SHTURDHY' NIGHT SRGTGHeS J'L'HGRRinG Class Book.. Ijlsz ■ H 5"^ Gopyrighi N?. CDEOUGHT DEPOSED FISHING FOR "CAT" Page io8 SATURDAY NIGHT SKETCHES STORIES OF OLD WIREGRASS GEORGIA BY J. L. HERRING Illustrated by Tom J. Nicholl BOSTON THE GORHAM PRESS MCMXVIII COPYBIGHT, 19 18, BY J. L. HeRRINO /- '' ' All Rights Reserved FEB IB 1918 Made in the United States of America The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 'GI.A4 9 2:^84 TO MY MOTHER WHO, LIKE THE WTREGRASS PIONEER, IS NOW A SACRED MEMORY THE REASON WHY THE BOOK?— To tell posterity some- thing of a people who have passed. To put in form more permanent than tradition something of those hardy pioneers who initiated the develop- ment of a wilderness into a land of fertility and plenty. Something of how they lived and loved and died; of the manners and customs of a people primitive, industrious, and God-fearing. Only a few are left who knew them — soon they, too, will be gone. It was not with an object so comprehen- sive that the sketches began. The first were writ- ten, as so many things are written, without objec- tive — with only the feeling of a story to tell, that newspaper men so well know — but as they grew in number and scope, the idea of publishing them in book form was first suggested by others who likewise knew the generation of whom they told, and these suggestions grew until a sense of duty to those who are gone as well as to the literature of a people culminated in the volume, which is submitted with temerity, because no one can realize more keenly than the author its short- comings. 5 6 The Reason WHY THE TITLE?— Saturday Night in the Southland is a semi-colon; a breathing-space be- tween the work of the week and the devotions of the morrow. A time for the young of merrymak- ing and social intercourse; for the old, of retro- spection. Therefore, in this halting between the going and the coming week, the mind of the man past life's meridian flits back to the days that are gone — to those who peopled them; and in memory, the dead live again. Tifton, Georgia, January i, igi8. CONTENTS Introduction Saturday Night . The Fire in Morris's Wagon Yard The Song of the Redeemed . When the Debaters Met Cane Grinding Time . "Running Up" the Bridegroom When We Put Jim Away . When Stegall Stopped Growing Fodder-pulh'ng Time . The Conversion . Uncle Wiley's Turkey Pen . Grandma's Spinning Wheel . Sunday at Obediah Gay's Carrying the Cotton to Market The Cape Jessamine A Candy-pulling in the Wiregrass Corn Liquor and Tutt's Pills A Wiregrass Easter An Old-time Wiregrass Frolic Cat-fishing in the Olden Time A County Site Removal Election "Helping" Jim Grind Cane . The Old Wash-hole . With the Rites of the Order . Cal Turner and the Black Runner "Big Court" in the Olden Time The Community Cotton Picking Cutting a Bee Tree Friday Afternoon in the Old-time School II 19 22 27 30 35 39 44 51 58 65 69 74 80 85 90 92 96 100 103 108 112 117 123 127 132 136 142 147 152 8 «4 Contents Corn Planting Time .... Town Ball on the Schoolhouse Yard . The Old Way of Shelling Peanuts At Old China Grove .... Sol Drawhorn and the Grey Lizard Sheep-shearing Time .... The Singing School .... Helping Aunt Mary Make Sausage A Deer Drive in the Old Days The Homefolks Dance .... The Revival's Close .... The Downfall of a Millionaire . Cane Chewing Time .... Carrying Cotton to George Spring's Gin Fourth of July in the Olden Time Helping Granny Make Soap An Old Time Fire-hunt The Sunday School Celebration . When the Wiregrass Was Ablaze . The Singing Play .... Three Watermelons an Unhandy Turn A House-raising and Home Building . A Nest of Squirrels .... An Old Time Circus Day . Going to Mill with Bud A Log-rollin', Quiltin', and Frolic The Union Sing ..... Saturday Night PAGE 169 183 206 217 220 226 232 236 242 247 253 257 268 279 284 291 296 301 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAaNG PAGE Fishing for "Cat" Frontispiece Grandma's Spinning Wheel 74 ^ The Fiddlers 104^ Town Ball 164 . The Baptism 178 ■ Buck-Ague 198 At the Circus 282 INTRODUCTION The great mountain peaks and the broad roll- ing plains do not alone make all the earth. The little foot-hills and valleys and vales form an essential part of the globe. The sayings and deeds of great men alone are not all of history. The humbler folk often speak and do things which are the heart and center of real world events. As the little tributaries rising out of the neglect- ed and unknown nooks and corners of the land flow into and make up the mighty river, so out of the obscure places of earth often come those tiny rivulets of life that give volume, force, and majesty to the deep and broad stream of human history. Village and city, mart and emporium, with their learning and culture do not hold all that is worthy to be written down. In the rural and country quarters, remote from the noisy centers, there are things transpiring daily in unadorned sim- plicity whose chronicling is worthy of the best lit- erary genius. Out there they too aspire and des- pair, struggle and endure, build up and pull down, succeed and fail, wage war and make peace, weep II Introduction and laugh, rejoice and sorrow, love and hate, marry and give In marriage, live and die I They live life less artificially but no less deeply. Here the dramatist may find material for tragedy, the comedian may see the juxtaposition of characters and life to set the world alaughing, the novelist may find the sweetest love stories, the poet the subject for epic and song, and here too the moral- ist and the philosopher may come face to face with those subtle lines and forces so Impalpable and evasive In dressed-up life, and behold them in all their native reality. Here in our South Georgia lived years ago a people distinct In their primitive habits and sim- plicity. Contented and happy they little dreamed of, and cared less for, the big, growing, busy world beyond their pine forests and wiregrass heath. Once a year, seldom oftener, perhaps the head of the family journeyed to the bartering place to sell his year's produce which consisted for the most part of wool sheared from his flock, one or two cow hides, a few sheep and buck skins, some tallow and beeswax, and now and then a bale of cotton. He bought very few things in exchange, for he needed but few. Some farm tools and implements for the cultivation of the few acres, a sack of coffee, a little white sugar, usually made up the bill of his merchandise. Food, raiment, shoes, furniture, building material, and Introduction 13 even medicines were raised or manufactured at home, or gathered from the forest. These people seldom removed from place to place. To the wiregrass Georgian his cabin was his castle, and the broad unbroken forest his do- main. Finding here all that his simple life re- quired, he did not care to move or journey to dis- tant parts. Fifty years ago it was no uncommon thing to meet a man who never had been to the city, who never had seen a locomotive, nor a street car, nor a storehouse filled with merchandise. The extent of his traveling was his hunting and fish- ing expeditions to some deer-stand or stream near- by. One who had gone so far as Macon, Sa- vannah, or Atlanta was looked upon by his neigh- bors as some wonderful personage; and his dis- coursing on the wonderful things seen in these cities was to his comrades as some fairy tale when on Sundays at community gatherings, at church meetings, or week-day holidays, he would tell to the wild-eyed swains the story of the steam en- gine, locomotive, fine horses, carriages with four wheels, brick houses, painted homes, ice-cold drinks, canned fish, and storehouses filled with all manner of things to sell ! But many lived, grew up, married, reared families, and died never hav- ing been to these distant places, nor seen any of these wonderful things there. Time changes all things 1 Gone forever the 14 Introduction primitive wiregrass homestead! Gone forever the primal forests and wiregrass plains ! First came the railroads, those autocrats of civiliza- tion, caring nothing for the age-long seclusion of these regions, and with snort and whistle startling the primitive foresters from their long sleep of lazy contentment. Wherever the loco- motive goes, there is a new earth. "Old things pass away, behold all things are new." It was inevitable that the wiregrass region was doomed to change when the iron horse of civilization was turned loose on our plains. Almost at the same time, came the sawmill and the lumberman. The cruel German was never more ruthless in his destruction of European cathedrals and ancient Belgian shrines than the ax-man who felled our beautiful pine trees and fed them to the iron teeth and voracious maw of the sawmill. The deer, the wild turkey, the gopher, the fox and the squir- rel fled to other parts, or were killed in wanton sport. The log cabin with its stick and mud chimney, its one door and dirt floor gave place to the neat frame dwelling. Then came the modern public school, the uncompromising foe of all pro- vincialism, and the finishing touch was given to the passing of our primitive South Georgia civili- zation. Gone the flocks of sheep and herds of cattle that once roamed far and near and brought wealth to the former citizens. The lonely and Introduction 1 5 roadless wastes have become producing fields, thriving cities, and great high-ways. New people have crowded in, industry and thrift are in evi- dence everywhere. The scream of the locomotive, the whistle of the factory, the honk of the auto- mobile on every cross-road unceasingly din our ears. The "wiregrass region" has caught the step of progress. Already our place is near the van, and as we are coming to, so we are destined to, hold the first place in the South-East of our great Republic. But we love our primitive forebears. We love to think of the life they lived, the trials they had, the pains they endured, the battles they fought, the burdens they carried, the crosses they bore, the joy that was theirs, and the history they made. The historian shall yet tell faithfully of them; the poet shall yet grow to ecstasy as he gives their names in charge to the sweet lyre; the novelist shall yet tell their rede so entertainingly that vir- tuous maidens will weeplngly linger over the idyl- lic page, and manly youths inspired by their devo- tion shall delight to become the crested knights splintering their lance in defense of honor and chivalry; and some log cabin standing in a lone patch of pines untouched by the ruthless hand of civilization shall yet be the sacred shrine whereto devout pilgrims will come to pay homage to a past rich in simple but noble living. 1 6 Introduction But that past Is swiftly receding, and soon much that is to-day familiar will sink into the dark caverns of forgetfulness from whence it never can be recovered. We should welcome, therefore, every effort to preserve that simple and beautiful life of our primitive people. Every scrap now written down in permanent form will in the com- ing days be cherished more than a lost leaf from the sacred Sibylline Oracles. So far as I know, no one ever has undertaken to put in book form pictures of our wiregrass sec- tion as the Author of these Sketches has done. My esteemed frined, Mr. John L. Herring, Edi- tor of the Tifton Gazette, has done for us a noble work. Himself a product of the Wiregrass, he has lived the life, indulged in all its pastime, shared all its joy, felt all its pathos, seen all its sorrow, and been inspired by its noble integrity. Through the years he has watched the transforma- tion that has changed a wilderness of pines and stretches of wiregrass wastes into one of the most fertile and richest sections of the state, and seen a people emerge from a poor and narrow pro- vincialism but little known beyond their own bor- ders into a people known far and wide for their schools and colleges, their wealth and enlight- enment. The pictures he has given are not stories he has heard, not simply emotions inspired by the mere recital of tales, but what he has felt of a life of which he has been a part. Introduction 17 These sketches first appeared in the Tifton Daily Gazette under the caption Saturday Night, and were read by a wide and admiring circle of friends. The work has been a labor of love, — love for the dear people who lived and acted out the stories, love for a past sacred with hallowed memories, love for a present throbbing with new hopes that fill each new day with startling pro- phecies, and love for a future looming so large with possibilities as to give expectations for the most audacious achievements. In his devotion to the task the author lost the sense of weariness, and what was begun perhaps as a mental and literary diversion grew into material for a book of many pages. The warm reception given them as they appeared each Saturday night, and the encourag- ing words of close friends, have induced the author to put a portion of the sketches in book form that they might have a permanent place in the homes of our people. My good friend asked me to edit these sketches. I appreciated the compliment, but when I came to the task I felt to alter them in the least would be to change their background and mar their sim- ple coloring, and to do this would be as profane as to daub a Rembrandt or to put fresh paint on a Titian. I felt that these sketches were born of a loving heart, and the hand of another should not hurt the children of one's heart. 1 8 Introduction So they go forth with all the fragrance of the resinous pines and the freshness of the wiregrass that grew beneath them, both now gone forever! but which once covered our broad acres every- where; with all the simplicity of the primitive civilization that inspired them, and dowered with a love and affection that can never die. Chauncey W. Durden Pastor First Baptist Church, Tifton, Georgia. SATURDAY NIGHT SKETCHES SATURDAY NIGHT Memory turns the curtain back, and we live again the Saturday night of long ago. The week's work is done and the chores of the farm are over; the stock has been fed, the wood-boxes in the kitchen and big-house filled, the plow-gear and stocks are under the shed, and .the farm has put on its Sunday dress. The soil of toil has been removed by vigorous application of home-made soap, and the Sunday clothes put on. A clean shirt, home-laundered (we were independent of the Chinaman and the steam laundrymen those days), a tie of gorgeous colors fastened with a glistening pin of the mail- order kind — there were no jewelry stores to sup- ply us; brogan shoes of serviceable cow-hide which took on renewed youth from a coat of suet and soot, carefully administered. Solomon in his glad raiment perhaps made a more glittering show but he did not feel any more dressed up than the boy of long ago as He 19 20 Saturday Night Sketches left the home quickly to foot the intervening miles to where She lived. She had brothers — they always had — and these gave the visitor a hearty welcome. Having done his own chores He turned in to help the others, and these were over by the time the call to sup- per came. She was not in sight, but She knew He was there and He knew that She knew. The substantial supper consisted of tender col- lards on a great, flat dish, flanked with sHces of home-raised bacon; fresh butter and butter-milk, perhaps biscuits, but not always, and sweet po- tatoes. To the long table with its benches on either side and Her father and mother sitting at the ends, keen appetites were brought and the joy of youth and good fellowship lent a zest to the viands that those of many costly banquets since have lacked. After supper, when the dishes were cleared and the house made ready for the night; and She came out on the piazza, the soft rustle of Her skirts, the faint perfume peculiar to Her telling of Her presence before His head was turned; and after awhile the brothers somehow disap- peared and on the broad piazza He and She were alone, except for the man in the moon who smiled with the knowledge of the centuries and the cricket that chirped by the steps. The scent of the jessamines in the white clean-swept yard filled Saturday Night 21 the air and their blooms glistened like snow in the moonlight. Youth and Maid were alone with God and Love. Down from the ages the spirits of millions of lovers looked on and smiled, the kindly stars winked in friendly appreciation, and the twilight world was their friend, for all normal existence loves youth and lovers. What mattered to Her that His clothes were coarse. His speech embarrassed and broken — they did not need the spoken word. What mat- tered to Him that Her best dress was calico, for was not the ribbon at her throat a thing of beauty surpassing, that in her hair an aureole? What mattered to them that the week past had been six days of toil? Was not the night Saturday Night, and the morrow Sunday, with Sunday School and Church, and many hours of priceless companionship ahead? This must have been what Saturday Night was made for. THE FIRE IN MORRIS'S WAGON YARD "I s'pose everybody has the scare of his life sometime; I've had mine," remarked Charlie, as he reached across for the bait-gourd. We were sitting on our hunkers on a sandy bank, by a lightwood-knot fire, waiting for the catfish to return to lunch. Charlie was not a talk- ative man; neither was he a drinking man, but he had seen a lot of life, and if, under the stimulus of good fellowship, you could cross two hooches of mountain corn with three fingers of apple-jack beneath his epiglottis, he could a tale unfold that would roll you over on your side and make you grab a root to keep from falling into the river. "See this hair of mine?" he continued. "It ought to have been black, but it has been just that color since one night when I was a boy, and it'll never change. This is why: "Bill Hughes and I drove our daddies' teams down to Atlanta with a load of cotton just be- fore Christmas. We had to stay over night, and before leaving both the old men cautioned us about leaving the teams, or the wagons, for any- thing. 