a chunk into the thicket to attract the hog. Ponch 
 made a wild leap, and with a harsh cry the game 
 broke cover and ran between Grandpa's legs, completely 
 upsetting him, and scaring me so bad that I shinned 
 up a sapling and slid down again, while the hog and 
 the dog were struggling together, filling the air with 
 the wildest shrieks, yells, groans and snarls that ever 
 startled the sleeping echoes of a Southern swamp. Uncle 
 Mentor came to Pouch's assistance in a twinkling, and after 
 a great tussle between Grandpa, Mentor, Ponch and the 
 black barrow, the latter was vanquished. As they drew , 
 the last knot in the stout leather thong, and told Ponch to 
 "be done, now," I decided I would descend from my lofty 
 perch, and was terribly shocked when I found that in my 
 excitement I had not climbed up the tree at all, but was 
 sitting flat on a tussock, clasping the sapling in my arms 
 as if my life depended on it. 
 
 Then they got a stout pole and placed it between the 
 fastenings of his legs and his body, and by taking each 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 127 
 
 an end they succeeded in getting him to high land, and 
 then to the cart. 
 
 *' Boss, see dis ma'k in 'e eah ? I knows dis ole shote^ — 
 de very same little debl w'at we fought wus gwine ter die 
 wid de thumps three year ergo las' spring. 'Membah yo' 
 tole me didn't mek no diffunce wedder we ma'k 'im or no, 
 'case 'e die anyway, an' I say I gwine put 'em in er little 
 diffrent ma'k, an' 'ere h'it is, des like I tole yo'. Who'd er 
 fought de little w'ite-eyed scoun'l would er cut up devil- 
 ment. But hit's des luck, I say. Don' never trus' er hog 
 w'at show de white in 'e eye ; 'e boun' ter go wrong.'' 
 
 "I guess we'll fix him now, though," said grandpa, and 
 then we entered the swamp again. But although we 
 hunted till dinner time we found no more, and had to 
 return with no other spoils than old ** Blackie." 
 
 ** Nevah min', ole fellah," said Uncle Mentor, as we 
 drove home, *' yo' done cuttin' de big Ike 'mong de hogs 
 now. De nex' time yo' have is w'en yo' made inter sasse- 
 ridge meat fo' de res' uv us hones' folkses ter eat. Yo' be 
 ap' ter let de new groun' co'n 'lone atter dis, only es de ole 
 boss 'lowances yo'." 
 
128 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 MALACHI. 
 
 Ah, the old log church ! 
 
 With its long roof of clapboards, and the swag in the 
 middle where the back bone had weakened, and the broad,, 
 shutterless door, and the puncheon steps in front. 
 
 Then the side door where the women went in, and the 
 window at the back of the pulpit. And the rows of benches 
 running crosswise, and down next to the pulpit, either side^ 
 rows of benches that ran lengthwise. 
 
 These were for the old folks — mothers and fathers in 
 Israel — and the old women sat on one side and the old men 
 on the other. 
 
 The Amen corner. Grandpa had his seat up there, and 
 he wore the old bench slick sitting there listening to the 
 sound of the gospel and raising the hymns. 
 
 The old man — sacred be his memory — owned much 
 cattle. He pastured his flocks and herds from the Ocmul- 
 gee to the Flint, and from Stono, where the devil dropped 
 his shot gourd ; and old Pindertown, on the north, to the 
 black swamps of the Okeefenokee, and the pimple hills of 
 Ocopilco on the South. 
 
 He hunted his cattle over an area as big as the German 
 Empire. 
 
 He carried a whip that you could hear a mile, and when 
 he hollered *' cow holler," the echoes reverberated from 
 pine-clad ridge and the banks of reedy river, till you would 
 have thought it was a regiment of whangdoodles sounding 
 the charge. 
 
 Grandpa was very religious. He used to get formida- 
 bly happy, and when he shouted he shook the walls of the 
 old log house like Joshua and his ram-shorns on the plains 
 of Jericho. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 129 
 
 And he could talk at love-feast till the tears would trickle 
 down the cheeks of the brethren like the summer rain on 
 the furrowed brow of Signal Mountain. 
 
 When he prayed I always thought the good Lord paid 
 some attention to him, for the old man meant every word 
 he said, and he spoke out loud, and if he wanted rain he 
 just asked for it. 
 
 Some of the rest of them I was a little doubtful about ; 
 but I knew the good Lord was obliged to hear Grandpa. 
 
 I can see him now, raise himself, clear up his throat, 
 and as the preacher finished "lining out" the hymn, the 
 old man's broad chest would expand, a new light would 
 come into that keen grey eye that was as sharp as an 
 eagle's ; and — 
 
 " All hail the power of Jesus' name, 
 Let Angels prostrate fall." 
 
 Another pause while the next two lines were read and 
 like the rich throb of some great organ — 
 
 " Bring forth the royal diadem 
 
 And crown Him Lo-o-rd of All — 
 Bring forth the roy-al di-a-dem 
 
 And crow-n H-im Lo-o-rd of All ! " 
 
 Weaker voices swelled the grand old anthem of triumph, 
 but Grandpa's voice led all the rest. 
 
 It was like the deep rich roll of summer thunder, accom- 
 panied by the rythmic patter of the falling rain. 
 
 I just knew then, and I have no doubt to this day, that 
 angels gazed over the walls ot paradise and chanted a joy- 
 ous refrain. 
 
 I was a little Catholic. Too young to know much about 
 it, and I looked upon Grandpa as my father in God. 
 
 And my confidence was not misplaced. 
 
] 30 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 This very night, somewhere beyond the twinkling stars 
 of heaven, the old man is wandering among perennial pas- 
 tures and by streams that never go dry. And his great 
 big heart is throbbing with calm contentment, and his 
 great big voice is leading some choir of angel voices in that 
 same old song — 
 
 "And crown Him Lord of all ! " 
 
 One time, howbeit, the old man got me into a predic- 
 ament. 
 
 It was one Sunday, when they had love-feast. Those 
 wiregrass Methodists had real feasts of love in those days, 
 when they laid aside the bickerings and cares and the 
 fretfulness of earth, and gathered themselves to worship 
 the God of love. 
 
 And the sun shone on leafy trees, and the winds were 
 sweet and low as they sang softly among the pmes. Wild 
 birds flitted from wind-swayed bough to blooming thicket, 
 and at the foot of the hill the streamlet crooned among the 
 pebbles. 
 
 Far away in the golden deeps of the summer heavens 
 cloud-ships lay at anchor, soon to hoist sail for the land of 
 dreams. 
 
 One by one the elder members arose and told their 
 experiences, and, good souls, magnified the few small sins 
 their simple lives had known into black and bitter wrongs 
 against their God. 
 
 Grandpa sat with his hands on the back of the bench in 
 front of him, and listened with deepest interest to all that 
 was said, now smiling gladly with one whose face beamed 
 with the gladness of hope; now brushing off a tear in 
 sympathy with some one whose anguish of spirit wrung 
 scalding tears from a burning heart. 
 
 I grew drowsy." I had committed but few sins. Stole a 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 131 
 
 few watermelons, perhaps ; or caused Ponchartrain to kill 
 the tabby cat's kitten ; or broke up a bluebird's nest ; or 
 told a story about going in swimming. But they were sins 
 itoo small for God or Grandpa either to mind much. 
 
 I sat on a crosswise bench where I could watch Grandpa 
 and keep my eye on the preacher, all at the same time. 
 Besides, I wanted to swap knives with Charlie Remington 
 as soon as they all got through, and the love-feast was of 
 only secondary interest to me. 
 
 Grandpa's time came. 
 
 I was watching a jaybird in an oak tree outside, and my 
 •eyes were trymg to make me believe there were two jay- 
 hirds, when I knew there was but one. « 
 
 The old man arose, and resting his hands on the back 
 •of the bench, he gazed away off in the distance for a 
 inoment, and then cleared his throat. 
 
 "A-hem! ' 
 
 He took the big red handkerchief from his hat by his 
 side, wiped his ruddy face, and another — 
 
 "A-hem ! " 
 
 Then he began deliberately — 
 
 " Well, bretherin, I feel that we aire all sinful creatures 
 in the sight of God. The Scripter saith : 'He that saith he 
 liveth and sinneth not is a liar, and the truth aint in 'im ! ' 
 
 " But I don't b'lieve in puttin' too much distress on our 
 sins and shortcomin's. We're bad enough without that. 
 
 " Let us be of good cheer, and not be cast down. Our 
 Saviour tells us that He will send a Comforter, and 'if I go 
 not, the Comforter will not come.' I am mighty well satis- 
 fied to take His word in all these matters. 
 
 " He has gone to prepare us a home, but He has not left 
 us hopeless. That is the beauty of religion. 
 
 "And I want to tell you a source of great comfort to me. 
 
132 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 You know for sev'ral weeks I've been a-ridin' in the woods and 
 I ain't had much time to attend to my duties Uke I ort to^ 
 
 but I've kept my Bible with me, and I've been a readin' at 
 
 odd chances 
 
 "And I want to tell you a httle book that I've came 
 acrost in the Bible that has done me more good than a lit- 
 tie. And I want you all to read it keerfully. It's a little 
 book away over in the back of the Old Testyment, and you 
 mought miss it unless you looked close. 
 
 " Mind what I tell you, now, and 'tend to this right away. 
 Fust thing when you go home, do you hunt it up and read 
 it keerfully. 
 
 **Away out yander in them lonesome woods " — and one 
 rough, brown hand was raised in the direction of the forest — 
 ''that little book has be'n a comforter to me. 
 
 "It is the Httle book of Malachi ! " 
 
 Bang ! 
 
 The fist came down on the back of the seat ; I started 
 from my doze, the jaybird flitted away, several old men. 
 groaned, and several old women said "Bless the Lord ! " 
 
 The old man sat down. 
 
 " Malachi, Malachi, Malachi." 
 
 The name seemed imbedded in my memory like a bullet 
 in a tree. 
 
 "Malachi." 
 
 All the day it haunted me, and at night I awoke from a. 
 dream and muttered, " Malachi ! '' 
 
 Next day I kept thinking over it, and it bothered me. 
 
 "Malachi." 
 
 I would look it up. Grandpa said it was good to read^ 
 and Grandpa knew. So I would make a still hunt for 
 Malachi. 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. \ 8.- 
 
 I found it, just as he said, and I read it over and over — 
 skipped the hard names and spelled out the long words. 
 
 But to save my life I never was able to discover any- 
 thing of special interest in Malachi. I found it very short, 
 and I decided that was why he found it so comfortable. 
 He could read it while his horse was eating, and be done 
 with it. 
 
 And although I reverence the very wild vines that 
 clamber over his crumbling tomb, and cherish every mem- 
 ory of the good man that is gone, I am still puzzled about 
 Malachi. 
 
 Perhaps 
 
 It I should live to be 
 The last leaf on the tree 
 
 In the spring, I might find that comforter which the old 
 
 man found in reading Malachi. 
 
134 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 OLD PENNY. 
 
 Old Penny ! 
 
 Ah, what mellow memories are awakened by the sound 
 of that name ! 
 
 My Uncle John was one of the best men I ever knew„ 
 He had Hardshell Baptist proclivities, was as honest as the 
 day, and a jam-up man in every sense of the word. 
 
 But in the good old days he possessed the singular pecr.- 
 liarity of owning things that were small. He had the 
 smallest ax I ever saw, his hogs were guinea, he grew little 
 cob corn, and he owned Penny. 
 
 Away back, before the woods were burned, that little old 
 mealy-faced mule was foaled. Her mother was a jenny 
 and her father — well, he was some sort of a nondescript 
 quadruped, and Penny was no bigger than a pound of soap 
 after a hard day's washing. 
 
 Uncle John had a little two-wheeled cart, just the size 
 for Penny, and when he hitched up and mounted Penny, 
 the man and the mule and the cart looked like they were 
 made for each other. 
 
 On a few acres of poor, pimply, pine land, that good old 
 farmer with that little old mule made a good honest living 
 and reared a large family of children, and the days of his 
 life passed as quietly and calmly as if the great busy world 
 were as far removed from him as the twinkUng stars of the 
 midnight sky from the drifting clouds of autumn. 
 
 One time they had a wedding at another uncle's house, 
 and this event was to be very largely attended. Mother 
 put on my little velvet coat and my new copperas and 
 check breeches, with the galuses, and my copper-toed shoes 
 and my cap that Uncle Jimmy gave me ; and we started to 
 the wedding. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 135 
 
 She rode old John and I rode behind. The way was 
 long and lonely, and my short legs got awful tired as we 
 jogged along the lonely road among the whispering pines. 
 
 Past the cypress ponds, and across the Big Branch, with 
 its wine-colored waters flowing over the sunny sands, and 
 on into the big road we traveled, 
 
 I was not up in wedding matters, and I philosophized 
 and speculated a good deal. 
 
 Old John pudged along with his ears flopping and his 
 eyes half closed, and nobody would have dreamed that the 
 old scoundrel cultivated a sin^-le evil thouo:ht. 
 
 As we came to a sharp turn in the road, with a thicket 
 just ahead, suddenly old John fetched a wild snort, and 
 wheeling around, he kicked up his heels and away he went, 
 leaving mother among the gallberry bushes by the roadside ; 
 and I, unfortunate fellow, landed square on my nose, strik- 
 ing the hardest place in that hard road, and the world be- 
 came illuminated by more stars than Gallileo ever dreamed 
 of in his wildest imaginings. 
 
 And the cause of all the trouble was soon apparent. 
 There, just in front of us, stood old Penny, with Uncle John 
 a-straddle of her, and the little old rip was so allfired ugly 
 that she scared old John out of his senses. 
 
 Uncle John was by our side in a twinkling, and mother 
 was laughing, while I wept and wiped my crushed and bleed- 
 ing nose. I think Penny actually smiled as she eyed old 
 John, who was standing all a-tremble with fright, the old 
 villain being too lazy to run far. 
 
 Uncle John caught him for us, and got us up again ; but 
 the wedding and all its prospective pleasures had no 
 charms for me with my nose in a sling, and all because of 
 old Penny. John evidently thought she was a ghost of 
 
136 SOU'THERN SCENES. 
 
 some departed mule, for he would not pass her, and Uncle 
 John had to lead her out in the woods till we got past. 
 
 Long afterward — after the war closed and my good old 
 uncle came home to resume the quiet and even tenor of 
 his uneventful life — he found that Penny was growing stiff 
 in the joints, and his farm work required a younger and 
 stronger animal. 
 