'Don't even leave the breast-chains on 22 The Fire in Morris's Wagon Yard 23 the tongues,' they said, and they were men who meant all of it. "Just the same. Bill and I found time hang- ing on our hands after the teams had been stalled and fed, we had eat supper, and had nothing to do 'till morning except watch them wagons. It was a big town all 'round us, and things were happening. Would we see 'em? We thought we would. "Before long we were perched near the top row of the gallery in the old Lyceum theatre, away down on Edgewood avenue, taking in the show with dropped chins and bulging eyes. It cost us fifteen cents apiece to get in and just about broke us, but that made no difference, for we were going home in the morning, where money didn't count. "You could tell we were jays a block away. Our brogan shoes, long pants, galluses, hickory shirts and old slouch hats were dead giveaways, not counting our complexions, the tags of cotton hanging to our clothes and the hay in our hair. The show was good, but along about the last act, my conscience begun to hurt me. I could just see, plain as my eye, the hickory switch in the old man's hand and what would happen to me if anything went wrong with that wagon or team. " 'Say,' I said to Bill; 'do you reckon the mules are all right?' 'Yes, dry up;' he answered, try- 24 Saturday Night Sketches ing to see exactly how much he could see when the gal on the stage kicked again. All the same, I could tell the worry-bug was soon after him. "Fellers all around had been looking at us side- ways; it was plain enough who we were. Finally, one setting behind us said to the young buck next : " 'That sure was a bad fire down at Morris' just now.' " 'It was some bearcat blaze,' was the answer. "I straightened up, my ears standing out like saddle-skirts. " 'Burned up the whole wagon yard, mules, teams and everything. Cleanest sweep I ever saw,' the young feller went on. "I looked at Bill; Bill looked at me. Our faces were like whitewashed fences. We begun climbing out. Had no time to ask for gang- way; we just went over knees, feet, and every- thing else. Two or three tried to grab us, but we were out of reach. Finally we hit the aisle, then down the staircase, so fast the crowd thought a fire engine was passing and began to run out. "Once on the sidewalk, we reached up, grabbed off our hats, and down the street we went, like a pair of runaway mules. You could hear us coming for three blocks, the soles of our brogans hitting the pavement like slapsticks. We could have turned to the right and by taking a lane cut off a block of the distance, but we never The Fire in Morris's Wagon Yard 25 thought of that; we went the way we came. Down Edgewood Hke race horses to Auburn; out Au- burn to Decatur, down Decatur to Five Points; we turned the corners under full steam. People saw us coming and got out of the way — if they were quick enough; if not, we ran over or jumped around 'em. "At Five Points a cop ran out and called to us to stop. Bill dodged to one side and I to the other; he grabbed at both and missed; we left him behind. Bill was half Cherokee and some runner. He could always beat me easy, but that night I kept even, if not a little ahead. Even now I can hear the slam of his number eleven shoes as he hoofed it home. On the horizon I thought I could see the reflection of the blazing yards. "At the Marietta street police station, the shifts had just been made, and the night force was com- ing out. They heard us coming — couldn't help it, and the men ran out and formed a line across the street. "We hit that row like a football team on a twenty-yard line. Two caught Bill between 'em, and a husky 200-pounder nabbed my collar. " 'Lemme go,' I panted, biting at his hands and kicking at his shins; 'our mules are burnin' up.' " 'Where's the fire?' he asked. 26 Saturday Night Sketches " 'Morris' wagon yard,' I said. 'Lemme go, man; don't you see everything's burnin' up, and Dad'll just naturally lick Jerusalem outten me?' " 'Be quiet,' he says, giving me a shake; 'there's been no fire I' " 'Yes, there has,' I struggled out; 'don't you see the light? And I heard the feller in the gal- lery say so.' "They turned us loose at last, and we hoofed it on down to the yard, but a short distance farther. Up to the gate we ran, and hammered. A feller come to the wicket and looked out. 'Let us in; where's the fire?' we said in a breath. 'What fire?' he asked, and we looked around, convinced at last. Them mules and wagons looked better to me that minute than they ever looked before or since, "I don't believe anybody ever gets over a bad scare; at least I never got over that one. Many years after I would wake up in the night, rac- ing again for Morris' burning yards, and my hair never got back to its natural color. "Hand me the bait," said Charlie. THE SONG OF THE REDEEMED ''My latest sun is sinking fast; My race is nearly run. My strongest trials nozv are past — My triumph has begun." Through the rough-framed church building the "Song of the Redeemed" echoed, accompanied by the sonorous notes of the cottage organ. Out through the open windows they floated on the evening air. And the chorus: ^''Come, angel hand; Come and around me stand. Come, bear me away on your snowy wings To my immortal home." The house was filled, and nearly all were wor- shippers. That day there had been a baptizing in a stream nearby, the beautiful daughter of one of the village's most prominent families, hav- ing consecrated herself to God. In the evening, the congregation had gathered for the closing sermon. Around the church house, the waving pines of 27 28 Saturday Night Sketches the almost unbroken forest bowed in homage to their Maker, and through their verdant boughs the soft summer breeze murmured a rosary. The spirit of the awakened soul permeated the atmosphere and impressed every sensitive heart. The sermon was over and throughout the audience were many bowed heads as the congregation rose for the concluding song. The words are soul-satisfying to the aged, the music inspirational. As the second stanza was concluded, a patriarch rose. He was a giant in stature, a frame still unbent by age, his beard flowed in snowy waves, far down upon his breast. With tears streaming down his cheeks, in a voice choked but so surcharged with emotion that it carried to every recess, he told of his experience, how he had been saved by grace, and what a wonderful blessing lay in the Redeemer's love. When he ceased because his emotion overcame him, there were few dry eyes in his audience; strong men as well as women wept, denomina- tional lines were forgotten, others spoke, and a love-feast followed. The scene comes back as vividly as though it were yesterday. Yet many years ago the patri- arch crossed Jordan to his reward; the young woman who was baptized, married, raised a family and likewise is gone ; the youthful compan- ions of that day are aged now, or have also passed The Song of the Redeemed 29 to the beyond; yet on the electric waves of mem- ory they come again, and we shut our eyes and see them as we saw them then. Is It to be wondered, that with such rich founts to draw from, many of the modern songs lack harmony; modern customs fall to accord and too often the modern worship appears to lack spirit? For we who are growing old, love to dwell in the past, when we were young, and It is youth and strength and beauty, not broken, old age and uncouthness that we all, even the old, love. And even as we write, "I know I am near'ing the holy ranks Of friends a^id kindred dear; I brush the dews on Jordan's hanks — The crossing must he near J' WHEN THE DEBATERS MET The forensic arena was a little log church that stood on a hill summit, around It the pines, the miles of gently waving wiregrass. It was ap- proached from four directions by three-path trails easily accommodating the horse-cart, but exceed- ingly unhandy for the courting couple. The debating society had been organized a month before, on the broad ground of individual improvement and community entertainment. One debate had been held, leaders had been chosen, and the topic selected for the next, choice falling on the second horn of the twin dilemma. Only two topics were in common usage : "Which is the happier; married life or single life?" and "In which is there more pleasure; pursuit or posses- sion?" As the first had been debated to a frazzle at the initial meeting the second was, perforce, inevitable. Before sunset the debaters came — in twos and threes, or single, many walking half a dozen miles and thinking nothing of it. A few carried rifles, with a weather eye out for deer or squirrels en route. 30 When the Debaters Met 31 As dusk fell, two candles in borrowed sticks set on the split pine pulpit, threw rather a flick- ering light over the small room, democratically used alike for religious worship, for the monthly meeting of Justice Court, for the annual 90-day school term and for community gatherings. Al- though no residence was in sight, there were a number of homes near by. A dozen benches were ranged around the wall, leaving ample room for the speakers, who sometimes needed it. The pre- siding officer, as became his dignity, occupied the pulpit, and around the room, the audience, chin on hand, or in whispering gossip, waited. Opposing sides had been allotted by the simple method of spitting on a board and tossing it up, "wet" or "dry." The selection of the affirmative carried with it the opening of the argument. The leader for the affirmative was a man near thirty, a little, wiry, nervous fellow, who had studied his subject and scored his points with pounding of fist in hand and shouting voice; he spoke fast but with effect, and clinching argu- ment. Interruptions only spurred him on. He ran the gamut of the world-old topic, and for the doctrine that the greatest happiness lies in the chase, in desire, in wish to accomplish, he left the subject where there appeared little for his opponents to say. The leader for the negative was a man of 32 Saturday Night Sketches middle age. He was long and bony, with thin beard and a lazy, drawling voice. He wore the same jeans pants and homespun shirt in which he had been working that morning, and he started to open for his choice with as much deliberation as though he had the night before him. But as he warmed to his subject his quaint, de- liberate, sing-song delivery, his slow utterance, was seen to cover a keen wit, an acute observa- tion, and training in debate. From the storehouse of life, he drew illustration and argument; from every-day scenes evidence, from personal anec- dote conclusions, until those of the opposite who at first laughed stopped to listen, to question, and even ridicule, in an attempt to confuse him. But he turned the questions upon his interlocutors; the interruptions only gave him argument. A ready wit and repartee soon won him free way. He depicted the joys of achievement, of accomplish- ment, the glories of victory so convincingly that when at last he closed things looked gloomy for the affirmative. After that, alternately, the speakers came. Some flushed and excited, with rapid utterance and swift conclusion; some stammering and halt- ing until they caught their stroke and swam into smooth water. In the main personal anecdote predominated. Stories of the community, of mis- takes made, of difficulties encountered, of pranks When the Debaters Met 33 played, were told in efforts to embarrass oppo- nents, or score points. On a rear seat the boy waited impatiently. Since he, a visitor, had been notified that he had been chosen as a speaker two weeks before, he had studied his subject with dihgence; in his mind his speech was outhned, a masterpiece of convinc- ing eloquence. Now as he listened, he mentally went over his salient points, and made notes of the weak spots in the speeches of the opposites. When his time came, wouldn't he flay 'em ! He could just see himself clinching point after point, building a masterly structure of argument, with interlude of caustic wit and scathing ridicule. When he got on the floor, it would be all over but the decision of the judges. At last his time came. As his name was called, he stepped out in front of the president, sprang at his opening sentence like a charger to the fray and then — it was all over, sure enough ! Where was the flowing humor, the convincing eloquence, the caustic wit, the masterly argument? Gone, as the dews of morning before a furnace blast. Left, nothing but a bashful, stammering boy, who got out about half a dozen sentences, bowed, and blushing, sought refuge in the semi-obscurity of the back bench. The last speaker for the affirmative before the leaders closed was an Irishman, a man of middle 34 Saturday Night Sketches age, who said he had never debated in his life. He spoke as if talking to each individual, deliber- ately, but convincing, occasionally turning from dry argument to wipe out, with true Celtic wit, the point made by an opponent. His speech was a surprise to his comrades and a calamity to his opponents. When he closed, the negatives saw defeat inevitable. And so it was. But they had their revenge. The Irishman was put on the committee of three to select a subject for the next meeting and insisted on something original and familiar. He discarded all offerings of time honored topics, and so dominated the com- mittee that they reported, as subject for debate at the next meeting: "Which is more desirable: a long watermelon or a round watermelon?" The society heard in consternation; they knew all about watermelons; therefore, they could not debate them. Hence, the society, as a society, met no more. CANE GRINDING TIME It is cane-grinding time in South Georgia, by some miscalled sugar-boiling time — although lit- tle sugar is made, and by others called syrup-boil- ing time, but it is not the syrup that draws the crowds. The cotton has been picked, the corn is in the crib, the potatoes have been banked and with the heavy work of the harvest over, the manufacture of the sugar cane into the year's sup- ply of syrup is made the occasion of a merry mak- ing among the young folks. This is down where the wiregrass covers the sloping hillsides and the pines still murmur and sigh in the passing breeze. The first frost has touched the waving blades of the tall sugar cane and given warning to the watchful husbandman. First the cane mill, which has lain idle for a year is overhauled. It is a crude affair, two big iron rollers set vertically on a pine log frame. The forest has been searched for a stooping sap- ling with just the right crook and this is cut and fitted in place for a lever, the lower end almost touching the ground, the upper swinging in the air as a balance. The iron kettle — like the mill 35 36 Saturday