 But his heart's best affections were centered on the lit- 
 tle old brindled mule that had grown gray in his service. 
 He purchased a young mare, and broke her to the plow and 
 the cart, but she had frisky ways that did not set well with 
 the quiet old man, who was himself growing aged and worn 
 with toil. 
 
 He kept Penny, although it was frequently suggested 
 that he swap her. Finally the little old mule gave out, and 
 one morning, when the old farmer went out to feed the 
 stock. Penny was unable to get up. 
 
 Broadside she lay under the shed, with her dimming 
 eyes turned pathetically toward the form of her kind mas- 
 ter, who spoke to her as tenderly as if she had been a child 
 instead of a poor little dumb brute. 
 
 The young mare was prancing and kicking up around 
 the lot, and whinnying with pure wantonness, but the old 
 man paid no attention to her gambols. The mists gathered 
 in his eyes. He was thinking of the days long passed, when 
 he came there to that wilderness of unbroken forest with 
 his dark-eyed bride, a few head of wild cattle, and a few 
 guinea hogs and Penny. His mind reverted to all the joys 
 and sorrows that had lighted and shadowed his life. He 
 remembered the grievous time when he reverently closed 
 those dark eyes and turned to pacify his week-old baby boy, 
 who was never to know a mother's love. 
 
 All these, and many more incidents and episodes of a 
 
so [/THE A' A' SCENES. 1 37 
 
 life of toil, passed through the old man's eyes as he watched 
 the dying throes of the poor little companion of his labors, 
 and as the last low sigh of departing life escaped from the 
 quivering nostrils, the good old man turned aw^ay, and lean- 
 ing against a fence he wept a few tears of sorrow over the 
 close of the earthly career of the little mule. 
 
 And we boys all felt like one of the family had passed 
 away, and we felt sad when we went by the empty stall and 
 looked in and missed the familiar form of old Penny. 
 
 »>- X X- ^^^ 
 
 •>— -^ ^ .-<0 
 
138 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 MY FIRST PAIR OF BOOTS. 
 
 Sweet are the memories of childhood. 
 
 No matter if that childhood were clouded with disap- 
 pointments, memory bleaches the shadows and burnishes 
 the sunbeams, and the farther away we get from it the 
 brighter grows the picture. 
 
 Once Grandpa gave me a little frosty-sided calf that I 
 loved as I loved myself. 
 
 Because her coat was of a beautiful pink and white 
 color, and her tapering horns were ivory white, tipped with 
 carnelian, I called her " Rose." 
 
 Oh, what a treasure that calf was ! 
 
 I used to watch her feeding with other cattle, and she 
 seemed to be the daintiest of the herd. 
 
 They licked up fennels, weeds and all in a gross and 
 greedy fashion, while Rose only nipped the tenderest 
 tidbits of green- grass that grew among the violets and 
 buttercups. 
 
 Among the coveted treasures of my boyish dreams was 
 a pair of boots with red tops and shiny letters on them. 
 The hope of possessing these haunted my dreams by night 
 and troubled my thoughts by day. 
 
 But I could never secure enough cash at one time to 
 purchase them, and I just went on plotting and planning, 
 hoping and anticipating as the years rolled .by. 
 
 Every Christmas I hoped to get a pair of boots for a 
 present; every birthday I looked with eagerness for some 
 good friend to bring me a pair of boots. 
 
 I became so deeply imbued with the hope and longing;, 
 for this one possession, that all my plans centered on that; 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. 1 39 
 
 idea. All the pictures that I drew of future life had a pair 
 of shiny boots in the foreground. 
 
 I used to look at prints of Napoleon in high boots, and 
 I thought if I only had the boots, he might keep the fame 
 all to himself. 
 
 One winter evening, when the wind blew sharp and 
 shrill, and a raw mist hung over the hills, I heard a low 
 "moo-oo" at the lot gate, and going out there I found 
 Rose, shivering in the lane, and staggering around her was 
 a little clumsy calf, just as near like Rose as it was possible 
 for a calf to be like its mother. 
 
 Oh, how proud I was! 
 
 The big gate was flung wide open, and Rose was soon 
 sheltered snugly, and a big basket of shucks and an armful 
 of nubbins at her disposal, and the little old wobbly calf 
 was curled up in a corner, sleeping like a kitten on a rug. 
 
 I was proud and happy. 
 
 Rose had a calf, and I had two cattle instead of one, 
 and I valued that calf almost as much as I would have 
 valued a pair of boots. 
 
 Winter hung on tenaciously that year. The chill winds 
 of March kept the birds and the blossoms disheartened, 
 and the cattle suffered severely. 
 
 But I looked after Rose and the calf, little '' Dock," as 
 1 christened him, with the tenderest care. 
 
 I saw that she was turned into the rye patch every day, 
 and I gave her shucks and nubbins every night. 
 
 And oh ! how jealous she was of that little calf. 
 
 Did you ever notice the new light that comes in a 
 woman's eyes when she looks on her first-born baby.-* 
 There is something ineffably tender in the expression. 
 The mingled hopes of a thousand love-dreams seem en- 
 twined in that look. 
 
140 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 Do you know animal mothers are very much the same 
 way? A cow can tell the bleat of her calf, or a ewe the 
 cry of her lamb, among ten thousand. 
 
 I used to watch the fond, eager look of Rose, as she 
 gazed on that calf, and imagine how much she loved him. 
 
 One evening in March the wind had been blowing pretty 
 sharp, and there were a number of dead pines that had 
 caught fire in the sap, and were burning fitfully, as the 
 wind rose and fell. 
 
 At twilight Rose was not at the bars, and little Dock 
 was fidgeting around, bleating piteously, and peeping 
 through the bars in the direction of the field where his 
 mother was accustomed to feed. 
 
 I got up on the fence and called aloud as the dusk deep- 
 ened, but there was no response. 
 
 Finally, I went in search of Rose, but I failed to find 
 her, and that night I was oppressed by such a strange fore- 
 boding that I could not eat my supper, and went to bed 
 with a pain at my heart, for I could hear the little plaintive 
 bleat of the calf, as he stood shivering in the darkness 
 ■ outside. 
 
 Next morning, ere the mist had lifted, I was out in the 
 crisp air, racing away over the field in search of my cow. 
 
 Away down in a corner I noticed that one of the tall 
 trees that was burning the evening before had broken off, 
 and I could see a white something lying by. 
 
 I approached the spot with a sickening dread, for I felt 
 that it was my cow. 
 
 As I came nearer, my worst fears were realized. 
 
 It was Rose ! 
 
 A large limb had broken off when the tree fell, and 
 struck her on the neck as she was feeding, and crushed her 
 -to the earth. 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. 1 4 1 ' 
 
 It was my first sorrow. I sat down on the charred log 
 and wept bitterly. 
 
 It was just my poor, hard luck ! 
 
 The only thing I owned that could look at me and love 
 me was dead. 
 
 A film was over the soft brown eyes, and the hoar frost 
 glistened on her pink and white coat. 
 
 I was alone with the dead. 
 
 Faint and afar I heard the wail of the weakling calf that 
 had stood there at the bars all night, cold and hungry, wait- 
 ing for the mother that would never come. 
 
 I turned away and walked slowly homeward. At the 
 lot I stopped, and little Dock looked up at me pleadingly, 
 as if he were asking me if I knew why his mother came 
 not. 
 
 I tried to tell him, but my voice was husky, and I could 
 only murmur hoarsely, ^* Poor little Dock ! " 
 
 Choking with tears, I told Grandpa what had occurred. 
 
 The good old man was not as deeply moved as I, for he 
 had seen death too often to be so touched by the loss of one 
 cow out of the herd. 
 
 Then she was only a cow. 
 
 But with me she was more than that. She was differ- 
 ent from all other cattle, because she was my very own. 
 
 At last Grandpa said : 
 
 *' Now, I can tell you how to turn your loss to some 
 profit. Get Abe to help you skin her, and you can have 
 the hide to buy you a pair of boots." 
 
 This was a new idea. But there was a hard struggle in 
 my heart. Rose had been my pet and my pride, and the 
 thought of stripping off that coat which I had often stroked 
 so fondly, and selling it for a price, was extremely repug- 
 nant. I felt that it was almost sacrilege. 
 
142 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 All the morning I studied the matter over, and finally 
 resolved to follow Grandpa's advice. It was the first 
 triumph of practical common sense over sentiment. 
 
 Perhaps if there had been more such victories in my 
 life, the current might have been materially changed ; but 
 alas ! such victories have been few and far between ! 
 
 As Abe and I passed the lot, I peeped through the bars, 
 and there stood little Dock. His voice had grown weaker, 
 and he looked at me with a dumb pathos that wrung my 
 heart. 
 
 I stopped and considered a moment, and then I proposed 
 to Abe that we try to feed the little orphan first thing. 
 
 Back to the kitchen we went, and Aunt Ailsie made us 
 some gruel, and we then returned to where the little calf 
 was, and after a long while succeeded in getting him to eat 
 some. 
 
 Then we went about our other errand. I never expe- 
 rienced such a conflict of contending emotions before nor 
 since. 
 
 Even now I cannot steel my heart to rehearse the sad 
 details of that task. 
 
 At last the deed was done, and the hide was hung up to 
 cure, but it was put where Httle Dock could not see it, for 
 I felt it would be wickedly cruel to do a thing like that. 
 
 After we finished skinning the cow, we took it into our 
 heads to bury her, and with the aid of several of the boys 
 we dug a shallow pit and placed the remains of poor Rose 
 in there, and covered her up, and left the rough mound to 
 the changing influences of sun and dew. 
 
 We taught the little motherless calf to eat, and he soon 
 beo:an to thrive, but he never ceased to look for his mother, 
 . and I believe she wondered for a many a day why she did 
 \not come. 
 
so UTHE RN SCENES. 1 4 S 
 
 Every evening when the shadows lengthened he would . 
 -Stand at the bars and gaze across the darkening fields and 
 bleat piteously. 
 
 At last I got a chance to go to town, with the wagon, 
 ;and I carried my cowhide along. 
 
 I was pretty much of a stranger in town and my simple 
 -country ways used to cost me many a feeling of mortifica- 
 tion. 
 
 As I shouldered my cowhide and walked over to Mr. 
 -Pardee's store, the*boys all laughed at me, and I felt all 
 broken up, but I was determined to sacrifice every feeling 
 for the attainment of that one object. 
 
 Beside, what were the jeers of those town boys com- 
 pared to the plaintive cry of little Dock? 
 
 I had gone through the ordeal of mutilating the body of 
 the cow I loved so well, and now I felt equal to any emer- 
 gency, for there could be no harder task than that. 
 
 Mr. Pardee was one of those chirping, cheerful little 
 men, who pass the sunshine around on cloudy days, when 
 all the rest of the world has the blues. 
 
 He met me with a ringing — 
 
 ** Hello, my boy, what can I do for you .?" 
 
 "I've got a cowhide, and I want a pair of boots," I stam- 
 mered, stating my wishes in that concise style. 
 
 "Got a cowhide, eh } Wrong time o' the year for first- 
 class hides. Is it a murrain hide } " 
 
 "No, sir; a tree fell on my cow and killed her, and I 
 skinned her because I wanted a pair of boots." 
 
 There was a tremor in my voice that touched him. He 
 •eyed me a moment and said : 
 
 "All right, I'll see what I can do." 
 
 I thought to myself that he, too, had been a little boy 
 sometime, and, maybe, had wanted a pair of boots as badly 
 as I did. 
 
144 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 "Just comes to one dollar and ninety-seven cents, but 
 I'll make it two dollars," said he, as he weighed the hide 
 and figured a little. 
 
 "Have you got any two-dollar boots?" I asked with a 
 misgiving that I would miss my object, even after all my 
 pains. 
 
 " N-o," said he, hesitatingly, " we have not, but I will see 
 what we can do. Here's a pair for two dollars and seventy- 
 five cents. You can have them for two sixty. Have you 
 got any money I'' 
 
 "No, sir; that is all I've got. 
 
 He whistled as he turned the boots over and over, and 
 looked at me, then at the boots. His heart was undergoing 
 a struggle, but not near such a one as mine was engaged in. 
 "All right," said he, suddenly, "you can take them any 
 way. Pay me the sixty cents some other time. I know 
 sorter how a boy feels who wants a pair of boots and lacks 
 a little money to pay for them,"and as he spoke he wrapped 
 them up hurriedly, snapped the twine with a jerk as if he 
 feared that his heart would fail if he hesitated, and as I 
 walked out he turned away, whistling an uncertain air. 
 
 That evening when I got home. Grandpa admired my 
 boots; Aunt Ailsie said I was " 'mos' a sho' 'nough 
 man wid boots on." The boys all examined them critically, 
 and decided they were tip-top boots. 
 
 I wore them out to the lot, but in the failing light I saw a. 
 little white figure peeping disconsolately through the bars, 
 and I heard that plaintive wail of hopeless longing. 
 
 It was little Dock. 
 
 I would have given all the boots in the world right then 
 to have seen Rose come walking up the lane as of old, with 
 the motherly look in her meek brown eyes. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 145 
 
 THE HORSE SWAP. 
 
 I don't believe Grandpa was cut out for a trader. 
 
 If he was, he was spoilt in the making up. 
 
 There was a screw loose someway, for I noticed that he 
 invariably got left when he undertook to swap anything. 
 
 He had purchased the gray mule. Jinny, when she was 
 a three-year-old, and he had kept her thirteen years, but 
 she had been so well treated that she even looked younger 
 than she did when she was broken. 
 
 The truth of the business was, she never had been 
 broken. She had just been bent. 
 
 She was as good as she ever was, only she had picked 
 lap a few extra tricks during her sojourn on the plantation. 
 She had no" idea of dying, for who ever saw a dead gray 
 mule .-* 
 
 Grandpa liked old Jin, as we called her, although he 
 never made any ardent display of his affections, from the 
 fact that Jin was not the kind of a critter to be made up to. 
 
 There were certain .peculiarities about her that made 
 her an unpleasant and uncompanionable beast. 
 
 If you were riding along ever so nicely, and Jin took a 
 notion that you were beginning to feel anyways stuck up 
 about it, she would straighten that back of hers, stick both 
 ears straight out in front, a slight quiver would permeate 
 her frame, and you would think that the stars had fallen, 
 and that you had fallen among them. She could throw a 
 fellow the hardest fall and make him hit the grit more em- 
 phatically than any mule that ever walked the earth. 
 
 Then, if she didn t want to work to the gin or sugar 
 mill, she would play off sick. She would creep up in the 
 northeast corner of the lot and cui-ve her tail out in an 
 
 K) 
 
146 SO UTHERN SCENES. 
 
 abject attitude, let her neck relax until her head dropped 
 nearly to the ground, with her ears flattened out and her 
 under lip hanging down, and she could be the sickest look- 
 ing mule that you ever saw. 
 
 One day a man rode up to the gate and hello'd. 
 Grandpa was sitting on the piazza, and he got up and 
 came to the gate. 
 
 " Good mornin'; got any swnppin' stock V said the man. 
 That is the way they used to do, without any ceremony. 
 ''Ahem! Well, I don't make it a business to swap 
 horses," said Grandpa. "What mought your name be } " 
 
 "My name's Jernigan. I'm from Telfair, nigh the 
 Ocmulgee River. My business is boss swappin', when I 
 kin find the right kind of a feller what wants to live an' let 
 live. Hain't you got a mule that you'd like to swap for 
 the crackinest saddle boss in seven deestricts .-* " 
 
 "Jernigan — Jernigan; lemme see, are you any kin to 
 old rriaii Johnnie Jernigan .''" 
 
 *' He's my own dear uncle, sir, only he's a better feller 
 than I am, fur a honester man never breathed the breath o' 
 life than Uncle Johnnie Jernigan, ef I do say it. Do you 
 know him } " 
 
 . ! to know a man by that name when I hunted 
 c ^ fork — " 
 
 ou've got a stock o' cattle, have you } Well, sir, 
 r • very animal you're a lookin' fur. Whoa, Blaze, 
 
 V 'im to you. Ef we can't strike up a trade thar 
 ifm done. Watch how he can pace," and there- 
 ■-•rnigan rode off with a cluck toward the lot 
 en pranced back again. 
 
 -, thar's the boss fur you. He's too light fur 
 
 ■ want a mule to break new ground with. But 
 
 'low that aire boss can travel! I've rid from 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. 147 
 
 Burkett's Ferry, on the Lophaw, to-day, an' its nigh onto 
 thirty miles, ef it ain't dang me, an' you see thar ain't a 
 hair turned." 
 
 Grandpa eyed the horse and eyed the man, and fidgetted 
 around, I could see that he liked the horse, and then, 
 "besides that, he wanted to get rid of Mr. Jernigan without 
 hurting his feelings. 
 
 " I have thought about tradin' one of my mules for a 
 good saddler," said Grandpa, ''but I'm sorter careless about 
 it." 
 
 '' A fellow told me, what know'd you, that he thought I 
 could git up a trade with you. Lemme see, what's 'is 
 name 1 " 
 
 " Lives up the road here .'*" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 ''How far.?" 
 
 "I dunno ; three or four mile an ' a half or so." 
 
 "Twarn't Welch.?" 
 
 "That's the very man ; that's him." 
 
 " What did he say ' bout it .? " 
 
 " Said you had a mule you mought trade." 
 ' "Didn't say it was a gray mule } " 
 
 " Yes, that is jest precizely what he did say, now that I 
 think of it. 'Twas a gray mule." 
 
 " Gray mule Jinny } " 
 
 " Adzackly. The gray mule Jinny. That's the very 
 mule." 
 
 " Well, I hain't hardly made up my mind about swap- 
 pin ' that mule. She's done good service. She's been a 
 faithful mule fur lo these many — ahem ! I mean for several 
 3'ears." 
 
 "Purty old, is she.?" 
 
148 SO UTHERN SCENES. 
 
 "No, she ain't so very old. I've got ' er exact age set 
 down, som'ers." 
 
 ••Whar is she?" 
 
 ** She's in the lot. Go put the bridle on Jinny and 
 bring her out, my son. Better take a shuck and brush 
 some o ' the dirt off, for them niggers never curry a mule if 
 I don't stand right over ' em with a whip." 
 
 Grandpa knew that old Jin had been in one of her weav- 
 ing ways that morning, and he knew that she had rolled in. 
 the mud until she was as dirty as a pig. 
 
 I went and got the bridle, and started to catch the old 
 rip, but she knew that it was not work time, so she had 
 straightened up her head and was standing on three legs,, 
 sunning herself, when I started toward her. 
 
 "Whoa, Jin," said I, but she jumped and snorted and 
 turned her heels toward me. 
 
 "Whoa, you old heifer, you," and I let drive a wet corrr 
 cob that took her in the flank and made her kick up so high 
 that she winked her left eye at me betwixt her fore legs. 
 Then she came at me ringing and twisting and chewing 
 her tongue, pawing and kicking, and I scaled up the gate 
 post and yelled : 
 
 " I can't ketch this old fool. I'm scared." 
 
 " Goodness me alive ! Jest like a boy," said Grandpa. 
 " There ain't nothing the matter with the mule, only she 
 jest feels good. Sorter coltified." 
 
 " She's old 'nough to know better," said I, spitefully. 
 
 " That's so, buddy," said Mr. Jernigan, with a snicker.. 
 
 " She's not an old mule, Mr. Jernigan; you can see that,, 
 and she's got a lots o' sperrit about 'er. Whoa, Jinny." 
 
 The mule sidled up into a corner, backed her ears and 
 said "wee-k." 
 
 "Whoa, Jinny," said Grandpa, soothingly. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. U9 
 
 " Purty wild, fur an old mule, ain't she?" said Mr. 
 Jernigan. 
 
 '* No, she's as gentle as a cat. Works well anywheres, 
 and is a good saddler. I ought to know, for I broke 'er, 
 an' I've owned her for nigh onto — I mean that was several 
 years ago." 
 
 "She's got a dish-face. I'll bet she's got the devil in 
 er. 
 
 '' No, she hain't allers that way," I put in, '' but she — " 
 
 *' She's jest a little playful when she feels good." said 
 'Grandpa. 
 
 *' Three white feet. Umph ! Bad sign. Whoa, there. 
 Lemme help you ketch her," and grabbing up a board Mr. 
 Jernigan gave her a rap that made those heels glisten in 
 the sun. 
 
 " Hold on, Mr. Jernigan, don't excite her. That's jest 
 what's ruined — I mean that's what makes her a little hard 
 to catch now. Them niggers—" 
 
 ** Yes," said I, ''Jim and Solomon had her up in a stall 
 and put a running noose around her leg, an' — " 
 
 " Oh, it wasn't that bad. They jest said that to be 
 a'sayin'," said Grandpa. 
 
 " Purty tough old cuss, ain't she, buddy } " said Mr. 
 Jernigan. 
 
 At last they got the bridle on, and Grandpa started to 
 lead her out. Just as he came to a mud hole he made a 
 little jump over it, the old mule set back, and '' kersplash !" 
 he came down with both feet. 
 
 "Pick up somethin' and make her come on," said 
 Grandpa to me, and I could see that he was doing his best 
 to hold in. 
 
 I let drive another soggy corn-cob, and the old mule 
 fetched a jump, and came down with all four feet in the 
 
150 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 mud-hole, sending a shower over Grandpa and Mr. Jernigan. 
 
 " Dam the beast ! " said Mr. Jernigan, as he wiped his 
 face, and Grandpa said : 
 
 ''That's the only reason I would trade 'er, is because she 
 is so full of sperrit." 
 
 " Stems her fodder, eh V said Mr. Jernigan, rummaging" 
 in a feed trough. 
 
 '' No ; not old enough for that. You're in old Ben's 
 stall; ain't he, my son .'' " 
 
 "Yes, sir; but they put old Jin in there last night,, 
 'cause she was sick — " 
 
 ''That's one thing about her — she can play off sick to 
 perfection, when there ain't a thing the matter. That's 
 the only trick she's got," said Grandpa, "and I thought I'd 
 tell you, so if we swap, you won't be alarmed — " 
 
 Oh, I see she's colicky. Got a tetch o' the grubs, too, 
 eh, buddy.?" 
 
 "No, sir; Solomon says she bellowsed — " 
 
 " Sol don't know. Her wind is as good as anybody's,"* 
 said Grandpa. 
 
 " Purty tricky, ain't she buddy .'' " 
 
 " No, sir ; she jest won't go to mill, nor to meetin' — " 
 
 "That's one o' them nigger tales," said Grandpa;' 
 "they'll say anything. I drove her to mill myself, not 
 long ago." 
 
 " Yes, sir, but you 'member she kicked the dashboard — " 
 
 "That was because the breeching broke. Any lively 
 mule will do that." 
 
 " Look out, don't go too close to her heels," I put in, 
 "for Solomon says she can kick a chaw terbacker out o^ 
 yer mouth and never 'sturb your front teeth." 
 
 " Purty high old kicker, eh, buddy ? Takes a boy ta 
 understand boss flesh an' their tricks." 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 151 
 
 "Wei], the mule's all right," said Grandpa, ''and as I 
 told you, I'm not particular to swap." 
 
 I could see that he was dead set, now, and old Jin had 
 dropped her head and looked like she'd lost every hope. 
 
 "■ Lemme see her teeth. Gad ! the mule's sick right 
 this minit," said Mr. Jernigan. '* Phew ! Done past the 
 tooth age. Can't tell whether she's twenty or twenty-five." 
 
 " Oh, she's not old to hurt." 
 
 **No, no ; she won't never see twenty ag'in." 
 
 *' Oh, she ain't that old." 
 
 ** Git around here ! Stir up, you old slug ! Durned ef 
 the animal ain't sick, right now. Better drench her. I 
 mus' go ; good day." 
 
 "Hold on," said Grandpa, "the mule ain't sick. It's 
 just her way. I like your hoss purty well, and I wouldn't 
 mind givin' a little boot betwixt 'em." 
 
 "How much } " 
 . " Oh, I dunno. Fifteen dollars." 
 
 " Fifteen durnations ! Sebenty-five, or no trade.'' 
 
 "Oh, that's too much. Turn 'er loose, my son ; I don't 
 much care to swap, nohow." 
 
 " What'll you give, now, and no jokin' ? Fair's fair; I'll 
 make it even fifty, fur you say you know my uncle Johnnie 
 Jernigan, an' he"s as good a man as ever lived, if I do say 
 it, an' I'd like to be liber'l with uncle Johnnie's old friends." 
 
 "I'll give twenty-five, cash down." 
 
 "Oh, that ain't enough. It'll take ten dollars to cure 
 that old rip o' the colic, or bots, or whatever it is she's got, 
 I'll split the difference. Gimme forty dollars. I'll take 
 your note fur the other fifteen. I know you're plum good." 
 
 Grandpa hesitated ; looked at the mule, then at the 
 horse, then at Mr. Jernigan, then at me. 
 
 " I expect the boys will hate to part with the mule." 
 
1 52 SO UTHERN SCENES. 
 
 "I won't, I'm shore," said I, "'cause I haint forgot how 
 she flung me — " 
 
 " She is gentle as a kitten, but they've pranked with 
 her so much — " 
 
 ** Flung you down, did she, buddy ? Children know, I 
 tell you. Well, wha'd ye say ?" 
 
 ''I b'leeve I'll do it. Come to the house, and we'll fix 
 up the papers." 
 
 The trade was made, and Mr. Jernigan rode off in a fox 
 trot, and just before he got out of hearing, he turned 
 around and hollered back : 
 
 "I forgot to tell you that aire boss is a little weak-eyed, 
 but you won't mind a little thing like that." 
 
 At dinner time Solomon took a long look at the new 
 horse. 
 
 '' What do you think of him, Solomon ? " 
 
 ''Well, sah, ter tell yer de trufe, I'd rudder had old Jin, 
 ole as she is, an' mean as she is, by fifty doUahs, dan dat 
 ar ole boss. W'y boss, dat boss is done blowed up wid 
 antimony, an' I b'lieve he's stringhalted, an', lemme sec 
 dem eyes ! W'y, de Lawd er massy, ef dat ole boss ain' 
 stone blin' ! " 
 
 Grandpa was terribly upset, but it was too late. He 
 inquired after Mr. Jernigan, but the latter had stopped at 
 Dekle's mill and traded the note, by shaving it, as they 
 called it, and that was the last we ever heard of him. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 153 
 
 A CHRISTMAS GUN. 
 
 Oh, I did want a Christmas gun so bad ! 
 
 For weeks before Santa Claus had started on his rounds 
 I was forever hanging around. 
 
 *' Grandpa, how much do guns cost ? Grandpa, can't I 
 "buy a Christmas gun? Grandpa, get me a gun." 
 
 The old gentleman must have got mighty tired of it, 
 but I lived in hope if I died in despair. 
 
 In those days there were various ways of firing Christ- 
 mas guns. Down at the shop Uncle Peter was able to 
 make a pretty horrible explosion by spitting on the anvil, 
 laying a piece of red hot iron on it and striking it a sharp 
 blow with the big hammer. 
 
 I did not understand the reason for this at that time, 
 but age and experience have informed me that it was the 
 steam generated between the spittle and the hot iron. 
 Now, if some other smart fellow would come along and ex- 
 plain to me just how comes steam to make a racket of that 
 sort, I shall be a wiser if a sadder man. 
 
 I guess it is on the same principle of a popgun, but I 
 swear I've never correctly understood the principle of a 
 popgun, yet, I suppose, like the Grecian philosopher, that 
 with a gun long enough and a pusher strong enough, a fel- 
 low could make a tumultuous noise in the world. 
 
 Then, there's another sort of a gun that was a rip-roarer, 
 but it was rather expensive. That was to bore an inch 
 auger hole in a tree, drive a peg in the hole with a groove 
 in it for the train, and put powder in the hole. The way 
 we fired it was by laying a nice little train of powder, put- 
 ting some shavings and scraps of cotton on it, setting the 
 :;shavings afire, and then retreating to a safe distance. 
 
154 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 • 
 
 This was a pretty good sort of gun its own self, and it 
 always reminded me of a story — a very funny story — that 
 Grandpa used to tell us about an Irishman who had an 
 aching tooth. 
 
 The Irishman, according to Grandpa's version, put pow- 
 der in the tooth, touched fire to it and ran. 
 
 With the full white light of modern research, and the 
 gigantic strides of scientific investigation, I am led to be-- 
 lieve that the Irishman was a myth and the whole story a 
 hoax, bat I believed it then, and I was happy. 
 
 I knew General DeLoach once swinged his eyebrows 
 off and loosened his front teeth, fixing a train for one of 
 those explosions, but the General had wet his eyes so often 
 that his vision was bad that day, so Grandpa said. 
 
 I did want a gun so bad. 
 
 I made life exceedingly interesting for Grandpa, on the 
 gun question. 
 
 But Grandpa had some sense, and he waived the plea 
 and I got no gun, although I got a good many other very 
 nice things, among them a rag doll that affected my spirit 
 sorely, for above all things I hated for anybody to suppose 
 that I was not thoroughly masculine in all my preferences 
 and predilections. I suppose I might have been a more use- 
 ful citizen had I never changed my notions. 
 