Night Sketches ■ rollers a product of a Georgia foundry — is set In a furnace of clay. Another day is spent In preparation. With wooden paddles, sharpened on one edge, the leaves are stripped from the standing cane. A stroke with a butcher or drawing-knife takes off the top and with an adz or hoe the stalks are cut. Then they are loaded on the handy ox-cart and dumped at the mill. The first shafts of coming dawn are aslant the horizon and the air Is keen and cold when the faithful mule is led out and by means of the plow gear hitched to the lever's end. Then for the animal begins the weary tread-mill round, which lasts far into the night. A lad of the family, too young for heavy work, Is selected to feed, and with home-made mits to temper the cold stalks, grasps a cane as the mule Is started. Between the slowly turning rollers he thrusts the smaller end; there are creaks and groans from the long unused mill, a snap of splitting stalk and the juice gushes forth. Along a small trough In the mill frame It runs Into a barrel, covered with layers of coarse sacking to catch the Impurities. On the other side of the mill the cane pulp (pummy) falls and this is carried off by the feed- er's assistant, who also keeps the pile of cane re- plenished. When there is a kettle full of juice a fire of lightwood Is started in the furnace and soon the Cane Grinding Time 37 flames, like a beckoning banner, surmount the short chimney's mouth. As the juice boils the for- eign matter arises in scum, and this is carefully skimmed off. Untiring vigilance in the boiling is the price of good syrup. Gradually the color changes from a dirty green to a rich amber and then to a golden red. The aroma arising suggests the confectioner's workshop and soon tiny, burst- ing bubbles attest that the work is done. Then help is called and the fire drawn; hastily two men dip the boiling liquid into pails which are emptied into a trough (hewn from a cypress log) . As soon as the syrup is out, fresh juice which is ready at hand is poured into the kettle and the work goes on. As the shades of night fall, the neighbors, young and old, gather, for no man grinds cane alone. True, about as much is sometimes chewed, drunk in juice or eaten as syrup "foam" as the owner re- tains for his own use, but who would live for himself alone and what matter, so long as there is plenty for all? The first visit of the young people is to the juice-barrel. There, with a clean fresh gourd, deep draughts are taken of the liquid, ambrosial in its peculiar delicious sweetness. Then to the syrup trough, with tiny paddles made from cane peels is scooped up the foam which has gathered in nooks in candied form. 38 Saturday Night Sketches Then, until the late hours of the night, the older folks sit around the front of the blazing furnace and swap yarns or crack jokes. By the light of a lightwood-knot fire near by the young ones play "Twistification," "London Bridge" and many kin- dred games, while on the pile of soft "pummies" there is many a wrestle and feat of strength among the young athletes. The bearded men grouped around the furnace, the steaming kettle and its attendant, from whose beard and eyebrows the condensed moisture hangs; the shouts of laughter from the young merry-makers; the plodding mule making his weary rounds, the groaning mill and gushing juice form a scene not soon forgotten. In a few days when the "skimmings" ferment — there is cane beer, delicious with its sweet-sour taste, and still later "buck" from the same stuff, now at a stage when only the initiated can appre- ciate it, ready for the hard drinker or the wild- cat still. "RUNNING UP" THE BRIDEGROOM Bang! Whoop! Whoo-e-e! "Here they come!" To the crack of revolvers, the pop of seven- teen-foot cow-whips, cheers and rebel yells the cavalcade, over fifty strong, came in sight over the hill. Down the slope, through the vale and up the rise to the homestead they rode, yelling like Indians and with a thunder like a cavalry charge. In front rode the bridegroom, on either side his groomsmen. The galloping, yelling, shooting crowd behind were his chosen friends, companions of boyhood and early manhood, to-day gathered from a radius of forty miles to pay him this tribute of friendship and esteem, according to a time- honored Wiregrass Georgia custom, known as "running up" the bridegroom. We had passed the crowd half an hour before as we drove to the home of the bride, sitting on their horses in a thicket of pines, awaiting the coming of the groom and his best men. Now they nearly overtook us as they came, like a whirl- wind, bringing her lover to his bride. 39 40 Saturday Night Sketches Without slackening speed, up to the gate they came, the groom and his men springing from their still prancing horses, reined suddenly back upon their haunches. The reins were caught by ready hands, and the honor guests of the day went in. The marriage was the union of two of the old- est families of Wiregrass Georgia. Sturdy pio- neers, stockmen, their fathers numbered their acres as their cattle and sheep, in terms of thou- sands. For many weeks the news had gone out that the marriage day approached and on this balmy morning the day before Christmas, from all points of the compass they gathered. Coming in wagon, in buggy, on horseback, in ox cart and afoot, a day's journey was accounted as only one to a next door neighbor, for distances were mag- nificent then and settlements few. The homestead consisted of the "big house" built of logs, in double-pen, with broad piazzas on either side. The chimneys were of stick and clay, well-built and substantial; the roof of boards rived from straight-grained pine, the floor hewn from the same useful tree. Across the white, sanded, tree-shaded yard one hundred feet away, stood the kitchen, with its gaping fireplace; back a little the smokehouse, and farther to the rear the corn crib, all con- structed of logs, the universal building material. In the house, in the yard, even outside the gate "Running Up" the Bridegroom 41 for some distance the guests were gathered in groups and couples. Inside the house was a bus- tle of preparation. Everywhere in the decora- tions was the festive green and white, cedar boughs and arbor-vitae dipped in flour, symbols of the wedding time. In vases, on mantels, every- where the clusters could be hung, they were in evidence, with occasional strings of red "bache- lor buttons," and a few brilliant prince-feathers and coxcombs. Out on the front piazza walked the bride, blushing like a June morning, with her maids on either side. Dressed in virginal white, with deli- cate touches of color in ribbons at neck and waist, and wreaths of evergreen on their hair. As the groom and his party met them, they turned and faced the preacher, a patriarch and the head of one of the families. In a simple cere- mony, he spoke the words that united the young pair for life — for there were no divorces among those people. Then came the next great event of the day — dinner. For a week, the mother with a corps of assistants had been preparing for this. Great stacks of potato custards, mountains of ginger- cakes and cookies, piles of crullers, immense chicken pot-pies, baked chicken, turkey, boiled ham, beef roast and venison sliced, sausage, souse, pork — all of the plenty of this home of plenty, 42 Saturday Night Sketches among a people whose watchword was hospitality, and who would have esteemed it a lasting re- proach for a guest to leave hungry. No house could hold that crowd, and the tables were set, end-to-end, across the glistening yard. Not much silver, but snowy linen and glistening glass; vases filled with cedar, white and green, and flowers. Great pound-cakes alternated with layer, cinnamon and angel, the more solid cakes all frosted and garnished with green. In the cen- ter was the bride's cake, pyramided, one upon the other, a red apple on the apex, frosted and gar- nished in colors. Its cutting marked the advent of the wedding-party. Talk about eating! To eat was considered an accomplishment then. The tables would seat hundreds, and as fast as one appetite was satis- fied, its owner rose and another took his place. A dozen negroes, in long white aprons, their wool festooned with feathers of the turkey and chicken of many colors, were kept on the jump supplying viands that ever disappeared. The feast began soon after noon, and as the shades of evening came, they were still eating. Those were good people, good times, and good customs; all are gone now. This is a new age, but no better one, and precious memories are those of the days and the people who are no more. The bride, fulfilling her destiny of wifehood "Running Up'* the Bridegroom 43 and motherhood, was long since claimed by the pale groom, Death; the groom is now on the threshold of old age, but perhaps in retrospect there comes again to him as to the writer, clearer even than yesterday, the sunny morning of Christ- mas eve, when friends "run him up" to the home of the love of his youth. WHEN WE PUT JIM AWAY "There is a land of pure delight Where saints immortal reign." Half a dozen voices, four of them female, raised the hymn. At the head of the grave stood the preacher, a man with saintly face seamed with years and sorrows — his own as well as others. He had just finished the simple service — not read from the book, but spoken from the heart, of tribute to the man who was gone and of consolation to the weeping ones standing near. The little cemetery was surrounded by a small grove of scrub oaks which crowned a pine-clad eminence. All around was the verdant forest, the wiregrass covered hills and vales, and leading from the resting-place of the dead, the three- path trails which then served for roads. Grouped around the grave-side were perhaps less than a score, but they were Jim's all — kin- dred, friends, and neighbors, the latter two in one. The men wore clothes of toil, for it had been a day of labor of service for them. The 44 When We Put Jim Away 45 women garbed in their best, but the family wore no outward signs of mourning — it was not to be had so readily, and their grief needed no adver- tising. The almost hysterical wife, vainly called the loved name as the burdened coffin was low- ered to the waiting vault. The aged mother, her face almost concealed in the depths of her black bonnet, wept silently, as one who had known sor- row and drained the lees of the cup; the children, too young to know their loss, gazed wide-eyed at what they could not understand, the baby in the arms of a friend cooing cheerily at its thumb was the only bright face in the circle. The women friends, who wept as women have been taught to weep by a world which treads on the finer things ; the men with solemn and sorrowful faces, think- ing only good things of the man who has gone. For two weeks, Jim stricken with some malady beyond the reach of teas and decoctions at first, then cathartic pills, blue mass, and other homely remedies, lay on his sick bed. When the doctor came from the distant town, nearly a day's drive, anxious eyes were filled with hope at his presence. He went, and came again, and hope died out and despair settled in the watching eyes. For two weeks, Jim's neighbors came to "set up," remaining awake the long night through to watch and minister to him, returning to the tasks which each day demanded next morning. Men 46 Saturday Night Sketches and women of mature years, on whom the burden of watching and ministering fell; younger folks who in the irrepressible optimism of youth made merry on piazza or in kitchen. Later day science tells us this bedside watching is unnecessary, some- times even aggravating the patient's malady, but to those giving the best they had and to the best of their knowledge, it was service bordering on divinity. At last the end came, and from the humble log home was the sound of wailing. Women cared for the bereaved of their sex, the men came in and did the last and necessary things. Jim, dressed in the clothes that had been his best, lay on an improvised cooling-board, upon his eyes were two coins, around his jaws a handkerchief, his hands, the corns of toil pale now, crossed in rest and submission; the once busy feet bound with strips of black; over all lay a sheet which concealed while it revealed. One more night the watchers came, with light tread and hushed voices; then Jim was borne from the home which his hands had built and his presence sanctified, to that earthly home which no man may build for him- self. It was a busy day for the men, called to the community duty; all other work for the time was laid aside. Word was sent to the distant preach- er, who had married and baptized the man who When We Put Jim Away 47 was soon to be only a memory. Some came, and with rule measured the corpse, that things might be in order. Two men with a wagon drove to the distant point where a small grist and saw-mill was run by a water-wheel, whose owner kept in stock for such emergencies, seasoned planks of pine. An- other rode to the distant store, where white and black cloth, screws and nails were bought. These things constituted all the monetary out-lay. There were no coffin trimmings to be had then. Through the night there was the sound of the plane, the hammer and the saw. First the rough planks were made smooth, then cut to measure ; the upright ends, the bottom and top to the coffin shape were soberingly familiar, but the sides re- quired a craftsman. First, one-third the length down they were sawed half through with cuts a quarter of an inch apart and the interval chiseled out. Then hot water from a steaming kettle was poured on, and the planks carefully bent with- out breaking, to the desired shape. The complete coffin was covered with black cloth; inside it was padded with cotton batting from some housewife's store, and lined with white. The box of plain pine was a simple matter. At the cemetery in the early morning, the men chosen gathered for their task. The place se- lected, the measurements marked out, they set to 48 Saturday Night Sketches work. Down through the soft soil, into the red clay, down through the clay which required the pick they dug the traditional three feet by seven, to a depth of three feet. Then the vault to fit the box was fashioned, around it a six-inch ledge. The sun poured down pitilessly, and the task of the diggers was not light. Only two could work at a time, and they took turns. The finishing was by one whom much experience had trained. The grave was ready. Then boards were sawed to cover the vault with its box and coffin that the earth might not rest on them. Across the grave two flat fence-rails were laid to sup- port the cofljin; from harness on one of the ani- mals the cotton lines were taken, to bear it down into the waiting receptacle. From the home they came, Jim in his coflSn rid- ing in a Jersey wagon (no cofllin trust tax nor hearse with its sombre draperies of sorrow then) . Behind, in vehicles, on horse-back, or afoot, as means permitted, the procession followed. At the grave, after the simple service, and the songs without books, all that was mortal of Jim was lowered to the bed which would grow no harder, by the hands which not long since he had grasped in friendship or jest. A short prayer, "ashes to ashes; dust to dust," and the crowd drew back. The men who had stood at either end of the When We Put Jim Away 49 vault ledge and settled the coffin into place, put the lid on the box and screwed it down; across the box they placed the short boards handed them, and then the men who dug the grave took up their task. With turns at the hoes and shovels, the dirt was replaced, and over all a mound carefully fashioned by a man of skill, to represent the bulk of the coffin beneath. Perhaps a few flowers; not always, were laid on this; at the head and foot, boards were set, and as the shades of night fell, we left Jim with God and his mother earth. Homely and crude, you say; yet some of the noblest men of the earth were buried thus. Men who wrote on the annals of their time their mes- sage for the generations to come; men who did their work in the humble walks of life that their children might rise to eminence ; men who wrested from primeval nature that which has given us plenty; men who fought that we might dwell in a land of peace. And in his covering, Jim sleeps as dreamlessly as the man who was laid away in a metallic cas- ket in a