 Old Christmas — you know that comes just twelve days 
 after new Christmas — was a bright and beautiful day. On 
 the night before I had sat on a log and shivered for half an 
 to see if the sheep all got on their knees, as folks said they 
 did, on old Christmas eve. That is a superstition, you 
 know, and they further allege that the black ones get up 
 on their legs and the white ones kneel on the ground. I. 
 don't know about that. 
 
 By sun up, and before the frost had melted from the 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 1 55 
 
 woodpile, a dozen big fat hogs were being scraped and 
 scalded, and we were busy getting the sausage mill ready, 
 and preparing for a hog-killing time. 
 
 Then when they were swung up, we boys stood around 
 and claimed nielts and bladders. We wanted the melts to 
 broil and the bladders to blow up. I laid siege to the big 
 blue barrow, and stood guard over him for three mortal 
 hours, getting in everybody's way, and prancing around 
 and cutting up generally, for fear of losing my rights. 
 
 It was royal fun to sharpen a twig and string a slice of 
 melt on it and hang it over the glowing coals until it was 
 done, and have it nicely seasoned with a pinch of salt. 
 
 I guess I could tackle one with undiminished gusto even 
 unto this day. It was the lingering taint of the savage 
 taste cropping out in our blood, and aided and abetted by 
 the little negroes who were not far removed from the con- 
 dition of their Hottentot ancestry, after all. 
 
 But after the feast was over we began on the bladders. 
 It was a matter of personal pride with us to see who could 
 blow up the biggest. We would blow and blow till our 
 eyes stuck out like pot legs, and we would beat and bang 
 them to make them stretch, and then we would brag about 
 who had the biggest. 
 
 I blew up the biggest bladder I ever saw that day. It 
 was the big blue barrow that furnished me the material, 
 and I was awful proud of it. 
 
 Grandpa, he kept eyeing it, and I noticed that the old 
 gent was in high good humor He held a conversation with 
 Uncle Mose, and afterwards I could see that Uncle Mose 
 was tickled half to death, and he would keep slipping, and 
 sliding, and snickering around, and every now and then I 
 would hear a half suppressed, "Jesus, Marster!' ' 
 
156 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 They were plotting my downfall, but I, in my childish 
 innocence, went on my way rejoicing. 
 
 John Exom had given me an old ramshackle of a flint 
 and steel gun, with only a remnant of stock, and no 
 lock at all. The old thing was rusty, and choked up, and 
 looked like it had been lost in time of the Revolution. 
 
 I wanted to get the thing cleaned out, but in spite of all 
 the washing and rubbing and scrubbing I could do, it re- 
 mained plugged up. When I asked Uncle Peter about it 
 he said I'd have to burn the rust out of it, and while they 
 were finishing up the hogs I embraced the opportunity to 
 clean out my gun. I thrust the breach into the dying em- 
 bers, and left it while I worked at the bladder. 
 
 While I was tying it up securely Grandpa came up to 
 me, whetting the big butcher knife. 
 
 ''Well, my boy, you've got a big Christmas gun now." 
 
 "Jesus, marster ! " snickered Uncle mose, who was 
 standing near, with his back to us. 
 
 ''Yes, sir, I'm gwine to save it till next Christmas." 
 
 " Oh, no, I wouldn't do that. To-day's old Christmas, 
 and that is just as good as new Christmas. Put it down 
 and jump on it hard, now, and let us see what a gun you 
 can shoot." 
 
 " Oh, no, sir, I can't," said I. 
 
 "Jesus, marster," whispered Uncle Mose under his 
 breath. 
 
 '•Why, yes you can. See here, do it this way," 
 
 He laid the bladder down near a puddle that had been 
 made in scalding the hogs. He fixed his feet carefully, and 
 went on to explain : " Now, draw in a long breath, place 
 your feet carefully, jump away up " 
 
 •* Slam — bang ! — splash ! " 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 loT 
 
 "Jesus, mars-ter ! Oh, I'm shot!'' squealed Uncle 
 Mose, as he jumped up and down and rubbed himself. 
 
 Everything was confusion, and as the smoke rose 
 Grandpa picked himself up from the mudhole, with the re- 
 mains of the bursted bladder clinging to his pants. 
 
 " What in the name of common sense is the matter,. 
 Moses ? Was it loaded } " 
 
 Then he saw the old gun barrel smoking in front of the 
 furnace, and the hot coals scattered all around, and he took 
 in the situation. 
 
 Uncle Mose walked half bent longer than I did, though... 
 
158 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 SNAKE BIT. 
 
 It makes my mouth water to think about that old side- 
 board. 
 
 Still, Grandpa was a sober man, strictly teetotal. 
 
 But that old sideboard that sat in the corner of the sit- 
 ting room, up next the big fire-place. 
 
 A vision of that sideboard haunts me in my dreams. 
 
 And still, Grandpa was strictly temperate, and never 
 touched a drop. 
 
 On that sideboard were two or three cut-glass decanters, 
 with handles to them. One held good old-fashioned St. 
 Croix rum — I doubt if you pronounce the word correctly, 
 you who were born since the war. Another held Cognac, 
 pure and simple, and a third — but these are prohibition 
 times, and I will not tempt you further. 
 
 Often when I am pirooting around and doing sorter as I 
 doggoned please, the memory of that sideboard comes up 
 before me. 
 
 But Grandpa never drank — oh, no ! buttermilk was good 
 enough for him, and he drank it so persistently that his 
 jaws hung down like wattles ; and there was a sort of churn- 
 dasher mellowness in his voice when he laughed. 
 
 But oh, my crackey ! didn't those Thomasville lawyers 
 love to visit that sideboard 1 
 
 Grandpa would say : 
 
 " Boys " — always boys to him, for he never grew old 
 himself nor imagined that any one else could be so silly — 
 " Boys, there's sump'n to drink, there ; jest he'p yourselves. 
 You know I never drink, never liked the taste of it ; but 
 don't stand back on my account." 
 
 Men were not drunkards then like they are now ; but 
 twice a year those decanters had to be refilled, just after 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. 1 59 
 
 the spring term and just after the fall term of the big court, 
 -as we used to call it. 
 
 I suspect that the results of many a political issue have 
 been dissolved and dissected by the aid of the impish spirits 
 that danced around those decanters when the blaze crackled 
 on the old brass fire-dogs, and was reflected in the pris- 
 matic carvings of those old decanters. 
 
 Grandpa kept the '' sperrits " for snake bites, colics, 
 rheumatic pains, and such like. That was why Uncle 
 Mose was always colicky, and Popper Joe had twinges of 
 rheumatism, and Yaller Jim was not a bit afraid of snakes. 
 
 One time, though, we all got into a scrape. 
 
 Old General DeLacy was very fond of Grandpa, and 
 every now and then he would come around to pay us a 
 visit. No regular time, mind you, but in the course of 
 every six or eight months, for the General was a little like 
 a comet in his peregrinations. He was sure to come, but 
 you could never calculate just at what time. 
 
 He differed from a comet from the fact that he carried 
 his tail in advance — that is, his fiery red nose answered for 
 the tail ; and it always preceded General DeLacy. 
 
 I have always had an intense antipathy for snakes. I 
 was that way when a boy. 
 
 By the way, I have discovered several new varieties in 
 my maturer years. 
 
 One fine April day, who should ride up to the gate but 
 General DeLacy. 
 
 "Good mornin' !'' he yelled, as he dismounted. 
 
 "'Light and come in,'' said Grandpa. 
 
 "How d'ye come on V said the unceremonious visitor, 
 as he pulled off the saddle and hung it on the fence. 
 
 "Jest tolcr'ble. Hitch yer critter, and I'll have him 
 put up." 
 
160 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 " Oh, he's all right," and he slipped off the bridle, gave 
 the nag a cut with it, and, as the latter betook himself to 
 the grassy fence jambs, his master sauntered up to the 
 door. 
 
 They shook hands, and asked the news, and talked about 
 half a dozen things in a breath, acting all the while in that 
 agreeable, nonchalant, self-satisfied manner that betokened 
 two gentlemen of immense knowledge and comprehensive 
 information, to whom big topics were but as trifles when 
 they met on equal ground. 
 
 I knew that the jig was up with me. 
 
 For the balance of that day there would be nothmg- 
 but " Yazoo Frauds," " Missouri Compromises," *' Whigs,"" 
 ** Democrats," and the dingnation bow-wows generally. 
 
 Set these two cronies to talking, and Gabriel might 
 toot that trumpet till his heels flew up, and nothing short 
 of catching each of them by the nape of the neck and^ 
 bawling into their ears ** Come on, you're wanted ! " would 
 disturb their composure. 
 
 I knew what Fd do. Fd go down about the fodder- 
 house and hunt hens' nests. And if I got a chance, Fd 
 slip up on General DeLacy's old horse and scare him into 
 the hiccoughs. 
 
 I went sauntering down toward the lot. I took a lock 
 of the fence on the old horse, and crept up right close and, 
 skeeted my hat at him. 
 
 I know you've seen horses act just as he did. He paid 
 no earthly attention to the " skeet," but the next step of 
 his left hind foot, he put it kerdab on my hat. 
 
 Just then he found some excellent grass, and he stood 
 there, nipping, nipping, nipping ; switching his tail from 
 side to side, and every now and then a "phwoorffF' to^ 
 blow the dust out of his nose. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 161 
 
 And first one foot, then the other, up and down, stamp, 
 stamp, stamp, and never moving from his tracks. 
 
 I clucked till my tongue stuck in the roof of my mouth, 
 and I said ** Git up, sir !" till my back ached ; and I finally 
 had to get a stick and fetch him a cut to make him get off ; 
 which he did so reluctantly that he ground my hat deeper 
 in the dirt as he moved his old foot. 
 
 I wished that horse was dead. I did wish he was dead. 
 Oh, how I wished he was dead, and I could see the carrion 
 crows picking his bones ! 
 
 ''Rip!" 
 
 I had just reached the crib door when a big chicken - 
 snake ran by me and under the crib. Back to the house I 
 flew, crying : 
 
 " Grandpa ! Grandpa ! There's a big rattlesnake under 
 the crib!" 
 
 " Rattlesnake .-^ " cried Grandpa. 
 
 " Rattlesnake.-*" cried General DeLacy. 
 
 " Yes, and he is a whopper ! " 
 
 In a twinkling we were out there and scouting around 
 among the weeds and shucks. 
 
 " Ough-o-o ! I'm bit ! " I yelled, as I felt something hit 
 my leg as I passed the crib door. 
 
 They both ran to me, and sure enough there was a little 
 speck of blood and a black and blue mark on my ankle. 
 
 " Got any licker .? " asked the General. . 
 
 " Yes, at the house. Let's carry him there, quick. 
 Ough ! I'm bit too," cried Grandpa, as he stepped a little 
 too close to the door, and we heard the hiss of the reptile 
 and the rustle of his coils as he gathered himself to strike 
 again. 
 
 Oh, it was terrible ! I had always heard that even if a 
 11 
 
162 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 person got well of a snake bite he'd have a snake hanging 
 to his liver all his life. 
 
 Horrible thought ! 
 
 Uncle Mose was the only negro about the place, and he 
 and the General proceeded to doctor us. 
 
 ''It warnt a rattlesnake," said the General, "for he 
 didn't sing; but hit mought a'ben a pizen snake. Even if 
 hit war only a chicken snake hit mought make a bad sore. 
 Gimme the licker." 
 
 " I don't think I'm bit much," said Grandpa, as he looked 
 at his leg. " Looks like a sorter glancin' lick." 
 
 " Here, take this,'' said the General, as he poured out a 
 tumbler full of rum. 
 
 "No, no," said Grandpa, "I'd ruther be snake bit than 
 to drink that." 
 
 "All right, I'll less'n the dose;" and the General drank 
 about half ot it and said, "here, now, this ain't gwine to 
 hurt you.'' 
 
 " No, give the boy a little ; I won't drink it. Bring me 
 some tobacker, Moses; I'll fix a remedy." 
 
 I drank the balance of the liquor; and then they pro- 
 ceeded to moisten some broad pieces of tobacco and bind 
 them to our wounds. 
 
 I was whimpering, and the General asked me if it hurt. 
 
 ''Yes, it hurts bad." 
 
 '' Pears to be crawlin' up your leg .•* " 
 
 "Ye-es, sir." 
 
 "I knowed it. A little more licker, Moses," and he 
 poured out a brimming glass, by mistake, out of the brandy 
 decanter. 
 
 "Humph! I poured out too much, but I'll less'n it." 
 said he as he drank about three-fourths of it, and gave me 
 the balance. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 163 
 
 I began to teel better. 
 
 " Moses, git a pole and go and see if you can stir up the 
 •snake. Call Jim to help you ; he ain't a-scared of snakes. 
 Til be out there in a minit." 
 
 They made me go lie down, and the General bandaged 
 my leg pretty tightly, and then he said: 
 
 " My stars! That war a worrisome job. I tell you, Fve 
 got nerves, or I could'nt astood what I did in the Injun 
 war. I b'lieve I'll take a little toddy myself, now, to sorter 
 •straighten me up." 
 
 "All right, he'p yourself,'* said Grandpa, as he walked 
 •out to the water shelf 
 
 The General poured out a tumbler full and drank it 
 'down, then he looked rather surprised and muttered : 
 
 " Humph ! I made a mistake ; that's whisky, and I 
 'wanted rum. I wonder which is the rum .-*" As he poured 
 ■out a glass from another decanter, and drank it — "Why 
 'that 'ere's brandy. Ding the luck. I will find it," and he 
 •sampled the third glass, and smacked his lips and mur- 
 mured with a grin : 
 
 " I yi ! That's the truck. Now lay still, me boy, and 
 •we'll perceed to chase the sarpent.'' 
 
 The General walked out in a manner unnecessarily dig- 
 nified, as I thought, and I lay right still, because my head 
 felt funnier than my leg. 
 
 Uncle Mose told me the sequel afterwards. 
 
 "I tell yo', honey, de way I wus sca'ed dat day wus a 
 •caution. I t'ought dat you an' ol' Mars, bofe gwinter die. 
 
 " Me an' Jim, we went out da.* I tole Jim not ter go too 
 ■closte ; but he sich a imperdent nigger dat he say : 
 
 " * Yo' hush, Unc Mose, I gwinter have some er dat 
 dram ef I hatter git bit twicet.' 
 