marble vault, who was followed to his grave by the panoplies of wealth in heartless mourning and above whose ashes rise a shaft as cold as its inscriptions are meaningless. For both have gone before the Great Judge, where the things of earth are naught and the things men did on this earth are all. Where 50 Saturday Night Sketches Jim will be judged according to his trials and ca- pacities, by the great loving and understanding Heart and where the man in the casket will be judged according to the talents given him, even as Christ judged. For both have gone to the place of which the mourners around Jim's grave sang: 'Wo chilling winds nor pois'nous breath Can reach that healthful shore; Sickness and sorrow, pain and death. Are felt and feared no more." WHEN STEGALL STOPPED GROWING Stegall was a runt. Although scarcely past middle age, his face was wrinkled and old. His stature was but big boy size, and his whiskers were sandy and scraggly. But there was a twinkle In his watery blue eyes that proved that youth still lingered Inside. One night, as we shared the featherbed in the lean-to shedroom of the big log house, tired but not sleepy after a day of replanting corn follow- ing a spring freshet and an invasion of field larks, he told me why he had never attained manhood's growth. He had read a good deal and the result was evident in his language, but when he grew excited he would drop back into Cracker Idioms of "wuz," etc. Stegall had a habit of taking a chew of tobacco on retiring, which was not so bad, as he always turned his head sidewlse to spit against the log wall. But as he talked, he lay flat on his back and tobacco amber would trickle down his throat. He would clear, "ahem!" to relieve this and the amber went up, descending on friend or foe alike 51 52 Saturday Night Sketches in a little shower of spray. One soon learned to jerk the cover over his head when the warning sounds came, but nevertheless, it kept a fellow busy, even if he was doing nothing but listening. "Old man Johnson, who lived two miles across the creek from us, had six gals, and every one of 'em was as purty as red shoes with blue strings. It was a great gathering place for boys on Sat- urday evenings and Sundays, and I spent the best part of my week-ends there. "I was unusually large for my age, though only thirteen, looked sixteen. That didn't make any difference with Ma, however. She had kept me in frocks as long as she could, because I was the youngest and there were no gals, and after I got into shirts I thought she never would let me have pants. You know, boys in them days wore long shirts, without pants till about the age they want to put on long pants nowadays, and knew nothing about underwear, except in the win- ter. It was cheaper and saved washing and sew- ing — and besides, pants cloth was mighty scarce, for we made it at home and wool was so high Pa wouldn't leave out much for the wheel and loom. "Well, I was still wearing long shirts when the gals got to looking good to me. Sometimes strangers might laugh a little, but the folks around in the settlement were used to it, and the ma- jority of the boys were in the same fix I wuz. When Stegall Stopped Growing 53 "I'll never forgit 'tell my dying day the last Saturday ev'nin' I wore a long shirt. It was the ev'nin' I stopped growing. It was summer time, and we knocked off work for the week at twelve. I hurried through with my jobs, put feed in the troughs for the stock, cut kitchen wood of sap and poor heart and carried in for Sunday; shucked corn for the hogs and left it where Pa could get it. Then I drawed a tub of water with the well sweep and piggin bucket, stripped under the wash shelter and scrubbed with home-made lye soap, put on a fresh ironed, clean, long white shirt, and was off for old man Johnson's. "Five boys had beat me there, and they and the gals were all out on the piazza. It was long and wide, with a long shelf holding two cedar water-buckets and two tin washpans just to the left of the front steps. There were circular holes cut in the shelf for the pans to set in to keep 'em from wearin' out, and on the two piazza posts hung clean, sweet-smelling water-gourds. On the ground in front, watered by the dumpings from the pans, grew two big cape jessamine bushes. "The boys and gals wuz settin' on two pine benches along the log wall. Of course, bein' the last comer, I went to the water-bucket for a drink, though I didn't want any, and then turned with my back against the water-shelf to talk a while before pickin' out the gal I liked best — already 54 Saturday Ntght Sketches had her picked — and settin' down by her. "I was a right smart cut-up in them days, and the other young folks had laughed at me 'till it turned my head. So instid of settin' down I begun to crack at the boys and palaver the gals, and when they got to gigglin' — which was an easy job, I was soon saying all the fool things and cuttin' all the monkey shines I could think of. "Never in my life had I made sich a hit as I did that evenin'. Everything I said was funny, I just loomed. You know what a fool a boy can be when a gal giggles? Well, I was all of that and then some. "Purty soon I noticed that the boys were laugh- ing as much as the gals, and it looked like these would go into fits. Two uv 'em crammed their apurns in their mouths and choked. The boys laughed and rocked, and hollered. I felt heroic, like a clown we saw in the circus in Albany. "Old man Johnson had a bull yearling that was the pet of the place. His mother died of the hollow-horn the second winter before when he was a tiny calf, and the gals had toted him to the house, made the old man drive up a cow that wuz givin' milk, and raised him by hand. Old Missus John- son finally put him out of the house but he had the run of the balance of the place, and was as mean as gar-broth. He staid in the yard all the time, and would hook or butt everything over that When Stegall Stopped Growing 55 wasn't too big fur him. Besides that, he would chaw all the cloth he could pick up, especially if it was a little salty. You know how some cows are, that way. Missus Johnson and the gals had to hang their washing out uv his reach, and even then he got lots of things they didn't want him to have. They called 'im 'Buck.' "Well, 'bout the time it looked like the gals would go into highstericks and the boys would throw spasms, I cracked a joke I thought was my best, just to finish 'em. Then, oh Lordyl I felt something cold touch the small of my naked back! I tried to turn and look but something held me fast. I craned my neck and looked overy my shoulder, across the water-shelf. There was that infernal Buck, standing with his forefeet on the edge of the piazza floor, and he had chawed my shirt nearly up to my shoulders! (I guess the flutterin' white attracted him, and it may have been a little salty with sweat.) The boys and gals had been watchin' him and that's what wuz nearly killin' 'em. It was his nose I had felt. "I give a jump, and yell and pulled, but Buck had swallowed a couple of feet of the cloth and I was fast. It was homespun and wove and a horse couldn't tear it. But my jumping scared Buck, his feet slipped off the plank ends, and his coming down jerked me underneath the water- shelf to the ground. ^6 Saturday Night Sketches "I lit on my feet, pullin' and squallin'. Buck bellered and pulled, and I thought one time would carry me off, for he was sure strong. Finally, I got a good toe-holt, set myself and pulled for all I was wuth. Something give somewhere, and I was free ! Down the walk I went for the front gate. Buck right after me, and bellering with every jump. "Of course, I ought to have backed away, as they say courtiers get out of the presence of roy- alty, but I didn't have time to think. My first impulse wuz to git away, and I went. The only thing to do, once my back was toward the gals, was to git away as fast as I could. There wuz a long walk down to the front gate, but I cleared ten feet at a stride. I didn't stop to open the gate, but took it with a long jump and hit the ground on the other side runnin'. Buck stopped at the gate but I didn't slow up. I knew as long as my back wuz in sight the gals could see. They had squealed and hid their faces, but I couldn't trust 'em, and the boys were hollerin' with what breath they had. So down the lane I went, my toes throwin' up showers of sand behind me, and the wet end of what was left of the back of my shirt catching up and touching my shoulder blades about every ten jumps. It was a few hundred miles to the end of the lane, but I turned the fence corner at last and no longer felt the eyes of those When Stegall Stopped Growing 57 gals hitting my naked back like pin pints. They talk about the unprotected rear of an army; I know just exactly how it is. And no Yank ever run at Manassas like I did that day. I kept on running till I got home and hid in the shuck-pen until dark. "I never went back to Johnson's, and I would walk two miles to keep from meetin' one of the gals. "I never growed any more after that day." FODDER-PULLING TIME Beneath a blazing August sun the fodder had ripened on Jim's corn, and his neighbors gathered to help him pull It. When Jim's fodder was safe, the crowd would go over to the next, and so on, until the crop of the community had been gath- ered. For be it known, pulling fodder Is mighty lone- some business, when a man is alone. There are so many opportunities to stop and look, and rumi- nate, so many things to draw a man's attention, that It Is only the strong-willed who can keep the back-breaking pace in solitude from dawn until nightfall. So, as In numbers there Is Inspiration, the fodder-pulling season was made a community event, all helping the man whose crop ripened first, and In turn receiving help. And each needed the moral stimulus of numbers, for of all the hot jobs on the farm, pulling fodder is perhaps the hottest — unless It be tying It up and toting It to shelter just after noon, In the face of a lowering rain-cloud. The sun was not very high when the five neigh- bors gathered at Jim's home and he led the way 58 Fodder-Pulling Time 59 to the corn-field. Across a little branch, they climbed the worm rail fence, and each man taking two rows, set in. Catching the top blades of the corn by a hand on either side a few inches from the stalk, the hands were brought quickly down, gathering the blades as they came, until the stalk was stripped to the ground. (Occasionally, if an ear was green, a blade was left to collect moisture until it matured.) Then on the other row the stalk was stripped, each man carrying two rows, walking between them. When both hands were full of the green blades, they were tied together into a "hand," a stalk bent down just above the ear and the "hand" hung thereon, or it was hung astride the ear if the latter was heavy enough. But altogether, practice made for dexterity, and despite the detail the work was done with sur- prising rapidity. Sometimes the fodder was full ripe and tough; if so it had to be jerked loose from the stalk. At best, the work was trying on the back, and the heat of the blazing sun on the stooping body was made several degrees harder to endure by a fuzz or pollen from the fodder, which irritated the skin. Soon, however, the hickory shirts and even the denim trousers of the laborers were wet with perspiration, and this, with an occasional breeze, brought relief. Scarcely had the work started, when a race was 6o Saturday Night Sketches on. Neighbor Brown had a son just out of his teens, long and lank of limb and sparing of flesh, but the way that boy could jerk fodder was a sin to snakes. Neighbor Jones had a son about the same age, short and rather stocky built, but when it came to pulling fodder, he was some hot stuff. The two were nearly equal in speed, and the riv- alry between them was keen. Tom Jones could with greater ease reach the top of the stalk, but Sam Brown was nearer the ground, and both were experts at the business. Gradually, as the men got under good headway, it was noticed that each of these boys, who had adjoining "throughs," got a little faster; first Tom forged ahead; then Sam, and at last the race was in full swing. Despite blistering sun and pouring perspiration, at it they went, stripping the blades, tying the "hands," with rapidity amazing, stop- ping for neither breath nor to wipe perspiration. As soon as one "through" was done, the first one out helping the other (that was his victory) , both whirled into the next four rows. The others, ac- cepting the champions philosophically, took their time, chewing tobacco, exchanged gossip, and even told a yarn or so between breaths as the "hands" were tied. A shout from Sam, who was then slightly in the lead, brought good news. A watermelon was found 1 Long, gray, rattlesnake striped it was, Fodder-Pulling Time 6i nestling under its own green leaves and in part shaded by the corn. In triumph it was borne by one of the smaller boys out to the fence at the row's end, and then everybody got a move on them to pull out to it. In the shade of a pine which stood outside, they sat down in the fence jamb, pocket-knives were out, and Old Daddy Gray was butchered. A feast it was to thirsty palates. Hourly during the morning had each turned up the big water- gourd which the carrier boys had brought and took a long, delicious swig, but water only tem- porarily quenches thirst, and this melon was a find, indeed. Jim had known where it was all along — in fact had denied himself to spare the treat for this very occasion. Also he knew where two brothers lay, and while this one was being butchered and its dripping red heart devoured, he stole off and returned with them. For each of these men could eat a good-sized melon, and one for the crowd would only have tantalized appe- tites. Would some power could give us now, just for an hour, the capacity for enjoyment that made the juice of the melon then a nectar supreme, its red meat a feast of which Lucullus never dreamed the equal. Then no possibility of satiation, no fear of indigestion or after consequences — only the amazing capacity for enjoyment. 62 Saturday Night Sketches The melon eaten, a brief rest and yarn-spin- ning, then a leader arose, and the work was on again. During the morning, Tom had been show- ing a little better form, and had three "helpings" to his advantage. Along about eleven o'clock, he was leading Sam, and victory for the day ap- peared certain. Then, he stripped a stalk at the bottom of which a ground rattler, about a foot long, was sleeping. This snake has a temper like a dyspeptic, and Tom's foot already had disturbed its nap. When his hands came down, the reptile struck, viciously. A large agate button on the cuff of Tom's shirt saved him from a few hours' deathly sickness, for it caught the force of the blow and deflected it, the snake's fang penetrating the cuff and hanging therein. Tom felt the blow and looked down; saw the snake and jumped. It followed him, dangling from his cuff. Tom thought it had hit the wrist, let out a yell that gave a war alarm over in the next county and brought the other workers on the run. "I'm bit! I'm bit!" Tom yelled, and the snake at last dropping off, he made a beeline for the house and help. On the way, having heard that tobacco was an antidote for snake-bite, he devoured the square he had in his pocket. Reach- ing the house far in advance of his trailing com- panions, he had swallowed the major part of Mrs. Jim's winter store of blackberry wine, adminis- Fodder-Pulling Time 63 tered as first aid to the Injured, before some in- quiring mind insisted on seeing the place where he was bitten, and there was none. Tom went back to work, but the ginger was out of him for the day. He jumped at every crooked stick and shied at every shadow, and Sam had a victory so easy that he didn't think it worth while. Noon, and the blast of the long horn summoned the workers to dinner. It was hot on the table, and the men ate while the women waited, and occasionally put a word into the conversation, for the mothers and daughters had come with the men, and Mrs. Jim had help, just as she would help others on the morrows to come. Chicken pie, of course, field peas, with rich, black pot-liquor, strips of fat, rib-filling bacon across the top. Pone corn bread, hot light bis- cuit and rich butter; cool buttermilk, hot black coffee, and apple or peach dumplings, with sauce of sugar whipped into butter. Yum, yum ! You great old days of good things ! After dinner, an hour of rest, a melon cutting — for they could hold a little more, despite the meal, some courting of course around by the water shelf; and then back to the field until the shades of night saw Jim's fodder down and they agreed where they should meet on the morrow. Next day, after nightfall and the dews had made the fodder pliant, they came to help him 64 Saturday Night Sketches tie the hands into bundles, and tote these on their backs to the center of the field, where they were stacked, or to the loft of Jim's barn. Modern agricultural science tells us that pull- ing fodder is a waste of labor and injurious to corn, but we knew no better then. And out of our obsession, if such it was, we got a lot of hard work and some fun, and the horses and mules in the stalls appeared to enjoy the savory product with their corn during the winter. days when long forage was scarce. THE CONVERSION "There is a fountain filled with blood Drawn from Immanuel's veins; And sinners plunged beneath that flood Lose all their guilty stains." The shades of night surrounded the little log church. From the unceiled building, the light shone between the logs on the horses, mules and oxen tethered outside, resting on the deep wiregrass beneath the murmuring pines; for many had driven miles to attend the revival which had then been in progress for a week. It was the early fall, and a cool tinge made more comfortable the mellow softness of the sweet-scented air of early night. Inside, the house was crowded. From cross joists swung two kerosene lamps and the radiance from these fell upon the people filling the rough pine benches; in aisles chairs had been placed, and everywhere a vacant space could be found, on a quilt a child lay sleeping. The preacher, a man of power and of the Spirit, 65 66 Saturday Night Sketches but whose education was that of the pioneer with opportunities limited, had finished an eloquent and soul-stirring sermon on the mercy of God, His power to save from sin, and on iniquitous man in a fallen state. There was the sound of women weeping, and many heads were bowed in convic- tion and prayer. Exhausted by his stupendous effort, the aged exhorter had sunk upon a seat, his massive head and bearded face upon his hands, in an attitude of supplication. Someone rose and raised the familiar hymn; they needed neither books nor lining. As the first words were sung, the audience took it up from all parts of the house; it grew in volume, and the in- spiring sounds rolled out upon the evening still- ness, carrying far across the surrounding hillsides: ''''The dying thief rejoiced to see That fountain in his day. And there may I, though vile as he Wash all my sins away." The Spirit of the Holy Ghost hovered near. It was felt in responsive thrill by every heart In the house. Expectancy touched with invisible fin- gers, for great events were near. From a seat near the back of the church there was a rustle, as a man of giant stature arose and started toward the pulpit. He was a man who had The Conversion 67 walked with heavy feet in the paths of worldli- ness; an atheist, a scoffer; one who had been a bad example and whose house had been a rally- ing place for wayward youth. A few days before he had come to laugh, and remained to listen. Daily he came to every serv- ice, and soon it was apparent that a mighty change in his life was coming. Now the watchers saw that it was here. As he walked up front, tears stream- ing down his furrowed cheeks and his features working with emotion, there were few dry eyes looking on. ^^Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood Shall never lose its power, 'Till all the ransomed Church of God Be saved, to sin no more." And many were saved that night. Around the altar knelt seekers after light and forgiveness; out in the audience men were weeping with the women; here and there someone arose and told of the wondrous sweetness of Jesus's love. It was nearing midnight when with reluctance they dis- persed for home, carrying with them the spirit of the Pentecost. , Twenty-seven summers, with blazing sunshine and pouring rains; twenty-seven winters, with their frosts and holidays and festivals; twenty- seven springtides, with the rainbow of promise 68 Saturday Night Sketches and the optimism of springing vegetation, bud- ding flowers, and season of planting; twenty-seven falls, with their harvests, their disappointments and their falling leaves, have passed since that night. The little log church is gone; a brick one has replaced it. The pines and the wiregrass are gone forever; in their stead are fertile fields and fruit- ful orchards. Near where the church stood then is one of the leading preparatory schools of South Georgia, which every year sends its cultured young men and women out into the world to make it better. The man who experienced conversion that night has been gathered to his fathers, but not before his light so shone that many saw their way to salvation by its radiance; not before his philan- thropy and his big heart had set many feet in the path of knowledge and on the way to the foot of the cross. Nearly all the men and women of that day are gone, but they left to us their precept and exam- ple, and await us beyond the fountain and when we join them, "Then, in a nobler, sweeter song, I'll sing Thy power to save. When this poor lisping, stamm'ring tongue Lies silent in the grave." UNCLE WILEY'S TURKEY PEN "No; I don't eat turkey," said Uncle Wiley. He was a straight-standing man, despite his three-score and ten. Hard as nails, with high cheek bones, his sandy hair just touched with gray, and a thin, white beard giving an appearance of added length to a face already long. He chewed much tobacco, which had dyed the lower whisk- ers, and as he talked, he spat occasionally, with rifle-like accuracy, at a crack in the floor. He wore a pair of copperas-dyed breeches, the cloth from wool from his own sheep, carded, spun, dyed and woven at home. They were made with a flap in front, like a cellar door, buttoning down the right hip, after the style of sixty years ago. His suspenders were of wool, loose knit and elastic, and his shirt of white homespun. His shoes were the trusty brogans of that day, with heavy half- soles put on at home. With his age, he was an embodiment of the hardihood and vigor of those days that required hardy men to stand the press- ure. "I don't eat turkey," he continued; "and they don't put it on the table at my place. My folks 69 70 Saturday Night Sketches don't raise 'em, and when I go away from home and they have turkey, I don't stay for dinner. I have done pUim caught up with my turkey eating." "Don't you Hke the taste, Uncle Wiley?" "No, nor the smell, nor the gravy, nor even the tracks. I ain't no hog, and I know when I've got enough, and I have plenty of turkey to do me the balance of my life, and if I should be re- born, and have it all to go over with three or four times, I would still have enough turkey." "Once, when I was almost a young man, I had a turkey pen, down back of the field on the Lop- haw swamp. The wild turkeys were mighty troublesome, coming up into the field and eating just about everything growing. My folks couldn't hardly have a garden, and as for raising peas, it was wellnigh impossible. Did you ever see a turkey-pen? Simple enough, made of fence rails, laid careful, covered with rails, and weighted down. You wanted to have plenty weight, I tell you. There was a trap door, raised up to let the turkeys in. You baited the pen with a trail of corn for about fifty yards, and in through the door. Back well into the pen you hung an ear of corn, and this was fastened to a trigger, which let the door fall. "I caught a right smart lot of them, one or two at a time, but one day, along in the fall, just before night I went to the pen, and it was full! I Uncle Wiley's Turkey Pen 71 counted 'em, through the cracks, and there was two big gobblers, seven hens, and four young ones, just about grown. Don't never tell me again that thirteen ain't unlucky! "I was used to going in and getting what I caught in that pen, and without thinking about what I was doing, I moved the sliding rail that held the door in place and went in, letting the door and rail drop shut behind me. "Then something happened. A mine blew up, a submarine struck, an airship fell, a shell burst, or there was a railroad collision, head on. For a time, I thought a cyclone had lit, and I was in the middle of It. When them turkeys saw me, they went stark crazy. They commenced fluttering, trying to fly, butting their heads against the top of the pen, and then began running around in it. "I told you before the pen was full, didn't I? Well, it was more than full — of legs, claws, wings and feathers. And don't let anybody tell you that a turkey, and a wild turkey, ain't strong. Before I knowed what was happening, they knocked me down, and each one run over me about three hun- dred times. My face was up and it seemed to me that every turk had a thousand legs and the claws was as big as an elephant's foot. My eyes full of dirt, my nose bleeding, and not a square inch of skin left on my face, I tried to turn over. Just as my head got sideways, the biggest gobbler 72 Saturday Night Sketches hit it full tilt, and every one of them right behind him give me another pawing. "I thought they was going to kill me. The door was shut hard and fast, the top of the pen weighed down past a man's strength, and every time I tried to raise up, the turkeys knocked me flat and run over me nine hundred and ninety-nine times. You may laugh, but things was mighty serious, and if I had had time I would have said my pray- ers. And it looked like the longer them turks struggled and the scareder they got, the worse upstir they made. "Finally, maybe they slacked a little, or I got my head sorter back, for I eased around to the door, and after a lot of work got my hand through a crack and moved the rail that held it down. Even then, when I got out, two turks come so close behind me that they got away. "I shut the door and set down against it until I sorter come to myself. Then I cut me a good stick, and I let them turks out one at a time, and as they come, I knocked them in the head. I never did anything that was any more satisfaction to me. "Talk about blood and corruption, and the ground tore up ! If it wasn't there, then I never saw it. I went all through the war, and had some pretty squally times, but I tell you, the Yanks never give me as busy a half hour as them turks did. Uncle Wiley's Turkey Pen 73 "When I went to the house, I liked to have scared the folks to death. They thought Indians had killed and scalped me. It was two months before I done any work, and while I never looked as well again, I knowed more. "That, son, is when I got a mess of turkey." GRANDMA'S SPINNING WHEEL The woman, still in the vigor of middle age at fifty-five, picked a light, fluffy roll of carded cot- ton from the pile in a basket on the frame of the wheel. Deftly she fastened a twisted end to the sec- tion of corn shuck wrapped around the spindle; then giving the large wheel a whirl with a quick motion of her hand, she stepped backwards, the cotton twisting into thread as she did so; she advanced, the whirling spindle, driven by the wheel-band, taking up the thread; back another step, lengthening the thread; forward again; the roll is gone. Another is picked up, the end at- tached to the frayed end of the thread on the spindle, and again the wheel is in motion, the spool of thread on the spindle steadily growing. The watching Boy, sitting in the little chair tilted back against the banister of the back piazza, knows that this will go on for hours; the whirling wheel, the busy fingers, the two steps backward — one step forward; one step back; the spools of thread on the spindle growing until full, to be dropped in turn into the basket beside the wheel. 74 GRANDMA'S SPINNING WHEEL Grandma's Spinning Wheel 75 The Boy was used to home-made things; to the hand mill on the post under the big catalpa tree in the front yard, where the meal for the family bread was ground; the home-made bedsteads, the spotless pine tables. The very chair in which he sat, was turned by some great-grandfather in the remote past and handed down as the heritage of the youngest son; the frame of pine; the seat of rawhide. The Boy knows where that cotton came from. Yesterday he helped pick it in the acre patch down by the cow pen. Last night he helped Grandma, Aunt Ruth and Uncle Jack, pick the cotton from the seed by the light of the pine knot fire, while Grandpa by the chimney corner smoked and looked on. To-day the wheel is out on the back piazza^ just out of the draft through the wide hallway between the double log pens of the big house. The wheel is substantially made of hick- ory, the favorite wood, turned, mortised, joined and pinned by hand. There is not a piece of metal about it except the axle on which it revolves and the spindle; and these were hand-forged by the nearest blacksmith. They were careful workmen in those days, and their work stood. The prod- uct did not cost much more than similar articles now, for money was dear, but one purchase sup- plied a lifetime. Those were simple days, before the days of shoddy. As the Boy turned his head he could see the 76 Saturday Night Sketches pomegranate trees, with their ripening fruit; the pear tree, which had yielded its golden store; a little farther on the cherry tree, the source of much controversy between the powers that con- trolled and himself; and on across the corn-field, down by the branch, the muscadine vine along the fence, which offered future opportunities. As mind turned back to the busy spinner, he could in imagination trace the thread in its course to the finished product. The spools from the spindle would go to the reel, a wonderful piece of mechanism (also home-made of hickory) which sounded an alarm when a thousand yards were wound; from this reel the thread would come in hanks, ready for dyeing. Then the boiling of the dyes out-doors in the big iron wash-pot. The in- digo, which had grown near the well shelter had been cut, cooked, and the settlings saved for dye; the logwood and copperas bought from the dis- tant store; the pomegranate and walnut hulls, like the indigo, home products. The Boy had watched as the different threads were dipped in these col- ors, producing the necessary variety for the con- templated woven pattern. After drying in the air for several days, the thread would go to the loom, that huge structure of framed pine, standing on the north end of that rear piazza. A work of days it would be to thread the warp between the upright reeds on the Grandma' s Spinning Wheel 77 loom carriers, each thread having a separate space, and it appeared to the Boy that there were at least a thousand in each of the two carriers. "Laying the cloth" was counted the most difficult part of the weaver's work. The filling was an easy matter. It was wound on spools just the right size to fit into a long mortise In the shuttles — strips of wood in the shape of small bateaux, flat, and sloping at top and bottom to points at both ends. When all was ready. Grandma would mount the high loom bench, her feet on the treadles. As one foot pressed, one warp carrier went down, the other up, the threads crossing as you cross your fingers at a fish story. Then between the upper and the lower threads the shuttle was thrust, from side to side, and a swing of the hanging packer drove the fresh thread snugly back against its fellows. Down went the other treadle; the threads crossed again and back to the other side the shuttle traveled; so on, as the hours passed, until thread by thread the yard-wide cloth grew. There were many intricacies among the rudi- ments of the weaver's art, and the rudiments re- quired much skill. There were puzzling patterns for rag carpets, bed-covers, children's llnsey dresses and home ornaments; the women's dresses were nearly always of sober, dark colors; the men's pantaloons of copperas yellow and the shirts of white. 