 "Sho' nuff, des 'bout dat time he walked closte ter de 
 
164 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 fodder house do', an' zip ! He jump up so high" — measur- 
 ing with his hand — "an' holler: 
 
 " ' I'm bit ! I'm—' 
 
 " ' Cack ! cack ! cack ! ' de ole speckle hen lip out er de- 
 shucks an' des went er flyin' to'ards de house. 
 
 "'Dars yo' snake,' I say. 
 
 " ' No faint,' say Jim. 
 
 " * Yes it is,' say ol' Mars, who walk up des den. 
 
 '"Hooray fur Andy Jackson!' hollered de ol' Gin 1, es- 
 he come outen de lot. 
 
 *' De ol' hen be'n hid in da', in de curiscs' place, an ol' 
 Mars he tuck'n tored off dem rags off'n ' is laig, and he say :. 
 
 "' Sich er pack er fool people I never seed in my bo'ned 
 days.' 
 
 '* ' Aire yo' shore them ain't snake aiggs t ' de Gin'l say,. 
 
 " ' Snake aiggs, yo' foot,' say ol' Mars', as he went walk'n. 
 off. 
 
 ** De Gin'l look at me de funnies' an' he say : 
 
 '''Boy.' 
 
 " I say ' Suh ! ' 
 
 *' He say, ' Ketch my boss. I gotter go twenty mile- 
 dis day.' 
 
 " When I got de boss ready de Gin'l git on de wrong 
 side ter git up, an' I say : 
 
 " ' Dis side, boss.' 
 
 " He say, ' Dat's all right. He's broke ter git on erry 
 side.' 
 
 " or Mars' say, ' Why, ain't ye gwinter stay tell a'ter 
 dinner } ' 
 
 " ' Hain't got time, ' bleeged to you,' and he rid off in er 
 weavin' way, sho nuff. 
 
 " Little piece down de road he met Jim. 
 
 " ' Woa ! Say, hain't you two boys twins ? ' 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 165 
 
 "* Ain' no boy but des me, boss.' 
 
 ** * I know better. I see you bofe. Tell your master 
 I'll give ten thousand dollars for you two boys. I jest be 
 darned if I hain't been through two states, crossed six 
 rivers, and fout in the war, but I never seed two boys as 
 much alike as you aire. G'lang, Ball.' " 
 
1«0 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 MAJOR DUCKWORTH'S MULE. 
 
 The preparatory lesson of every cracker boy's life is» 
 plowing a mule. 
 
 It might be all right to begin a business life by mixing: 
 up with a mule, but it is a mighty doubtful start for the 
 kingdom of heaven. 
 
 Yea, by the beard of my fathers f 
 
 An average plantation mule used to be one-half unpar- 
 donable sin and the other half vanity and vexation of spirit. 
 
 Some of our most briUiant statesmen like to boast that 
 they began life plowing a mule, but some of our most bril- 
 liant statesmen generally lie. 
 
 Ah, how well do I recall the days when I led forth a 
 long-eared mule of angular build, and climbed up on a lock 
 of the fence to get the hames over his neck. 
 
 As I leaned lovingly over to embrace the neck of the- 
 animated kicking-machine, it often occurred that he sprang, 
 aside, and I lost my balance, and came down among the 
 sassafras sprouts and the dewberry vines. 
 
 And I would make use of expressions only found irb 
 certain sermons of modern manufacture ;, but they fell oru 
 unheeding ears. 
 
 And along about ten o'clock in the day, plowing in the 
 new ground, where the soil was chiefly composed of black 
 snakes and runner oak roots — talk about life ! why, I have 
 lived a hundred years in twelve short hours under such, 
 circumstances. 
 
 And, dont you knowi* — along about twelve o'clock,, 
 while Lazy Lawrence was dancing on the fence, that mule 
 would keep turning his eye up to the sun and laying back 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 167 
 
 _ , ' 
 
 his ear that was next to the house, so as to hear the dinner- 
 horn's first toot. 
 
 Going down the row, the mule would keep the right ear 
 down ; coming up the row, the left. 
 
 And watching the sun all the time. 
 
 And just let that horn sound one note, and — 
 
 Halt! 
 
 Just as well to take the gear off, for the old cuss would 
 die rather than go another step. 
 
 Like some carpenters I used to know. They were 
 such sticklers for time that if one were driving a nail, and 
 had his hammer raised to strike the last lick, when the 
 clock struck he would lay the hammer down without 
 striking, and holler out — 
 
 "Time's up ! " 
 
 Major Duckworth was a funny little man, with bow- 
 legs and the bearing of an orphan. He was so peculiar in 
 looks that irreverent men, who were so long-legged that 
 the little ends of their hearts were forked, used to call 
 him simply Major Duck, and frequently just — 
 
 "Hello, Duck." 
 
 The Major had many little tricks of conversation and 
 action that were more curious than captivating. He had 
 a way of sorter limping on one foot and scraping the other 
 along, and he would hitch up his breeches and say : 
 
 " Humph ! be gad ! " 
 
 Along a little piece further, hitch up, and — 
 
 "Humph! be gad !" 
 
 I think that was the reason why he always kept one of 
 his galluses slack, so as to have an excuse to hitch up his 
 breeches and — 
 
 "Humph! be gad!" 
 
 Major Duck owned a little sandy-haired mule that had 
 
168 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 some as detestable ways as his master, and there was an 
 everlasting conflict between them. 
 
 He also owned and controlled a meek and motherly- 
 wife, who pulled down the scales at a hundred and fifty. 
 It did look like she could have managed Major Duck, but 
 she couldn't, and the consequence was that all her aspira- 
 tions were dwarfed. 
 
 One of the tricks of the mule was to stop to drink at 
 every puddle, and another was to come to a dead halt at the 
 fork of every road. If Major Duck wanted to go the road 
 to mill, the mule wanted to go the road to meeting ; and if 
 Major Duck wanted to go to meeting, the mule would set 
 his head on going to mill. 
 
 That mule was as wicked as Ahab, that tempted Israel 
 to sin. 
 
 " Humph ! be gad ! " said the Major, " I'll Tarn ye some 
 manners, ye brute. I'll fix a set o' gear fur ye that'll pester 
 ye ef hit don't cyore ye. Humph ! be gad ! " 
 
 Down in the wire grass they didn't have any vehicles 
 but those little two-wheeled carts with long shafts and a 
 back band over the saddle, and the Major sat a-straddle of 
 the mule, with a foot on either shaft, and drove. 
 
 There was nothing to prevent the cart tilting up if it 
 got too heavy behind, and 3uch a catastrophe was not 
 infrequent. 
 
 The Major fixed some rawhide straps driven full of sharp 
 nails that passed from the shoulders clean around the kick- 
 ing end of the mule, and he fixed some lines that hung 
 back in the cart. The mule would kick up when the Major 
 tried to force him to go the proper course. 
 
 Every time the Major would hitch up, the mule would 
 kick up until the dispute was settled. 
 
 " Humph ! be gad, Betsy,'* said Major Duck to his wife, 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 169 
 
 '*' ye ain't had much injoyment, an' I perpose to let ye go 
 to mill with me to-day an' ride in the cyart.'' 
 
 *'I b'lieve I'd ruther stay at home.'' 
 
 " Ye had, had ye ? Humph ! be gad ! Flew all to 
 flinders when I couldn't carry ye to see yer mammy, in the 
 heat of crap time. Now, ye've got to go. I've got busi- 
 ness fur ye. Ye're jest like yer mammy, anyhow. Always 
 do jest what ye hain't wanted to do." 
 
 The cart was loaded with a couple of corn sacks, and 
 the mule was harnessed properly. As the Major arranged 
 his compulsory harness tackle, and flung the lines into the 
 cart, he remarked, with a hitch of his breeches : 
 
 " Humph, be gad ! Bounce in, Betsy, an' when that 
 ere mule stops an' don't wan't to go the right way — humph, 
 be gad! — you jest tighten them ropes, an' when I say 
 stick the dobbins to 'im, do you set back on them lines." 
 
 " Mr. Duckworth, you're agwine to cause that 'ere mule 
 to do sump'n danger's an' I'm afeared to projick with your 
 fixments. S'posen he were to run away, an' I were to be 
 kilt } You'd be sorry then." 
 
 " Sorry } Humph ! be gad ! Hain't theres good fish in 
 the sea as ever were cotch out'n it } Humph ! begad ! I'd 
 get me another un. But, don't you fret. This 'ere mule's 
 too much like a jackass to run away. His game is to fight 
 it out, an', humph ! be gad! I'm agwine to give 'im a 
 chance." 
 
 Down the road the little cart trundled, and the Major 
 kept chuckling to himself — 
 
 " Humph ! be gad ! " 
 
 At the top of a long slope t*he roads forked. About 
 half a mile ahead was a little muddy branch. Both of these 
 points were among the battle grounds of the Major and 
 the mule. 
 
170 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 Just so. When they came to the forks of the road the 
 mule stopped short. 
 
 "Humph! be gad! I'm agwine to give ye jest one 
 chance, dadburn yer picter. Go 'long ! " 
 
 The mule veered to the left and the Major pulled to the 
 right. 
 
 " Go 'long, I say." 
 
 The mule sidled to the left. 
 
 " Humph, be gad ! Shet yer eyes an' set back, an' stick 
 the dobbins to 'im, Betsy." 
 
 Betsy set back and fetched a mighty pull. 
 
 There was a wild bray of surprise and pain, and that 
 mule flung his heels into the air, and the wheels of that 
 little cart only touched the high places, as they spun along 
 the rooty road. 
 
 Betsy had set back a little too far, and she held to the 
 lines to hold her position, and that drove the spikes in 
 deeper. 
 
 Major Duck had to hold down the shafts with his feet 
 and cling to the mule's neck with his hands, and away they 
 went. 
 
 Bumpity, bumpity — ''humph! be gad!"- — bumpity,, 
 bump ; bumpity, bump — " Do stop 'im Mr. Duckworth !" — 
 Bumpity, bumpity — ** humph ! be gad ! " 
 
 When they reached the foot of the slope the mule sud- 
 denly remembered that this was a halting station, and he. 
 stopped short. 
 
 The shock unsettled Betsy, and as she went over she 
 raised the tackle till it caught the Major around the waist,, 
 and her weight threw tRe cart shafts up ; and down they 
 went, Betsy on the grass and the major in the mud over 
 the mule's head. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 1 71 
 
 Whoopee ! He came out of that puddle, and he came 
 a-cussing. 
 
 " Humph ! be gad ! Thought you'd kill me, did ye ?' 
 Betsy, dadburn yer picter. I believe ye'd pizen me if ye 
 got ha'f a chance. Git up fom there. Yer not hurt. 
 Humph ! be gad ! " and he hitched up his breeches that 
 had been badly lacerated by the spikes. 
 
 *' Oh, Mr. Duckworth, I knowed I'd be kilt. Oh, Lordy !'; 
 
 " Git up fom there, Betsy, I tell ye. Humph ! be gad !' 
 I'll fix ye. Jest like yer ole mammy, make out like yer 
 a'most kilt when ye hain't s'iled. Humph ! be gad ! Two 
 bushels o'corn spilt an' the linch pin broke. All your 
 durned fool actions ! " 
 
 By that time he had got his breeches so they would 
 stay up, and he walked around to where the mule was stand- 
 ing with his eyes half shut, resting and waiting for a re- 
 newal of hostilities. 
 
 " Humph ! be gad ! Hain't satisfied, aire ye .'' Ef my 
 cyart weren't broke I'd stick the dobbins to ye ergin." 
 
 The mule opened one eye and glared at the Major, and 
 sorter backed his ears and looked threatening. 
 
 The Major was too exhausted to accept the challenge. 
 He threw himself on the ground, panting and foaming at 
 the mouth. At last he feebly raised his clinched fist, and 
 shaking it at the mule, he muttered : 
 
 "Humph! Be gad! You little, yaller, long-eared^, 
 crooked-legged, string-halted devil ! Betsy's had enough,., 
 an, jest like er'ole mammy. But you — you — little wall-eyed 
 cuss o' the earth ; you git more and more like yer pappy 
 every day ! " 
 
1 72 SO UTHERN SCENES. 
 
 A SWARM OF BEES. 
 
 Grandpa got a notion into his head that bee-keeping was 
 pleasant and profitable. 
 
 I didn't agree with him. 
 
 The only bee that I ever tried to keep was a bumble 
 bee in a pumpkin blossom, and the old rascal ripped out at 
 the side while I was holding the ends of the blossom to hear 
 him "zoom," and he backed up against the side of my head 
 in such a forcible way that I never forgot the experience. 
 
 But Grandpa knew he could manage bees. 
 
 He got hold of a gum with about a peck of these little 
 black bees that smell rank when they get mad, and he set 
 the gum against the palings, under the shade of the big 
 sycamore that stood in the back yard. 
 
 Then he made me take a hoe and chop down the tea- 
 weeds, so as to keep the toads and crickets from hiding 
 there. 
 
 He tried to make me kill the old toad that persisted in 
 sitting in front of the bee-gum and snapped up the workers 
 as they came in from the fields. But folks had told me 
 that if I killed a toad, my cow would die; so I just carried 
 the toad off and dropped him into an old well, and told him 
 to sink or swim, live or die. 
 
 Then he wasted several pounds of powder and shot try- 
 ing to kill a little bit of a bee-martin that would fly at the 
 shot and try to catch them, thinking they were bees. He 
 never did kill the martin, but he said some ugly words 
 about the martin, and the gun, and Ponchartrain for howl- 
 ing every time he took aim. 
 
 One day he told me he'd give me a dollar if I'd put an 
 €nd to that martin, and Mr. Lewis told me that I could 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. 175 
 
 catch the martin if I'd put some salt on his tail; and I went 
 around with a pocket full of salt for a whole week. One 
 day I fell in the branch and the salt got wet and my 
 breeches stiff, and skinned me all over ; but I never could 
 get close enough to the martin to conjure him. 
 
 When the plum trees shed their blossoms, and the little 
 plums began to grow, the bees began to get restless, and 
 late of an evening I could hear them growling and grumb- 
 ling, and a big wad of them would stay outside till the dew 
 fell on them. 
 
 I asked Grandpa if they wouldn't catch cold, but he told 
 me to dry up, that boys like me couldn't understand such 
 things. 
 
 " They are fixin' to swarm, and we'll have to watch ' em 
 mighty close, my son. I reckon I had better not go to 
 meetin' Sunday, for they mought swarm, and then agin 
 they moughtn't. They giner'ly swarm when you're least 
 expectin' it ; and the Scripter says that it ain't no sin to 
 pull an ox out'n the ditch on Sunday, and I 'spose bees 
 aire as good as oxens." 
 
 That was his logic, and it suited me to a T. 
 
 Sunday was an ideal summer Sabbath. Just such a one 
 as you see along about Easter, or a little after ; when the 
 soft blue skies are flecked with little white clouds that 
 drift along like pleasure boats in a calm. 
 I The air was full of fragrance and full of song. 
 
 The light winds rustled the tender leaves, and the old 
 mocking bird sat among the peach tree boughs, and sang 
 in a dreary sort of way, as if she were singing in her sleep. 
 
 The old dominicker stood on the fence and crowed. He 
 would throw his head back and — 
 
 " Cuck — coo — cuck — coo — coo — oo — oo ! " 
 
174 SOUTHERN SCENES, 
 
 And away down at popper Joe's house the old blue 
 game would answer — 
 
 " Cuck-oo — cuck-oo-coo-oo-oo ! " 
 
 And the old dominicker would hold his head sorter one- 
 sided and listen, and then blaze away again. 
 
 The yellow hen laid an ^gg under the furnace, and came 
 out cackling as if she had laid a nest full of ostrich eggs, 
 with red and blue streaks on them. The yellow hen was 
 as vain as a town girl with an Easter bonnet, and all about 
 one little ^gg, that any hen could have laid. 
 
 Nobody at home but Grandpa and me. 
 
 He got a pillow and lay down on the back piazza to 
 •watch the bees, and I tried to get up a fight between old 
 Pidy and Ponchartrain. 
 
 About eleven o'clock I heard a terrible buzzing at the 
 bee gum, and I jumped up and ran to where I could see 
 good, and it looked to me like there were about forty mil- 
 lion bees darting around like they were crazy. 
 
 " O, Grandpa ! the bees is a-swarmin' ! the bees is a 
 swarmin' ! " I yelled, as I jumped up and down. 
 
 The old man sprang up and shaded his eyes with one 
 hand and then shaded them with the other, for he had been 
 hard and fast asleep. 
 
 "Well, they aire, by hoky ! " 
 
 That was one of his cuss words. 
 
 " I seed 'em first, didn't I, Grandpa } " * 
 
 " Yes — you're a smart boy, and you shall have the brin- 
 dle calf for that." 
 
 " What aire you gwine to do .'* " 
 
 " O, we must make 'em pitch. Run, git two tin pans 
 .and sump'n to beat on 'em with. Run, quick, now." 
 
 I dashed into the kitchen and got two pans, and came 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. 1 75 
 
 back ; and Grandpa took one and I took the other, and we 
 raised a hullaballoo in about two minutes. 
 
 We beat, and we banged, and Ponchartrain followed us 
 around and whined, and the old Pidy cat scaled up into the 
 loft with her tail as big as a rolling pin, meowing and spit- 
 ting at every jump. 
 
 The bees circled around, and circled around, and circled 
 around ; getting higher and higher, and further away from 
 the gum. 
 
 '* Beat hard, my son, for they're atryin to run away," 
 cried Grandpa, with the sweat streaming down his face ; and 
 I just doubled myself up and nearly beat a hole in the big 
 dish pan. 
 
 At last I saw a few of them light on a sycamore limb, 
 and the rest all began to cluster around them ; and they 
 flew slower and got thicker, and the first thing I knew 
 there was a bunch of them hanging to the limb as big as 
 a mule's head. 
 
 " Now we've got'em. All we've got to do is to git 'em 
 in a gum. We've got to be mighty keerful, though, for 
 they're a contrary set." 
 
 The gum had been made for several days in anticipa- 
 tion of their swarming, and we proceeded to get it ready. 
 
 " Grandpa, won't they sting us } " 
 
 " Not if we ain't a-scared of 'em. If we let 'em know 
 we're ascared of 'em they'll stick it to us, though." 
 
 We got the gum, and took some peachtree leaves and 
 salt, and put them in water and bruised them, and we 
 sprinkled the gum with water and set it on a table that we 
 placed right under the bees. 
 
 "Now, ril fix myself," said Grandpa, "for you know 
 the Scripter says in time of peace prepare for war, and 
 forewarned is forearmed." 
 
176 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 I didn't know what the Scripture said about it, but if it 
 meant to rig a fellow up like Grandpa did himself that day,. 
 I knew that I didn't understand the Scriptures. 
 
 He got a flour sack, and cut two little holes for his eyes- 
 and a big one for his nose to breathe through, and he pulled 
 the sack over his head and tied it tight around his neck. 
 Then he put on his long linen coat and buttoned every one- 
 of the big bright buttons, from the collar to the tail. He 
 then stuffed his breeches legs in his socks and tied them 
 tight around the ankles. He couldn't find any gloves that 
 were small enough, so he drew on a pair of woolen socks,, 
 and made me tie the legs up around his wrists. 
 
 When he put on his big broad-brimmed hat, he looked 
 like the devil, or Robinson Crusoe, I couldn't decide which ;, 
 and Ponchartrain growled and tucked his tail between his 
 legs as the old man came fanning out. 
 
 " Now, we must saw the limb off and let the bees down 
 right easy, and they'll go into the gum just so nice. I'll 
 saw the limb most off, and then you can finish it while I 
 ease 'em down." 
 
 I couldn't reach the limb, so I took a forked stick and 
 steadied it while Grandpa sawed. When he got it about 
 half in two he came and reached up and took hold of it, and 
 turning his back to the bee end of it, proceeded to direct 
 me. 
 
 ** Saw easy, now, my son, and let it come down gently."" 
 
 As he blinked at me through the peep-holes in that. 
 sack, I snickered in spite of myself at the sight of that big,, 
 red nose that looked like a pumpkin yam potato that the 
 wood-lice had been afoul of. 
 
 " Easy, now, it's a'most through." 
 
 My arms was so tired, for I had to sit astraddle of the 
 limb with my back against the tree, and reach out and saw 
 
SOUTHERX SCENES. 177 
 
 up and clown. The old man braced himself firmly for the 
 climax, and said : 
 
 '' Steady, lad, we'll soon have 'em." 
 
 The nose grew redder every second, and damp splotches 
 began to appear on the sack that covered his face. Pon- 
 chartrain sat under the edge of the piazza and looked on 
 inquiringly. 
 
 Suddenly the old saw hung, and I fetched a surge, and 
 snap ! went the limb. 
 
 The old man had miscalculated the weight of the bees, 
 and as the limb parted so unexpectedly, the butt end flew 
 up, and that whole dogoned half a bushel of bees overbal- 
 anced and struck him in the back, cur-rash ! 
 
 Great balls of fire ! 
 
 The air was full of the maddest bees that ever attacked 
 a bald-headed man in the summer time. 
 
 They saw that red nose and they made for it. 
 
 Zip ! zip! zip ! 
 
 Right and left, fore and aft, and sidewipe every second 
 thro wed in. 
 
 I climbed a few notches higher up among the sycamore 
 limbs, and watched the fray. 
 
 Those hands with the socks on, went round and round 
 like the paddles of a side-wheeler. Every lick they killed 
 a dozen bees, but the swarm didn't miss them. 
 
 They got inside that linen coat, they forced their way 
 into his breeches legs, and attacked flank and rear. 
 
 At last he made a break and tripped over the table, and 
 down he went among the tea weeds. Ponchartrain thought 
 now was the time to charge, and he sailed in, and every 
 time a bee would pop him he'd take a fresh mouthful of the 
 fallen monster. * 
 
 After awhile Grandpa regained his feet and gave Pon- 
 
 12 
 
178 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 chartrain a kick that would have paralyzed a mule, and 
 tearing off his superfluous armor he made a dash for the 
 branch. 
 
 I stayed up there until the bees collected and went zoom- 
 ing away toward the piny woods, and then I came down. 
 
 Just then Grandpa came in sight, but he didn't look 
 near like he used to. 
 
 He and Ponchartrain had made up, and both of them 
 had the biggest heads I ever saw. 
 
 And Grandpa's nose — phe-e-w ! 
 
 He tried to talk to me, and got as mad as a wet hen 
 because I couldn't understand him. 
 
 But about a week afterward, when I saw the bee-martin 
 catching bees, I ran into the house and cried : 
 
 ** Grandpa ! Grandpa ! Get your gun, that old martin's 
 thest catchin' our bees." 
 
 "Let 'im alone, sonny. Let 'im catch 'em. Sich bcc3 
 as them don't deserve no protection f'om me. Let 'im hei.^ 
 himself to the bees, so far as I'm concerned." 
 
 ''^T^^^S}!^^ 
 
 *Trr- 
 
SOUTHERN SCEJVES. 179 
 
 THE HORTON RAM. 
 
 Grandpa did hate to see animals treated cruelly. 
 
 He wouldn't even allow us to impose on the old spotted 
 sow that was forever breaking into the potato patch, and 
 when we tied knots in her tail to keep her from getting 
 through the cracks, he made us catch her and untie them. 
 
 Then when we tied a turpentine saturated string to the 
 cat's tail, set it on fire, and turned her loose, and she made 
 a bee line for the big crib, the old gentleman came very 
 near cowhiding us. I guess he would have done so had it 
 not been for Yaller Jim, who headed the cat off and saved 
 the big crib. 
 
 Grandpa was very humane, and would not let Ed Malloy 
 cut Ponchartrain's ears when he was a puppy, so as to give 
 him a watchful look ; and the dog had to go through life 
 with flopped ears. 
 
 But there came a time when his excessive tenderness in 
 regard to the animal kingdom brought him sorrow and dis- 
 may, and some melancholy experience. 
 
 Old man Horton had a few sheep, the worst sheep to 
 butt folks that ever I saw in all my life. Perhaps our 
 pranking with one old ram made him the chief of sinners 
 in that line; but at any rate, he was the champion for 
 butting. 
 
 Down by the river there was a high bluff with a second 
 ledge just below the first one, and a nice little fringe of 
 sparkleberry bushes all along its edge. 
 
 At the foot of the bluff there was a deep eddy, and on 
 the other side of the channel a broad bar of snowy sand. 
 
 It was an elegant place to piay, and many's the romp 
 we had there in ih^ olden time. 
 
180 SOUTHERX SCEXES. 
 
 This bluff was a favorite slieep walk, and Horton's ram 
 used to forage around among the sparkleberry bushes when 
 the summer sun was high. Half a dozen of his boon com- 
 panions were generally at his heels, and a high old time 
 they had nipping the tender herbs in this cool and shady 
 locality. 
 
 One day us boys hit upon a plan to get even with Hor- 
 ton's sheep, and the old bellicose ram in particular. We 
 planned a stratagem that we felt sure would cool their mar- 
 tial spirits if the plot was skillfully executed. 
 
 We slipped around and got on the second ledge of the 
 bluff where, by raising up, we could show ourselves, and 
 then we could simply squat down and disappear like one of 
 these "now-you-see-it-and-now-you-don't " kind of arrange- 
 ments. 
 
 The sheep were feeding along abov^e, and we could hear 
 them as they'd " baa-aa-a " to each other and then " baa-oo-ea" 
 back again. 
 
 We sat under the bank and snickered. 
 
 By and by they drew near unto us and we got ready f o * 
 action. 
 
 One of the boys suddenly bobbed up and imitating the 
 sheep said '*baa-aa! " and made fighting motions. 
 
 One of those blear-eyed wethers accepted the challenge, 
 and backing off a step or two lowered his head and came 
 full tilt. 
 
 Lippity — lippity — lip ! And just as he made his lunge 
 the boy disappeared under the edge of the bank and a 
 mighty splash in the pool below told the tale. 
 
 We laughed and danced for pure glee as we watched the 
 sheep struggling in the water, and when he wiggled out on 
 to the sand bar, forlorn and bedraggled, we fairly yelled 
 with delisfht. 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. 1 8 1 
 
 "Hey, there; what in the name of common sense aire 
 you adoin' to Mr. Horton's sheep ? Git out from here, you 
 insignificant Uttle rascals, or I'll cowhide you. Jest let me 
 know of your being guilty of sich a thing ag'in ! " 
 
 It was Grandpa. 
 
 The old gentleman had slipped up on us unawares. He 
 had his hog wallet thrown across his shoulders, and had 
 been watching the whole proceedings. 
 
 It was pitiful to have to give the thing up at the interest- 
 ing stage of the campaign, but we departed in obedience to 
 the old gentleman's commands. 
 
 But we had an inkling that the old man wanted to try 
 the sport, and as soon as we got a safe distance awa)^ we 
 paused to watch his maneuvers. 
 
 The sheep were on the bank bleating to their comrade, 
 and after a cautious survey of his surroundings the old gen- 
 tleman hung his wallet on a limb, and raising himself above 
 the ledge, he took the big red handkerchief out of his hat, 
 and shakino- it in the direction of the old ram, he said : 
 
 " Baa-aa ! " 
 
 The old ram looked hard at him, and the old man ducked 
 his head down under the edge of the bluff. 
 
 But the sheep was not on time and he raised his head 
 up, and just as he did — 
 
 " Kervip !" come the old ram full tilt, and with a yell the 
 old man turned a half summersault, and struck the water, 
 and the old ram came down on top of him. 
 
 It looked like they dried up the channel for about twenty 
 feet as they came down, and just such a churning up I 
 never saw before. 
 
 We ran down to the Qd.gQ of the water, whooping and 
 yelling, and while one recovered ti-'c big red handkerchief, 
 another fished out the hat. 
 
182 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 Grandpa looked at the ram, and between his snufflings 
 and splutterings he remarked— 
 
 ** You old — hie — Philistine — ho-ck — I do wish you had 
 a — squoi-ck — got drowned. Sniff — any man that'll — snu-ff 
 — keep sich unruly beasts — hie — 'round him, ought to be — 
 sp-c-h-t — tuck up and dealt with ! " 
 
 Then he waddled up the bank and got his wallet and 
 marched off homewards, muttering and mumbling impreca- 
 tions on the whole sheep tribe. 
 
 And for days afterwards a simple " baa-aa ! " from one 
 of the boys would set the old gentleman in a fidget. 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. 1 S3 
 
 BUSTLES AND THE BILLY GOAT. 
 
 In my childish innocence I used to wonder why they 
 selected a he goat for the chief sinner of all the Hebrew 
 nation. I used to hear Brother McCook speak of the scape 
 goat that was turned into the wilderness, and I cogitated a 
 great deal about it. 
 
 But I have learned by many experiences, that in rank 
 as well as strength, the billy goat stands pre-eminent among 
 all the beasts of the field ; and there was so much innate 
 cussedness in his nature, that no wonder he was made an 
 example of by the Jews. 
 
 But if their goats had have been like my uncle's goat, 
 there would have been no use in turning him loose, fdr he 
 would have died before he would have gone to the wilder- 
 ness. 
 