78 Saturday Night Sketches From the thread and the finished cloth, the Boy could see the cutting of the garment during the long winter evenings by the fireside; the making, by busy fingers plying the needle in and out of the fabric, pinned to the sewer's knee. For sew- ing machines we had none then. But as the Boy watched he could only see for the future what the past had coached him was coming. He could not see the cloth garment, worn out after many years and discarded; the wheel lose its cord band, its polish and spotlessness; then disappear; even the massive loom pass into mem- ory, and Grandma last of all join the dust of the centuries. For while all were of a day that was good, they were of a day that has gone; part and parcel of a time when a country was in the making, they filled their allotted part and then gave place to a new age. An age of much shoddy, of many pretenses; an age when the individual loses iden- tity in average; an age cosmopolitan, but never- theless a good age, for its men and women of endeavor; the jewels in the jumble of makeshift; the pure gold in the medley of dross; if the indi- vidual is not so prominent, the average is good. But to the Boy (gray now and himself grand- pa) when the curtain of memory rolls back, the whirr of that wheel is the hum of Industry; the busy woman the type of Perseverance; the mas- Grandma's Spinning Wheel 79 sive loom an emblem of the sturdy race of that time — all, the housewife, the wheel, the loom, sacred memories of the Past which made the Present possible, because they saw their duty and did it well. SUNDAY AT OBEDIAH GAY'S A summer Sunday morning and with time hang- ing on their hands, Bud and the Boy went over to neighbor Gay's to spend the day. It was only a seven-mile walk, and there was no road, only a dim horse-path trail led through the wiregrass and unbroken pine forest. Branches were crossed by leaping from one tussock to an- other, or the Boy, barefoot, frankly waded. It is interesting to note that where the forest stood that day, now lie some of South Georgia's finest farms. Neighbor Gay lived in a single-pen log house, set back in the field. In this house he had raised a family of seventeen. It was built when no lumber was to be had and man depended on his own resources and those of nature. The walls were of pine logs, cut while clearing the field that surrounded it. The cracks were ceiled with long strips, or boards, rived from split pine, with a frow. The floor was of puncheons — logs split and hewn smooth on one side. The roof was covered with three-foot boards, rived as those for the ceiling, only one-third as long; the wide chim- 80 Sunday at Obediah Gay's 8i ney was built of sticks split square from blocks of pine, laid pen fashion, the interstices filled with clay. To build a chimney required skill in con- struction as well as in selecting and mixing clay. The doors, likewise of split boards, hung on home- made hinges of black-gum. The field in which the house stood was sur- rounded by a worm rail fence, and entrance was through a set of bars sliding into mortised holes in posts on either side. A white sandy path led from the bars to the house. This was a great game country then, and neighbor Gay lived near the banks of a stream where fish and game were plentiful. A dozen reed fishing poles stood in the chimney corner and more than a dozen deer- hounds raised a vociferous alarm as the visitors approached. Two of the older boys — young men in fact — tall, well-knit fellows, came down to the bars to guard them in. At the edge of the clean-swept yard, between two green cape jessamine bushes, the head of the house met them — a man past sixty, tall, erect, and vigorous, a typical pioneer. With the easy, open hospitality of the times he made them welcome, and showed them to seats under the big wateroak that shaded half the yard. The older men swapped what news there was in those days of no newspapers; the boys were soon engrossed in the games of the day. 82 Saturday Night Sketches It was late summer, and soon up from the corn- field below the house came two larger boys, car- rying a big cotton-basket 'filled with roasting-ears. It was no mean task to feed that family. Later the call to dinner came, and preparatory ablutions were performed at a tin wash-basin on a shelf by the front door. The water was in a cedar pail on a shelf made by driving long pegs into holes bored in the log walls and laying boards across these. It was dipped with a long-handled gourd, from the vine which grew out over the rail hen- house, and the soap was made with lye in the big iron pot which stood in the back yard. The kitchen was a sister of the big house, ex- cept the fireplace was broader, to make room for the cooking utensils, and there was no floor, or rather the floor was of clay, tramped hard and worn with feet of many generations. The table ran the length of the kitchen, and was then too short to accommodate the family and visitors — the smaller boys waited, hungry-eyed, until given ears of corn to piece out with. It was the first feast of green corn of the sea- son, and it was in plenty, boiled on the cob, and piled high on blue-edged plates which were fam- ily heirlooms. The seats were long benches of split, hewn logs, and at either end was a stool of the same. Besides the corn, there were corn-bread, the first sweet potatoes of the year, and fresh beef, Sunday at Obediah Gay's 83 butchered from the big herd the previous day. Homely fare, but the feasters had appetites for it, and hospitality was of the generous kind that saw the guest was a good trencher-man. After dinner, the girls of the family appeared in bright calicoes, with an aroma of cinnamon drops. From distant homes young men dropped in, for where there are girls, there boys will be found. Soon they separated into couples, and the pleasing business of life began. There was a girl in pink calico about the Boy's age but both were bashful as yet. Bud was married, so he and the home boys soon had a game of marbles going in the yard which was level with just enough sand to afford good playing. A ring was made by putting down the thumb and spanning the long finger in a circle. In the center was put the biggest marble, four others in the ring around. Each player had his own "taw" which was always carried in his pocket. Back fifteen feet or more was the "taw" line, and from this each player shot In turn, thumping his taw with his thumb from the concaved fore- finger of his right hand. The first attempt was to "tip the middle man," which gave the lucky one the game. So expert did some players grow that It was sometimes tipped as many as three times before the start from the taw line was over. The game was then to get a majority of the five mar- 84 Saturday Night Sketches bles shot from the ring or to "kill" off the other players by well-directed shots. It was a great game, requiring some skill, and many cries of "roun'ance," "vence yer roun'ance," "knucks," "hold studdy hand," "vence yer any's," etc., and more than once a dispute as to the en- forcement of the rules of the game, well-known and usually closely adhered to. The Boy, with the others of his size, was busy in the absorbing game of "knucks," and "mumble- peg." The first was played much the same as "roily-holey" of to-day, rolling marbles into a se- ries of four holes; but with the difference that the last one to complete the circuit had to put his knuckles down on the taw line for the others to take a shot at. "Mumble-peg," as now, was clev- erly twirling an open pocket knife so that it de- scribed a circle and stuck upright. But then the one who lost had to root out a peg driven tight in the ground with his nose, and that was some mean job, believe me, and left a sore if not skinned nose. Lengthening shadows warned that night ap- proached, and the seven-mile walk home com- pleted a full day. CARRYING THE COTTON TO MARKET Mid-afternoon the start was made. The bale of cotton, brought from the gin several days be- fore, was loaded on the wagon; tucked in around it a supply of forage for the oxen; in a cheesebox a grub stake for the round strip. Perched on top of the bale, the Boy, in his Sunday best, drove, the Father riding and walking — usually the latter. The first part of the road was lonely; out by the village cemetery; then miles and miles of un- broken pine forest, before first the small farms and then the large plantations along the river bot- toms were reached. Long before this, night had fallen, and one part of the journey was as lonely as the other. Both travelers were accustomed to self-entertainment; the oxen patiently plodded off the long miles, and man and boy took naps, trust- ing to their team to "keep the road." Some time after midnight, but before the morn- ing star shone in the east, they arrived at the crossing of an old stage road, two miles out from the city. Here was the last timber, and camp was made. The oxen were unyoked, tied to saplings and fed, and on quilts spread beneath the wagon 85 86 Saturday Night Sketches man and boy slept until morning. With daybreak they were up, the oxen hitched and the outskirts of the city reached in time for an early cup of coffee at a lunch stand near the bridge entrance. This bridge, spanning a broad and rapid river, was an object of dread both to the boy and to oxen. Snorting in fright, the team was with dif- ficulty urged up the long approach; under the hollow, resounding, covered and walled bridge proper, they pulled in the yoke against each other — their hoofs slipping on the floor, while the Boy clung to the cotton bale, momentarily expecting the wagon wheels to run off the end of the flooring and plunge wagon and all into the rushing waters thirty feet below. Out from the covered bridge at last the oxen rushed down the incline at the farther end, being stopped with some difficulty by the toll-keeper under the arched entrance at the bridge house. Here they were passed on the promise to pay the toll when they came back; a common custom, for few going into town had money. And safe enough, for over the bridge was the only way home. At last they were "in town" and the boy shrank down a little on his high perch at the noise around him. To the big brick cotton warehouse, where negroes threw the bale off the wagon and rolled it under the warehouse shed and with a long augur a sample was taken. Back into the wagon-yard Carrying the Cotton to Market 87 the team was driven, unyoked and Installed; the "things" stored in the common camping-house un- der the eye of the negro care-taker, the price of whose services was a dram of "busthead" before departure. Out man and boy went to sell the cotton. It appeared to be by common consent that no bidder would offer what he expected to pay, but each would start with a low figure, expecting to be raised — which was done. It was a matter of much walking, much dickering, and many inquir- ies as to how much "trade" was In It, before what the seller saw was the top price was reached, and the deal closed. Then, an orgy of buying ! Women are not all the bargain hunters In the world. As a reward for much toil in the cotton field under a hot sum- mer sun, the Boy was to have his first "store- bought" suit, and the purchase was an event. The proper color — a compromise between a desire for the gaudy on the part of the prospective wearer and a careful precaution against early fading by the wary parent — was found after a while. Then the size — It must be large enough to "allow for growth" (with a consequence that the suit never fit, being too large when new and shabby from age when at last the Boy grew to it). Last, the price; rock-bottom being finally struck after much palaver. 88 Saturday Night Sketches Then there were the hickory checks, the calico, the "narrowed homespun," the thread and card of buttons, the shoes, and finally the bundle of spun thread to fill Mother's list. The sack of flour, the coffee, the "sure 'nuff" crawling sugar, for the family larder. Father perhaps got a new hat, a pair of brogan shoes, and a caddy of to- bacco for his part. Even into luxuries they went. A pound of beautifully striped candy, a section of cheese for the home table and for lunch en route, and, crowning luxury, a can of cove oysters ! The mouth waters now at the remembrance of the appetite-inspiring label. The great wealth that in one bale of cotton lay ! For then there were no notes for mules, or guano, or farm supplies to be met, and what was paid for the single bale of the year's crop of cotton, belonged to the grower. Back to the wagon-yard, walking on air in a dream of riches; the oxen watered and yoked, the homeward journey began as the lengthening shadows told that another night was near. The toll man was paid at the bridge, and still Father jingled silver and put away a few bills against a time of need. Even the bridge had no terrors now, the oxen pacing over, with heads lowered, as they recognized the homeward trail. No need to drive — the team knew the way and nothing could turn them from it. No stop for Carrying the Cotton to Market 89 camp to-night — home was the goal of travelers and team. When night fell the precious can of oysters was hacked open with a hatchet and the contents devoured; the last drop of juice soaked up with soda crackers. Then cheese and candy and crackers to wedge it down, and Father and Boy stretched themselves in the wagon and slept away the homeward journey. The arrival was during the early morning hours; first care for the tired and panting team; then the loud call to the Mother who waited, the proud exhibition of the purchases of the trip; then sleep until the break- fast summons. The Day of the year was over. THE CAPE JESSAMINE There were two rows of the dark green bushes of cape jessamine, one on either side of the walk leading from the front gate to the door of Her house. The house was made of logs in double-pen. There was a twenty-foot hall be- tween the pens and on either side of the big log rooms were two shed-rooms; between the shed- rooms were wide piazzas. The sheds and the flooring were of lumber sawed by a straight saw before the days of the circular one, and the planks split out about six inches from the end of the log with an axe. The plates and sills of the house had been hewed by hand. It was massive in con- struction and the roof was of shingles, riven with a frow and drawn with a drawing knife. Inside the log rooms the cracks were sealed with long laths, riven like boards. Outside, these cracks afforded convenient receptacles for rows of fresh- laid eggs, for fishing lines, almanacs and an oc- casional newspaper. Usually this outside wall was ornamented with festoons of long strings of red-peppers and silver onions carefully provided against winter's need. The cool, open hall was 90 The Cape Jessamine 91 a favorite sleeping place on hot summer nights for the older members of the family and for af- ternoon naps in crop times. The big house was a great gathering place for young people. When the cape jessamines bloomed in the spring we were usually there. They smelled sweetest on Sunday afternoons, when their odor filled the air. The front fence was of straight rails and the top of the posts was a handy place to hitch a horse. As He hitched, over the tops of the jessamine bushes could be caught a glimpse of the group on the front piazza and usually She was there. Her face was the white of the jessa- mine. Her cheeks and lips the color of winter pinks and her eyes of the blue of the morning- glory that trailed from the ground to the roof and shaded the water-shelf at the piazza's edge. A ghmpse of Her was all one got from the gate but that over the jessamine bushes made it im- possible to forget them ever. And as night approached and the shadows fell, in the dusk they stood together by the jessamine bushes. The things that were said were too sacred to tell. Yet they are things that every man of thirty has spoken and every woman of twenty-five has heard. She held a jessamine flower in Her hand; He has It now, faded and yellow, among his cherished keepsakes. A CANDY-PULLING IN THE WIREGRASS "Hold your own, Jack!" "Good for you, Ailsa; pull 'im around 1" Thus the partisans of the lad and lass shouted encouragement to each favorite, Ailsa was strong and buxom, and with the advantage of several points avoirdupois was pulling Jack, who held the other end of the hank of rapidly hardening syrup candy, hither and yon. At last, in their meander- ings, they passed one of the large lightwood posts supporting the sugar-mill shelter. Throwing his arms around it and seizing his end of the candy in either hand. Jack said, "Now, pull!" And the