 Jerusalem ! How I dreaded that goat. The old blear- 
 eyed reprobate had a long yellowish beard, and was white 
 behind and black before, and his horns twisted around like 
 those you see in Bible pictures. 
 
 He generally fed in the fence jambs along the lane, so 
 as to be in readiness to attack anybody whom he thought 
 he could whip. 
 
 I used to sneak along on tiptoe, and the nearer I got to 
 the house the lighter I got, and all of a sudden I would 
 hear the ominous "■ ba-a ! " and a vision of black and white 
 wickedness on his hind feet would set me going. 
 
 Sometmies I would be assisted by a blow on the spot 
 where my trousers were patched the most extensive ; and 
 then again I would climb the gate post just as Billy struck 
 its base with a shock that would loosen my teeth. 
 
 But there was little rest for the wicked, for that goat 
 
184 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 could walk a three-cornered rail better than I could on the 
 ground, and there was no place except in the water where 
 I was safe from torment. 
 
 But Mr. Bustles, the jug-peddler, promised to teach the 
 old enemy some manners as well as sense. 
 
 Mr. Bustles was a man who had sandy beard and many 
 inventions. He looked somewhat like a goat, and he chewed 
 his tobacco so rapidly that the resemblance was made 
 more manifest. 
 
 He always used the words '' Lord Geminy,'' to punctuate 
 his sentences. 
 
 One day I came in after a bloody engagement with Old 
 Billy, and after a hearty laugh at my expense he said : 
 
 " W'y, Lord Geminy, I kin fix that 'ere old ram in jist 
 a couple of minits, adzactly, by the Lord Geminy ! " 
 
 ''How, Mr. Bustles.?" 
 
 "Ne'min'; jest git me a little homily pot, an' Lord 
 Geminy, we'll I'arn him a vallyble lessin by the Lord 
 Geminy ! Git one 'bout big 'nough to fit my head, an,'' 
 Lord Geminy, I'll make that'ere kid wonder which end his 
 horns is hitched onto, by the Lord Geminy ! " 
 
 We, the other boys and I, had to maneuver around a 
 good deal to secure the pot, for my lynx-eyed aunt put much 
 store by her kettles and her pots. 
 
 But we finally managed to slip it off, and down to the 
 lot we went, Mr. Bustles sauntering along humming : 
 
 "Ole Dan Tucker, he got drunk, 
 
 An' he fell in the fire an' he kicked up a chunk ; 
 
 An' a red-hot coal got in his si oe ; 
 
 An' Lord Geminee ! how the ashes flew ! " 
 
 Under the crib stood Billy, chewing away, with a wicked 
 leer in his malicious eyes. 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. 1 So 
 
 "Gimme the pot, an' hold my hat," said Mr. Bustles, 
 '' an' I'll see how it fits." 
 
 He carefully adjusted the pot, that fitted him like a cap, 
 just covering his forehead, but leaving his eyes so he could 
 wink at us as he remarked : 
 
 " See if the pot laigs p'ints straight for'ards, for by the 
 Lord Geminy, I'm agwine to make that 'ere old Philistine 
 feel like he's run ag'in a iron cuckle burr. Lord Geminy, 
 s'pos'n he won't fight.''" 
 
 '* Oh, he'll fight," we all chimed in. 
 
 "All right. Here goes. He! he! he!" tittered Mr. 
 Bustles, "Lord Geminy, won't I 'stonish that'ere ole 
 animil ! " 
 
 Then he walked up a little nearer the crib. 
 
 Billy wiggled his tail. 
 
 Mr. Bustles got down on his all-fours. 
 
 Billy blew his nose. 
 
 Mr. Bustles made a motion. 
 
 ISilly raised his mane. 
 
 Air. Bustles raised up and came down with a regular 
 goat dare. 
 
 " Ba — a ! " Rippity, rippity — bang ! 
 
 Mr. Bustles turned a summersault backwards, and Billy 
 trotted off with a sniff of disdain. 
 
 " Wa — augh ! " Came a sepulchral voice as we climbed 
 down off the fence, and Mr. Bustles scrambled to his feet> 
 staggering, with the pot down over his ears. 
 
 " Lord Geminy, take it off ! " 
 
 We grabbed the legs and pulled. 
 
 " Ou — w ! Lord Geminy, my years ! ' 
 
 We took the legs and twisted the pot around. 
 
 " Stop ! Lord Geminy, my whiskers ! '' 
 
 " What shall we do, then } " 
 
ISG 
 
 SO UTHERy SCEXES. 
 
 "Lord Geminy, break the pot ! " 
 
 " Might mash your head," said one. 
 
 " And the old lady would get us," said another. 
 
 " Lord Geminy, don't stop to argyfy. Break it easy ; 
 I'll pay fur the pot." 
 
 Finally we got the wood ax and an old hammer, and we 
 made him lie down, and put the pot on the ax, and cracked 
 it gently with the hammer until we got it off. 
 
 " By the Lord Geminy, mum," said he, as he explained 
 it to the old lady, "thar's my waggin. Jest he'pyerse'f tell 
 yer paid. Lord Geminy, ef you'll gimme that'ere goat ye 
 mought have the whole layout. I jest want to cut his black 
 throat f'om year to year, an' by the Lord Geminy FU be 
 happy !" 
 
 But Billy was standing on the conib of the carriage 
 house, looking like Satan inventing a new sin, and Mr. Bus- 
 tles drove off with his ears and nose covered with sweet 
 gum salve. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 1>T 
 
 THE JIMMERSON BULL. 
 
 There is something peculiar about the cow kind that I 
 never could cipher out. 
 
 That is their pleasure to do just exactly different from 
 what you desire them to do. 
 
 I know we had an old red-headed cow with one horn 
 once, that was a tough case. In the spring and summer 
 she would slip around and take a five-mile walk to find a 
 low place where she could jump into the field. 
 
 And she didn't care much what was growing in the 
 field, whether it was wheat or tares, she just would jump 
 in or die. 
 
 Then again, when the fields were open in the fall, we 
 couldn't keep her in the fattest pea-field that ever harbored 
 a buck rabbit. 
 
 She would jump out or bust. She was one of the 
 jumping kind, and came from a family of jumpers. She 
 could crack her heels together and skim over a ten-rail 
 fence so. slick it would make your head swim. 
 
 And the old heifer would go along with the herd, and 
 when they'd come to the cow-pen gap, and all the rest 
 would jump over — only three rails high — she would fetch 
 a long leap and flourish her tail around. 
 
 She just loved to jump. 
 
 The Jimmerson bull was another one of those cussed 
 conglomerations of contrarieties. 
 
 He belonged to old man Jimmerson, who lived over 
 across the creek, in the backwoods ; but he had taken up 
 on the plantation, and had been there so long he felt like 
 he was boss of the hill. 
 
 Grandpa wouldn't molest the old villain because Jim- 
 
1 SS so UTHERN SCENES. 
 
 merson was a Hardshell Baptist and Grandpa was a Hard- 
 shell Methodist, and he was afraid if he hurt that old bull 
 that Jimmerson would think he just did it for spite. 
 
 In the spring of the year the old bull would shed off 
 until he looked pretty passable, and then he'd put on airs 
 until some little three-year-old, with us boys to help, would 
 -whip the daylights out of him, and then old Jimmerson 
 would get sullen and go moping around the plantation, 
 :studying up some sort of mischief. 
 
 He got so after a while that he was spiteful, and when 
 he could get a chance he'd make us boys skedaddle. 
 
 I have been walking along singing 
 
 "Jaybird settin' on a swingin' limb, 
 
 An' he winked at me an' I winked at liim," 
 
 when suddenly out of a patch of weeds would come old 
 Jimp. 
 
 *' Oo-oo-oof ! " and away I'd go, with old Jimp full tilt 
 behind me, with his heels cracking, and just as I'd skin up 
 a tree and get safe, he'd stop and go to feeding. 
 
 Then I'd have to sit up there ever so long, and he'd feed 
 around and watch me out of the corner of his red eye, and 
 every time I'd start to get down, he'd paw a little dirt and 
 throw it on his back, and shake his head and mutter, 
 "'' Oo-oo-oof ! " as much as to say, 'Just come down if you 
 dare!" 
 
 One of the old rascal's worst traits was breaking into 
 the field. 
 
 When he was young I guess he was a good jumper, but 
 he grew so clumsy that he couldn't jump, and then he'd 
 just walk up to the fence and deliberately tear it down with 
 his horns and walk in. 
 
 He dearly loved a fodder stack, for there he had nothing 
 to do but to stand in the shade and pull out wisp after 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. ISO- 
 
 wisp, and select the choicest blades, and trample the rest 
 under his feet. 
 
 We had to run after that old bull every day, and often of a 
 night, and nobody could like such a bull as that, especially 
 us boys ; and we hated him worse than poverty or sin. 
 
 We had been on the run for a week, one November 
 trying to keep old Jimp from ruining a fodder stack , when 
 at last Grandpa said : 
 
 *'Boys, I'll fix that Jimmerson bull. I'll stop his fodder 
 eatin'. I don't want to hurt the old villyun, for Mr. Jim- 
 merson mought think I done it for spite ; but I'll fix him,^ 
 now mind if I don't." 
 
 Grandpa had one of these old time single barrel shot 
 guns, so small in the bore that you could load it with a big 
 bullet and thick patching. She was sure fire, and I reckon^ 
 Grandpa must have been a great shooter in his young days, 
 for he was always bragging about what he could do if he 
 had a mind to, with that old gun. 
 
 '' Go load my gun," said he, "and put a plenty of pow- 
 der, but instid o' shot put in a big load of coarse salt. I'll 
 fix that bull so he'll let alone my fodder stack." 
 
 I ran off to load the gun, and I happened to think of just 
 putting in one shot to get even with old Jimp. I knew it 
 would take more than just one little buckshot to kill as big 
 a bull as old Jimp, and I didn't much believe Grandpa 
 could hit the old scamp, anyway. 
 
 Wei], I brought out the gun, and Grandpa started down 
 to the field, and Ponchartrain at his heels. Grandpa heard 
 Ponch, and hollered to me to ''come git this puppy and 
 keep him back ; or I'll never git in gun shot o' that beast." 
 
 I ran out an collared Ponch and tied a string around his 
 neck, but I wanted to see the fun so bad I couldn't resist 
 following along at a distance. 
 
190 SO(/TIIEJ^A' SCEiYES. 
 
 Grandpa slipped along on the off side of the fodder stack 
 till he got in about forty feet of it, and then he crawled to 
 a stump to get a rest. 
 
 Ponchartrain began to whine, but I choked him, 
 
 I began to tremble with excitement as Grandpa pulled 
 back the hammer. 
 
 Old Jimp stood with half closed eyes, chewing away, 
 unsuspectingly. 
 
 Grandpa drew a long bead. 
 
 The sun glistened on the gun barrel. 
 
 Ponch wiggled and whined. 
 
 Old Jimp chewed his fodder. 
 
 I trembled. 
 
 CherwhaCiC ! 
 
 The gun had missed fire, and I like to have yelled with 
 excitement. 
 
 Grandpa cocked his gun. 
 
 Another bead. 
 
 Old Jimp stamped one foot — 
 
 "Bang!" 
 
 " Bau-w-wr-r ! " Old Jimp tumbled over and stuck his 
 feet straight up. Ponchartrain broke loose and went yelp- 
 ing away toward the house. 
 
 Grandpa dropped the gun and drew a long breath as he 
 placed his hands on his hips. 
 
 " Well, ril be consarned ! Them drotted boys ! Them 
 grains o' salt were too big ! " 
 
 I had come up close behind and I snickered — 
 
 " Hey ! You here } Ah-h ! You little rascal, j You 
 done that ! " and I disappeared with a cornstalk in full 
 pursuit. 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 191 
 
 DEACON DODDS. 
 
 The uo:liest mortal that came to Salem church was 
 Deacon Dodds. 
 
 He was a sight to look upon. He was of medium 
 height, but so stoop-shouldered that it brought him down 
 • among the lower levels of humanity. 
 
 One eye looked up the chimney, while the other one 
 was fixed on the pot, so that it was a proverb among us that 
 Deacon Dodds would make a first-class cook. 
 
 He was not only cross-eyed, but he was cock-eyed, and 
 blear-eyed, and his eyes were so close together that a gal- 
 linipper could sit straddle of the bridge of his nose and 
 dabble a hind foot in the corner of each eye at the same 
 time. 
 
 He was so bald that if he had had any beard it would 
 have puzzled his nearest relations to have told which was 
 the front side of his head. 
 
 And his ears stuck out like the fans of a windmill. 
 
 The free breeze of heaven had blown against his face 
 until it was the color of a hogskin sacMle after ten years' 
 steady use, and his nose was like unto a reap hook with c: 
 rotten apple on the point of the blade. 
 
 But who shall describe his mouth ? 
 
 It was lik'e the overseer's wages, extendmg from ear to 
 ear, and in its dark and cavernous depths two or three 
 dilapidated yellow tusKs remained, like memorial pillars that 
 had been left wnen the cyclone struck it. 
 
 And he would sing or die. And no matter how many 
 people were there Deacon Dodds was first to catch the 
 tune, and above the rythmic swell of the voices of those 
 who had some regard for time and meter, could be heard at 
 
192 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 intervals that discordant bray, like the cry of a wild ass of 
 the desert among the palm branches. 
 
 I never did like Deacon Dodds. I don't know why, 
 but some how I had a distaste for him. I used to w^on- 
 der what kind of a looking cherubim Deacon Dodds would 
 make if he should happen to slip in at the golden gate 
 while St. Peter was not noticing. 
 
 And then again, I was a little bothered. If old Nick 
 were to get him he wouldn't take him down there, because 
 he was so ugly he'd put the fire out. 
 
 It used to tickle me when Grandpa would meet the 
 Deacon and shake hands with him, and sorter squint one 
 eye and then t'other eye, like a goose blinking at the sun, 
 and it was : 
 
 "Howdy do. Brother Dodds," and "Toler'ble well, aa' 
 how do you do," and " I'm toler'ble, and how do you do," 
 and right on, over and over again, while the Deacon appeared 
 to be admiring the shape of Grandpa's hat with his right 
 eye and taking the measure of his foot with the other. 
 
 And as his tongue would slosh around in that big empty 
 mouth of his like a cat-fish in a puddle, I would think to 
 myself : 
 
 " Old jockey, if I was as big as Grandpa, you wouldn't 
 be any brother of mine ! " 
 
 He had another quality more or less admirable. After 
 he got through singing he always went to nodding, so he 
 slept while others worshipped, and when he worshipped 
 nobody else could sleep. 
 
 He would lean his bald head over the back of a bench, 
 close his eyes and open his fly trap, and begin to snore the 
 very minute the preacher got through reading his text, just 
 as if he were away behind on sleep, and had determined to 
 catch up, preacher or no preacher. 
 
SOt/THl^RN SCENES. 103 
 
 One day I occupied a seat just in the rear of Deacon 
 Dodds. It was a still, sultry, summer day ; and scarcely 
 had the last notes of the hymn died away when the Deacon 
 settled himself for a regular snooze. 
 
 He had got down to business, and was sawing gourds 
 for who laid the rails, when my attention was attracted by 
 a big brindled grasshopper that was leisurely meandering 
 along the window sill to find a cool and shady place. 
 
 The parson had taken his text in Revelations, where the 
 prophet describes the monster that had so many horns, 
 and created such consternation among the natives when he 
 moved into the settlement. 
 
 My mind, ever active, instantly found a parallel between 
 the monster and the brindled grasshopper. The more I 
 thought about it, the more forcibly it struck me, and finally 
 I reached forth and captured the grasshopper, and began 
 to inspect him. 
 
 Just then I happened to glance at the Deacon's open 
 mouth, and the thought struck me, " I wonder if there 
 wouldn't be some more revelations if this gentleman was 
 to saunter in there .'*" 
 
 The preacher was watching me, and I had to be sly. 
 
 I inched up right close to the Deacon who snored away. 
 
 The other brethen were all engrossed in the sermon, 
 and the good sisters were blinking drowsily. 
 
 The parson was getting heated up, and as he took out 
 his handkerchief to wipe away the perspiration, I got right 
 close to the Deacon. 
 
 Slowly and cautiously I eased my hand forward. 
 
 Just then the parson hit his beast an imaginary lick 
 betwixt the eyes with a bang of the fist by the way of 
 emphasis. 
 
 A little nearer I reached. 
 
 13 
 
104 S01/THE:RN SCEA'ES. 
 
 The Deacon snored. 
 
 Nearer and nearer. 
 
 The beast was aj^proaching perdition. 
 
 A quick, deft movement, and — Great JewhiUkins ! 
 
 The brindled grasshopper disappeared, but if ever you 
 saw a circus it was there. 
 
 Spitting and spluttering, coughing and struggling, the 
 Deacon reared up in his seat and his eyes stood out on 
 stems as he heaved and hawked, and hawked and heaved, 
 all the time making the most ungodly grimaces that mortal 
 man ever was guilty of. 
 
 The parson turned red in the face, reached for the water 
 pitcher and almost broke down completely. 
 
 The sisters started from their seats with many a " Lord 
 a' mercy ! " and the brethren came forward to assist Brother 
 Dodds, who was evidently in a fit. 
 
 "Wa — a — k! Sq — sq — ack ! scuff— ff! swish — s — sh ! 
 00 — 00 — o — aick ! " went he like a bursted locomotive boiler 
 as he walked half bent down the aisle toward the door. 
 
 Just as he reached the steps the brindled grasshopper 
 fell, a limp and shapeless mass of legs and horns, at his 
 feet. 
 
 With eyes starting from their sockets and trembling 
 from head to foot he stammered : 
 
 "Th— th— ank the L— L— Lord ! " 
 
 "Do you feel any better, Brother Dodds 1 " 
 
 '* Y — Y — Yes, but it w — w — wus a p — p — pow'f ul n — 
 narrer 's — scape. D — you — r— reckin hit's a t — t — tokin of 
 the b—b— beast.?" 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. 195 
 
 THE WITCHES. 
 
 The wild winds of December had chanted the last stave 
 of their noisy requiem over the chilly couch of the dying 
 year, and now there were only occasional gusts, and half- 
 uttered sighs among the drooping boughs of the pine 
 trees. The last muddy shred of wintry cloud followed in 
 the wake of the wintry sun when he sank behind the wes- 
 tern ridges, and one by one the shining stars peeped from 
 the dark firmament. 
 
 First came the twinkling Pleiades on their mournful 
 quest, traversing once more the heavenly plain as though 
 they still had hopes that their tireless search, that had con- 
 tinued through all the long centuries of the past, might be 
 at last rewarded. Aldebaran followed, his bloodshot eye 
 glowing with a deeper intensity through the frosty atmos- 
 phere. Stalwart Orion climbed the spangled steps as he 
 had done often and again from time immemorial. Away 
 toward the north pole, silent and alone, sat the pale North 
 Star, heaven's unchangeable beacon, on whose cold glitter 
 the eyes of earth's millions gaze in awe and wonder. 
 Another year added to the unnumbered ones that lay 
 finished, sealed and filed away in the immeasurable vaults 
 of the ages. 
 
 And yet the world moved on. Not a moment's stop ; 
 the everlasting wheels turned around in the same old grooves, 
 and man was left without a moment for contemplation. 
 
 " To-morrow's New Year's," said I, as I entered Uncle 
 Mentor's cabin. 
 
 "Yes, an' if yo' don' do er good day's wo'k termorrer, 
 yo' ain' gwin do notin' de whole year. I've al'ers hearn say 
 dat if you fool about on de fus' day uv de year, yo' des sho' 
 
196 SOUTHERN SCENES. 
 
 to keep it up tel that year go out. Now, my ole marstah, 
 wa't live way back'n ole Keerlina, he al'ers wo'ked ha'd on 
 dat day, 'case 'e say dat's de way ter make er good crap. 
 Dese days folks des goes or traips'n erround f'om pos' ter 
 piller lack dey don' ca' w'edder dey make an}^ crap er no." 
 
 All this time the old man was busy making brooms. 
 
 He had a big bundle of long broom sedges lying by, 
 and he would take up a handful of it, and with an old table 
 fork he would comb it out until every straw stood up cor- 
 rectly, and the little blades and frazzles were all stripped 
 off. Then he would cut the butts off the straw nice and 
 even, and beginning with a long white oak split, he would 
 wrap and weave the straw into a nice broom. In som.e 
 way the white oak didn't work well, and with a jerk he 
 muttered : 
 
 ** Now, wat's de mattah wid dis split } Look lack it 
 'us bewitched." 
 
 "Bewitched, how ?^' said I. 
 
 "Oh, des conju'ed by dem ol' witches. You know 
 dem ol' witches, dey has heap to do wid brooms. Dey 
 rides broom han'les w'en dey goes off ter dey frolics. Dat's 
 de reason folks orter use dis yere so'ter broom, an' not 
 tinker wid dem sto' boughten brooms, 'case boughten ones 
 is got long han'les, an' de ol' witches do luf to ride 'em." 
 
 "How can they make 'em go.''" I asked, growing in- 
 terested. 
 
 " Laws a me ! Don' ax me nuthin' bout how dey does. 
 S'pose I ben projeckin' erroun' wid dem ol' ash cats t 
 No, sah ! All I know's w'at I hear udder folks say. One 
 time dey wus er boy, an' 'e al'ers wantin' ter know sump'n' 
 'bout witches. 'E kep' on axin' 'e gra'ma 'bout 'em twel 
 at las' she say, she did, 'Jacky, honey, ef yo' wanter know 
 sump'n' 'bout'n dem witches yo' des watch yo' aun' Sookey, 
 
so UTHERN SCENES. 1 97 
 
 she's one er dem witches, she is, an' evah week on Friday 
 night she goes off ter de witches' meetin'ouse, and she 
 dances wid 'em twel de clock struck twelve. Now min' 
 w'at I tell yo', w'en yo' goes to dey house, yo' uns do des 
 lake dey do. Ef yo' call de name uv de good Lo'd wiles yo' 
 in dar, yo' gwine ter git in a scrape, sho.' 
 
 " So Jack, 'e went, 'e did, 'n 'e watch 'e auntie all Fri- 
 day evcnin'. 'Long 'bout dus' 'e see she git'n' mighty 
 res'less, an' de fus'es fing 'e know she ha'f way ter de branch 
 So 'e lit out 'n 'e hid in some bushes, an' 'e see 'e auntie 
 come down ter er holler bla'gum, and dar wus er billy goat 
 tied lack er boss ter er swingin' limb. She made er roun' 
 ma'k, she did, an' she made er cur'us ma'k wid er broom' 
 stick w'at she had. She wa'k all erroun', so, an' den she 
 jumped f rough dat ring free times, an' she lip erstraddle 
 uv de billy goat, an' she say, ' Up, Jack, an' erbout ! ' an* 
 de billy goat des sailed off in de air. 
 
 V "Jack felt mighty cur'us 'bout sich perceedin's, an' fus' 
 fing 'e know, 'blip' ! come de billy goat ergin, an 'e hitch 
 'ese'f ter de same ol' swinging limb. 'Twa'nt long fo' er 
 nudder one uv de neighbo' omerns come an' done des de 
 same way. Dey kep' er comin' twel eight uv 'em come an 
 gone. 
 
 "Jackknowed dat dey was only one mo', so 'e 'cided 'e'd 
 tek er cider, an' so 'e went frough dem same monkey mo- 
 tions, an' w'en 'e say 'up. Jack, an' erbout,' de billy goat 
 des na't'ally siz frough de air, an' 'e come down 'ker vlip ! ' 
 frough de chimley uv er ol' house what Jack done heah 
 folks say was ha'nted. 
 
 *' Dey wus all dem ol' omerns tu'ned ter witches. An' 
 dey des er jumpin' up'n' down, an' singin' songs, an' flingin 
 fox fier 'bout, an' er laughin', an' er havin' cr rcg'ler jubi- 
 lee. Dey look so'ter skantwise at Jack, w'en 'e fus' come 
 
198 SOUTHERN SCENES, 
 
 in, but *e done changed inter er reg'lar ol' witch, an' dey 
 'cided at las' dat 'e wiis de yodder ole witch. Den Jack 'e 
 feel so good dat 'e commence ter whoop an' holler 'n' dance 
 erroun, an' 'e nevah could jump es high in 'e life 'fo' dat 
 time, an' 'e wus er likin' de fun. 
 
 " Dey swing all erroun, dey did, an' d^y dance up'n' 
 down de flo', an' dey skin de cat on de jistes, an' dey holler 
 'n' squall, an' fling summersets, an' I tell yo' w'at dey wus 
 enjoyin' a big ol' time. 
 
 " A'ter er wiles Jack got so happy dat 'e say, 'God ! ain' 
 we havin' fun ! ' An', gentlemens, time 'e got de wo'd out 
 'n' 'e mouf dem witches all gone lack er flash, an' de place 
 all da'k es pitch in dar. 
 
 " Jack, 'e fumble erroun twel 'e fin' de old billy goat, 'n' 
 'e say, *up Jack 'n' erbout ! ' De ole billy goat 'e lif up an 
 'e des bobble erroun' 'mongst de rafters. Now, yo' know, 
 Jack 'e done fo'got. 'E orter say 'up. Jack, an' out,' w'en 
 'e wanter git out ; an' a'ter erw'ile de billy goat come down 
 on de flo.' Den Jack 'e study an' study w'at 'e gwine do. 
 Las' 'e try erg'in, an' de goat des butt 'e head erround 
 'mong de rafters, an' 'e look lack 'e didn' know de way out'n 
 dar. 
 
 " Las' 'e fink to 'e self, 'well, I don' wanter go, but I 
 wanter git out, so' 'e jump straddle uv de billy goat, an' des 
 es 'e did er mon'srous big ole black cat say *meow-ow-ow ! ' 
 up'n de top er de house, an 'e look up an' dar set de ole cat 
 wid 'e eyes des lack coal er fier, an' 'e had er big chunk er 
 fox fier in 'e paws, an' 'e flung it at Jack, an' 'e bow up 'e 
 back 'n' 'e look vigus, an' 'e say, 'me — ow — ow ! Shtoof ! 
 shtoop !' An' Jack 'us sca'd mos' ter deaf. Den 'e heah er 
 nudder one growl, an' 'e look on udder side de house, an' 
 dar wus er nudder big black cat, an' peah lack de whole 
 place full uv dem sca'ful lookin' beas'es, An' Jack 'e up 'n' 
 
SOUTHERN SCENES. l99 
 
 say, 'e did. 'Great God ! wey all dem cats come f 'om ?' No 
 soonah 'e say dat we'n 'zip,' dey all gone. 
 
 " Den 'e heah sump'n say 'siz-z !' an' 'e look an' dar was 
 er gre't big snake quiled up on de jist, an' w'en 'e'dlick out 
 'e' tongue er stream er dat fox-fier des come 'er sizzin' 
 at 'im, an' den mo' snakes comes twel de whole house full 
 er snakes. Den 'e got to trim'lin' all over, an' 'e say, 'My 
 God! ain' dis er snaky place } ' No soonah 'e say dat den, 
 'spang ' ! de snakes all gone. 
 
 " Den 'e say quick, fo' any have time to come back, 'e 
 say, 'e did : ' Up, Jack, 'n' out ! ' An' de billy goat des 
 flew up de chimley, an' 'e heah sump'n' squeal an' 
 'e look erroun', an' dar come er whole drove er gre't big ole 
 co'n owls right a'ter 'im, an' dey pop dey bills, an' some 
 times dey take 'im zip er side 'e head, an' 'e holler, ' My 
 God ! don' hit er fellah in de eye ! ' An' den dey all gone 
 fo' yo' can' can say Jack Robinson. 
 
 " Down come de billy goat at de ol' bla'gum tree, an' 
 dar stood all dem witches, an' dey tuck a'ter 'im, an' 'e run 
 des 'es ha'd es 'e kin split, an' 'e beat dem witches es pant- 
 in' es dey run, and des es one uv 'em was reachin' out ter 
 ketch Jack de ol' clock in de big house say 'ding, ding, ding, 
 ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding,' twelve 
 times. Dat was all dat save Jack, and wen 'e woke up 
 nex' morning, 'e had'n' got ovah 'e sea' twel den. 
 
 "W'en 'e come ter breck'us 'c Iook mighty po'ly, an' 'e 
 gra'ma says 'Jack w'at de matter wid yo ? ' Den 'e says fo' 
 'e fought anything 'bout it : 'Up, Jack, an' out,' an' genter- 
 mens, 'e an' Aunt Sookey was at de table, 'en she fell out 
 er de cheer, an' had er fit, right dar. Dis sca'ed 'e gra'ma 
 nearly to deaf, an' she lack ter whip de boy, an' 'e say, 
 'granny, I won' do so no mo', an' she let 'im off. But I 
 tell yo', dat boy did'n' have not'in' mo' ter do wid de 
 witches." 
 
UBR\R^ OF CONGRESS