post held. From a radius of half a dozen miles the young folks had gathered to help Jim Spillers put the finishing touches to his cane crop. All the week, while he had been grinding, some of them dropped in each night to chew cane, drink juice, eat the foam from the new syrup and entertain Jim while he patiently skimmed the kettle. Having depleted his cane crop as much as possible, the young folks had begged him to give them a candy-pulling on the last night, and Jim being the soul of hospi- 92 A C an dy-P tilling in the Wire grass 93 tality and having grown a crop of sugar-cane for his own good use and pleasure, consented. The last boiling of cane-juice had been cooked into syrup, and when it was dipped from the big iron kettle with a long-handled gourd, a gallon or so was left and in a few minutes this had cooked until the expert, holding up a paddle dipped into the syrup and watching the drops as they hung, lengthened and fell, pronounced it candy. Then it was dipped up into buttered or larded plates and the young folks, pairing off into couples, each took a portion. As the edges cooled, the candy was lifted with a table-knife and pulled until the nucleus for a hank was formed. Grad- ually each worked up the candy until it was all transferred from the plates, and a small hank was held. Then lad and lass put their hanks together, and each pulled an end. The lad, holding tight to one end of the candy, with one hand, would catch the candy up close to the girl's hand with the other and pull. She in turn would catch close to his hand and pull, and the candy would be stretched in the shape of two Vs. This would be repeated until the mass, at first mahogany brown, would gradually change to russet, then to golden, until at last, by the time it grew too hard to pull, in the hands of experts who worked fast and did not lose too much time courting, it would be almost white. There wa.s 94 Saturday Night Sketches keen rivalry between couples to produce the bright- est hank. A lightwood-knot fire, on a tiny shelter of pine K ^rds covered with earth, lighted the scene. Art^nnd the darkness, like a wall; above, the sky a detp blue with stars like tiny incandescents ; the tOjps of stately pines silhouetted horizonward; the lau^'hing couples, pulling, chatting and making merpy', youthful forms swaying and changing in the flickering light. As the candy hardened, pulling grew more dif- ficult, and it became a test of strength if strength was exerted. It was then that the contest between Jack and Ailsa afforded a hearty laugh. But the lads were more gallant; gradually the couples drew apart, and voices were lowered as sweet nothings were whispered or softly spoken, and when the time to bring up their candy came, more than one pair would blush as the dark candy gave evidence that they had forgotten for the time the business in hand. For candy, like opportunity, must be pulled in its time. The hanks were deftly lengthened, cut into short pieces by quick strokes of a knife and laid on buttered plates to harden. It was ready to eat then, and each couple, together with the old folks who had been looking on and the children — there were always children — reaped the reward of labor A Candy -Pulling in the Wire grass 95 or watchful waiting. As the candy was eaten, the conversations be- gun during the pulling were resumed, and He might just as well have been eating sawdust or gum for all He knew of the taste, for He was looking into the brightest eyes on earth, watching the colors come and go in the fairest cheeks, and the hesitating words that came from Her lips would have discounted in sweetness the most ex- quisite product of mortal's most talented confec- tioner — for the work He was gazing on with His soul in His eyes was divine. Matches were made in heaven — but the old- time candy-pullings made their share, and some- times they were pretty near heaven. CORN LIQUOR AND TUTT'S PILLS Rich Hayes had spring fever. He was slow getting to work in the morning, and when the mule turned in the jamb of the fence at the end of the row, he would gaze dream- ily into the hazy distance. The whites of his eyes had a yellowish tinge, and he complained to his employer that his chew of cut plug had lost its savor. "You are bilious," the boss told him. "Next time you go to town, get a box of pills and take 'em. They'll straighten out your liver, and set you up all right." Saturday afternoon, Rich was sent to town with the team for supplies. Again he was admonished about getting the pills to straighten him up, and he promised not to forget. Night came, and no Rich nor team. Supper was over, and it was well on toward bedtime be- fore the boss, sitting on the front piazza, heard the thump of the wagon axle, and later a snort from one of the mules. There was a full moon, and soon the team could be seen coming down the lane. It would stop a while, then come on; then 96 Corn Liquor and Tutt's Pills 97 stop again. Puzzled a little, the boss walked out to open the big gate leading around to the lot, and stood leaning thereon, watching the oncoming wagon. The flood of moonlight was almost as clear as day, and as the waiter watched, and the mules turned down the short lane bordered with water- oaks which led to the house, he saw the man on the wagon double his arms across his chest, rock backward. and forward as if tickled to death, then jump down from the wagon, make a running start for the rail fence, hit it with a running jump two rails below the top, and go over on the other side, the rails tumbling after him. The mules came on, and the boss gave them his first attention. Then he went to look for Rich, but he was not to be found. A search of the wagon disclosed the supplies in good shape, and underneath the cross pine board used for a driv- er's seat was a quart bottle that smelled of corn liquor and a pill box — both empty. Monday morning, bright and early. Rich showed up for work, a little pale, but with the yellow gone from his eye. He was wearing a new outfit of jeans pants and hickory shirt. Asked what had happened, he grew eloquent. "Corn liquor and Tutt's pills may be mighty good things when they are by themselves," he said, "but they won't do to mix. I tell you how 98 Saturday Night Sketches it was, Mr. Greene. I bought the pills, just like you told me, and then I thought what a good spring tonic old corn is, and I felt like I needed a tonic. So I gave John Hall my last fifty cents for a quart, and started home. "It was still good daylight, and I took out the little round wood box of pills and read the direc- tions. It said one to three was a dose, so I took up one of the little, white fellows, and swallowed it, washing it down with a swig of corn. It tasted sweet, so I thought I had just as well take a full dose, and took three, with a swallow of liquor after each. "Then I felt I needed more tonic, and took a drink by itself. That wasn't giving the pills a fair show, so I took another one of them and that called for a drink, and the drink called for an- other pill. They were clean, sweet, little things, and about two dozen in the box. That see-saw game went on until I just have a sort of dim idea of the balance. The mules jogged along at their own gait, and I began to notice the wagon jolted awful. "I didn't feel the effects of the pills until they and the liquor gave out about the same time. Then they got busy, I guess the corn made me a little dazed, but I know just how one of them volcano mountains feels before it blows up. I thought I was going to. Also, I understand how Corn Liquor and Tulfs Pills 99 a barrel of corn mash stirs around when It's in ferment. "If you can imagine how it would feel to have a bunch of chained-Hghtning, a kicking mule, a bundle of wiggling snakes and a red-hot barbed wire fence galvanized, all doing business inside of you at the same time, you can have just a faint idea of what I went through with, but you can't know it all. It would have killed me if it hadn't been for the liquor making me sorter reckless and dummy like. The next thing I remember after throwing away the empty pill box was waking up at home Sunday evening. "I've had enough pills and corn liquor to last me my lifetime." He had, but the spring fever was gone. A WIREGRASS EASTER We walked to church — we had no other way of going. The path led over the gently undulat- ing hills, through swishing wiregrass, verdant with the return of spring. Overhead the sighing pines also had taken on a brighter tinge with the life of the new year. The poplars and blackgums in the branch to the right were in leaf; the dark green of the bay was relieved, as by a snowy shower, by the dogwood in full bloom. Out on the edge of the bushes the gall-berries formed a greenish-saffron background for clumps of honey- suckle in full pink flower. The air was heavy with perfume, redolent with the lassitude of spring. The little log church stood In a small grove of oaks on top of the hill. Between the cracks of the logs the spring breeze came unobstructed; the tiny shutterless windows on either side were use- less. The broad door In one end marked a divid- ing aisle, on either side of which the rough benches were ranged. On one side sat the women and girls; on the other the men and boys. In the pine- board pulpit stood the preacher, a patriarch with white, flowing beard, deep voice and a knowledge 100 A Wire grass Easter loi of the Bible gained tlirough many years of study at noon rest time, or by the light of a tallow candle, or a lightwood-knot fire. The Boy lounged lazily on a bench underneath the small window and watched the door. For a while vainly, and then She came 1 And with her a breath Elysian, a sense of completeness; all in the world worth while was there ! Not even a small part of the large sum re- quired now for Easter toggery went toward her adornment, but to the eye nothing was lacking. Her dress of delicately figured calico had been fashioned by her own skilled fingers; with tight- fitting basque and flowing skirt her figure was faultless; just the tips of her shoes showed as she stepped, a rustle of many skirts betraying the efficiency of the home laundry. A ribbon at her waist, another at her collar; a tiny bunch of vio- lets pinned at her breast. No Easter bonnet of fabulous price upon her head, but a real bonnet of pink calico, corded and quilted until it stood out stiffly as board (aided by thin strips of pine inserted), enshrined her face, as a priceless living picture in its frame. A wonderful thing, that bonnet. Its front came down as her chin retired, just at the time to tease ; it went up as her head was raised, in a manner most alluring. Back in its depths her cheeks glowed with the blush of the rose in springtime; I02 Saturday Night Sketches her eyes sparkled with the light of the stars in summer; her hair rippled as the nut-brown throat of the thrush, catching the light from the sun- beams dancing outside; her fluttering breath came and went as the perfume of the summer pinks beside the walk at home. Then, the bonnet was laid aside to catch the summer air, and all the wonderful glories it had half concealed came with amazing suddenness to the youth who gazed, entranced. Only one brief glance did she vouchsafe him, when she turned reverently to where the preacher, who had opened his Bible, was searching in his hymn book for the Easter anthem to line to the waiting congregation. A sermon of power it was, of the risen Jesus, and the fearful price he had paid, but of a Jesus triumphant, because He had conquered by love; of the promise and the Invitation; of the wonder- ful brotherhood of Man and the certainty of im- mortality through Him who went down into the grave and rose again to live and conquer, giving life everlasting through death of agony. When the sermon was over, the Boy was wait- ing outside. She came hesitatingly, laughing with girl companions, and pretending not to see. But, although he blushed and stammered, he was res- olute, and when the direct question came she could not ignore. So they walked to her home through the springtime and the sunshine; the life of one, and the warmth of the other in their hearts. AN OLD-TIME WIREGRASS FROLIC "0/^ Dan Tucker, he got drunk — Fell in the fire and kicked out a chunk; Red-hot coal got in his shoe — Oh, great granny! how the ashes flew! Chorus '^Then, clear the way for Ole Dan Tucker; Come too late to git your supper!" There was a great sound of revelry by night. Through the poorly weather-boarded cracks of the log-cabin the firelight showed, flickering across the carpet of wiregrass just outside the low rail fence surrounding the yard and silhouetting the green pines against the wall of darkness. Out through these cracks also, and through the open door and the one small window came the stirring tune of the fiddle, the tapping of straws, and the quick shuffle of nimble feet to the call of the cotillion. For Jim was giving a party. The crops all in, the cane ground, with nothing pressing in work until the new year, there was a brief interval of feasting and merry-making, in which the dance 103 104 Saturday Night Sketches predominated. For in those days, nearly all the young people and a great many of the older ones danced — and thought no harm. There was but one room to Jim's house. The beds had been taken down; the table moved out, and what few chairs he owned ranged back against the wall, out of the way. Over by the fireplace the fiddlers sat — two of them — and in front of them knelt the straw-beaters, straws poised between ready fingers. No music was paid for then. The hired or- chestra was a part of a distant and little known city; the country was full of fiddlers of more or less merit, and at these "parties" it was not a question of who would play, but of who should play. The fiddlers furnished their own fiddles, and were anxious to take turns at playing. Those who did not play, usually beat accompaniment on the strings with straws, trimmed from a conven- ient broom. The day before, some of the girls had come over and helped Mrs. Jim clean-up, cook, and otherwise prepare; the boys helped Jim put in a supply of wood and do the other things neces- sary. With early candle-light the dancing began. The fiddlers tuned up, "plunk-plunk! tung-tungi" bent their heads above the instruments, tucked under their chins, drew their bows reverently across the THE FIDDLERS An Old-Time Wiregrass Frolic 105 strings, and their bodies swayed and their feet patted in time to the music. "Partners on the floor," called the leader, and from their seats around the walls four couples arose. "First couple to the right; balance!" and youth and maid danced time to the music before their opposites. "Swing!" and they joined hands and swung around. "Swing your corners!" the partners swung the nearest, right and left. "All promenade!" partners joined hands and prome- naded around to their places. This order was repeated by each couple until the four had made the circuit. "Gents to the right; ladies stand!" "Swing or cheat!" and the girl either swung the man danc- ing opposite or turned back to her partner. "All promenade!" "Ladies to the center, right hands across!" and they circled. "Left hand back!" re- verse. "Right hand to your partner, balance op- posite!" "Swing!" "Balance your partner!" "Swing!" "Promenade. All!" "Honor your cotillion; seat your partners." And so on, with changing couples, changing fiddlers, changing form of cotillion, but dancing steadily, throughout the night. They never seemed to tire. The puncheon floor (split, hewn logs) was rough, but they kept time on it, and among them were some splendid dancers, male and female, and with these, age did not diminish io6 Saturday Night Sketches ardor. A few mothers who were ideal partners, were as much in demand as their grown daugh- ters. In the measures of the dance, keeping time to the violins, there were many graceful steps. Some of the men, young and old, prided them- selves on their dancing, and while balancing would cut the "double shuffle," the "pigeon wing," and their many variations. One youth had never learned to dance, but he did not know it. He had plenty of music in his soul, but none in his heels, and the steps he cut under the inspiration of a pretty or graceful part- ner would convulse the onlookers with laughter. He saw it not, and in blissful ignorance went on in the error of his way. There was plenty of politeness, but little for- mality. One pretty girl, with peach-blossom cheeks and a laugh that was as contagious as a flea — also one of the best dancers in the room, wore a new and pinching shoe. Did she sit with the wall-flowers in misery, and lose a night's fun? Not she ; dances did not come any too often. Ex- cusing herself for a moment, she removed both shoes, and danced the remainder of the night in her stocking feet, and she danced herself into the hearts of many on-looking swains. About midnight, Mrs. Jim served a collation in the log kitchen, about twenty yards distant from the "big" house. For this the girls had been An Old-Time Wiregrass Frolic 107 helping her cook. There were cold boiled pork, ham, baked chicken, potato "custards" (they call them pies now), tea-cakes, pound-cakes, and other good things of that day and generation, to which the laughing dancers did ample justice, with the appetites of log-rollers. Then back to the danc- ing, which had been going on without loss of time. Not all the fun in the dancing, either. There were times when you sat out "the set" with Her. The foolish nothings, the small talk, the half-whis- pered confidences. And out at the watershelf, in the semi-darkness there was more talk, and fun — and some sentiment, of course. At last, the night of nights was gone. As the morning star arose above the pines Her people began to prepare for home, although some danc- ers remained until the sun followed the star. The old folks had walked on ahead and She, most pre- cious of earthly things and sharing in your opinion with things celestial, was holding your arm, as you started on the all-too-short four-mile walk to Her home, while behind the fiddlers sounded, in fare- well melody, "Cotton-Eyed Joe, with a tune for the South, Everywhere I go, I hear his big mouth! Cotton-Eyed, Cotton-Eyed, Cotton-Eyed Joe! I'd 'a been married twenty years ago. If it hadn't 'a been for knock-kneed, Cotton- Eyed Joe! Knock-kneed, bow-legged, Cotton-Eyed Joe!" CAT-FISHING IN THE OLDEN TIME "Look out, you've got a bite; let him have it a little longer. Now!" "Good Lord; get a torch, boys; John's flung a catfish over to old man Mauldin'sl" For the boy, excited and nervous, had brought up his green bay pole with all his strength, and the unlucky catfish, on the end of a ten-foot line, had described a semi-circle with a swish and fell kerplunk far into the bushes behind the fishing party. A fire of pine-knots threw a flickering light over the scene, weird if sportive. On the narrow strip of steep bank between the mass of tangled bushes of the swamp in the rear and the sluggish but deep stream in front, the group of fishers gath- ered. Two old men — one white-haired as Long- fellow, the other with heavy beard just beginning to show gray; three boys; two approaching man- hood, the other the amateur fisher; and two girls, in their early teens. Along the bank at various points they sat, hold- ing poles with lines reaching deep into the black waters. Ever and anon, the hooks were gently lifted, dangled, and let sink again, tempting the io8 Cat-fishing in the Olden Time 109 hesitating catfish. The animated and expectant countenances, silhouetted in the flickering light, the merry voices, the surrounding swamp with its un- known and exaggerated dangers, formed a scene that would have made the fortune of the artist with talent to put it on canvas. The bearded man and the Boy, passing that way, had stopped over night with the old man's family for a few hours' fishing. It was in late spring, the water was low, and catfish were bit- ing. Before sundown the boys had searched in the lowlands for earth-worms for bait. Where the tiny mound of fresh-worked dirt showed the presence of the worm near the top, they would go for them. When the earth was carefully blown away, the hole the worm had burrowed showed plainly. Not a lump of earth must fall in, or the game was lost. Then with a clear way, one straw of wiregrass was run down the hole, the tender end (that pulled from the ground) foremost. In a few moments, a few feet away, the worm would begin to come out, urged by the tickling of the straw. Mum was the word then; the least movement and back he would go. When at last he had dragged his length — twelve inches or more — the worm was dropped into the bait-gourd, and a dozen was plenty for a fishing party. Before dark the fishers started for the Warrior, no Saturday Night Sketches the old man carrying his pet pole of cane, the boys stopping on the way to gather what llghtwood they could carry. For some distance along the path through the swamp they found their way, then across the creek on a log just wide enough for a foothold. At last, beside a small lake, where experience had proved the catfish fed, they stopped. Just as the shades of night were falling the firelight displaced the gathering gloom. From the swamp on every side young, slender poles were cut and trimmed, lines and hooks at- tached, the hooks baited with a piece of worm, and carefully let down to within a few Inches of the bottom, then gently agitated now and then to give the worm the appearance of floating down. Soon there was a gentle nibble, the cork (If one was used) going under, then a steadier pull, and if the fish did not run under a root, he was landed. The catfish bit best just at dark; then an inter- val for conversation or yarn-spinning, then they began biting again. Occasionally perhaps an eel came up, with a squeal from the girls, who thought It was a snake; but long before the hour of mid- night, there was plenty and to spare of the smaller catfish, with meat white and delicious, to be fried brown and eaten with hot corn-bread washed down with black coffee for breakfast; of the lar- ger cats to form the center for a big pot of catfish stew (a compound of many good things with an Cat-fishing in the Olden Time 1 1 1 epicure's seasoning, sometimes called chowder) for the morrow's dinner. Then twigs were cut with the right fork, on which the catfish were strung as they were gath- ered from among the sand and leaves; the bur- dens divided between two of the boys; the elder led with a torch of pine splinters, that no wan- dering moccasin might be stepped on unaware. Indian file, they marched along the homeward path, the older men ahead, behind the young folks trailing, while the boys raised ''^fVith gun and knapsack, soon we'll go Marching away to old Mexico; To fight for country we're inclined; But our heart's with 'Cindy, left behind." Many veterans of the Mexican war were liv- ing then and they had brought from field and camp with them the songs of the old times, as a legacy to their children. Of the fishers, but two are living. Long since the older ones have gone to rest; the others grew to manhood, or to womanhood, married and died; those left are now past the age when sport Is other than recreation. Still, in memory, we can see the group along the bank of the creek. In the light of the fire, fishing as earnestly and zealously as if the fate of nations and not the morrow's meal depended; and lit with the light of youth glow the faces. A COUNTY SITE REMOVAL ELECTION "Every one uv them niggers is mine, and I chal- lenge their votes." The speaker was a turpentine man, well-dressed, fat, red-faced, and angry. His heavy watch-chain across a plethoric stomach rose and fell as he breathed his emphatic protest. His hearers smiled and went on with their counting. It was a county-site removal election, in the days when old conditions were changing to new. The location of the courthouse had been topographi- cally and geographically correct. It stood at the intersection of two main intra-state highways, near the center of the county, on a watershed eminence. But when the railroad came along it missed the county-site by three miles, and when the lumber- men and naval stores operators followed the iron horse and built up small towns along the strips of rusty steel, there came a demand for the re- moval of the county's headquarters to a point more accessible. Perhaps this would have been easily done had not practically every station, flag or otherwise, in the county straightway become a candidate. Of course, the old county seat had many friends, but 112 A County Site Removal Election 113 the removalists were largely in the majority. Yet all the opponents of removal had to do was quietly to play one location against the other, easily win- ning because of the rivalry. One election was held, and the old county-seat won hands down, receiving a large plurality with the removal votes divided between half a dozen candidates. Then came more agitation, and fin- ally a legislative enactment putting all such elec- tions two years apart. Already, under the con- stitution, the approval of two-thirds of the quali- fied voters was required. There was more agita- tion, growing into bitterness, until the county was divided into warring factions, removal and no removal. Gradually the railroad town with the largest population won friends, until both sides knew that the tug of war was at hand. It was a center for lumber and naval stores camps, and had an im- mense negro vote. Other points on the railroad near the county line on either side realized they had no chance and for their own convenience fa- vored the railroad town with the best show to win. Anti-removalists saw what was coming. Real- izing that this time removal would probably win, they concentrated all their strength against the leading candidate. A small station nearest by the railroad to the geographical center of the county was chosen, and this was backed against the leader. 114 Saturday Night Sketches Petitions were circulated, the ordinary set the election day, and the campaign was on. In those days there was no registration, and no color line at the polls. Whiskey was sold at every cross- roads grocery and was used profusely in every close election contest. The leading town, which we will call Columbia, because that was not its name, chartered two spe- cial trains for the day, operating one in either direction to the county line. Report had it that the line was crossed more than once, but that is water over the dam. There was a band or so, liquor in plenty and voters by the hundreds. The anti-removalists ran no spe- cial trains to Billville (that is the nickname, not the name of the central point), for there was no polling place there, but centered their strength at the county site. A man could vote anywhere in the county, so nearly all the anti-removalists and the rivals of the leading town went to the county site to vote, and nearly all the removalists went to Columbia. The polls opened at six a. m. and closed at six p. m. A naval stores manufacturer, who was a strong Columbia man, had a camp within about a mile of the county site, from which he trans- ported the gum to the railroad by tram. Nearly a score of negroes were at this camp, and the boss went out the night before and told them to get A County Site Removal Election 115 ready, that he would have the tram out early next morning to carry them to the railroad, where they would take the excursion to Columbia. But the BlllvUlItes were a little earlier. Some time after midnight, with two jugs of whiskey and a turn of canned goods and crackers, they went out to the camp, brought the negroes In, hid them in an old mill shed until morning and the polls opened, and voted them for BlllvIUe. When the boss came out for the negroes later, he found that they had voted, and It was his in- dignant protest we quoted above. A smile of understanding was all he got. The Columbians had the most negroes and also the most money, for the lumbermen and naval stores men were coining it. But there were also lumbermen and naval stores operators on the Bill- ville side, and along the river, remote from the railroads, the large cotton plantations were cul- tivated almost entirely by negroes. Added to this, among the friends of BlllvIUe were men who had for years controlled the county's pohtics, and were past-masters in the game. Therefore, It was a case of Greek meet Greek. All day the battle of the ballots waged. It must not be supposed that It was all one way at either of the principal polling stations, for each side had workers and watchers at the opponent's strong- hold, and representation on the board of man- ii6 Saturday Night Sketches agers was demanded and granted. Therefore, it was safe that the votes would be counted as cast — the main thing was to cast them. Negro votes were at a premium, and all day the market steadily climbed. A lumberman or turpentine man would get out all his teams and carry his negroes to the precinct in a body. They would be kept together, treated to whiskey en route and after arriving at the precinct. Dis- mounted from the wagons, they were lined up, the boss at the head, one of his woodsmen on either side to prevent the line being broken, and another trusted man, quick with a gun, would bring up the rear. The vote of his negroes was considered the white man's personal perquisite, and to try to break in on that marching line meant a scrap, for men fought readily and deadly in those days. Nevertheless, few lines were voted without an attempt being made to break in, and as a conse- quence, the day saw many personal encounters and some bloodshed, but no fatalities. At last night came, as it has a habit of doing, and all was over but the counting. And out of the new high record vote for the county — even exceeding, it was said, the male population of voting age — Billville won by twenty-seven votes, and removal was lostl "HELPING" JIM GRIND CANE Jim was grinding his sugar-cane crop and we had gone over after supper to help him. The help consisted of drinking juice, which he had hospitably saved when the last boihng for the night was put on; chewing sugar-cane, drink- ing skimmings beer and eating syrup foam, mean- while watching Jim skim the kettle, chunk up the fire and attend to other various duties of cane- grinding time. To be sure, we entertained him with anecdotes when we thought about it and had time, and occasionally when it occurred to us, one of the boys would push a log of pine into the fur- nace mouth, or replenish the fires on the scaf- folds. But usually our "help" consisted in aiding Jim to reduce the visible supply of raw material, thereby enabling him to finish quicker. The light from the furnace, also from pine knots on low scaffolds made of boards and cov- ered with earth, one on each side of the furnace, flickered on the animated faces of half a dozen youths and as many maids, not to mention one or two men of mature years, who were Jim's real assistants. To the rear of us glistened the pol- 117 ii8 Saturday Night Sketches ished Iron rollers of the sugar-cane mill, and a little further off the dark green and stately pines formed a background. Above the blue sky of early winter, thick with stars; surrounding us, a wall of opaque darkness. The mill was a crude affair, homemade except the rollers. These were of iron, set in a frame of hewn pine timbers, their pressure regulated with wooden wedges, driven dove-tailed and called "keys." The mill was turned by a long lever, formed from a small pine selected after much search, with just the right curve to cross the cap- piece of the long roller and reach near enough the ground to hitch a horse to. In the lower tim- ber into which the rollers were set was mortised two small trenches, and down these the cane juice ran to an up-ended barrel, set for its reception. A covering of coarse cloth served to strain out foreign substances. It was a treadmill job for a horse or mule, and even the best natured of them dreaded it. Around in a circle they walked all day, perhaps driven by a child walking behind, or urged on by an occasional shout or hurled pumace. Feeding the mill was the one thing that prevented cane grinding from being a time of joy to the home boy. But as regularly as the horse walked, all day long, one after another, the cane must be fed into the mill, and on a cold morning, with "Helping" Jim Grind Cane 119 frost or icicles on the cane, it was no pleasant job. Many times would the feeder be obliged to call for respite while, with smoke-blacked cheeks and dripping nose, he hurried to the nearest fire to thaw out his numbed fingers. Next in unpleasantness was the job of keeping the feeder supplied with cane, something which provoked no small amount of talk between the principals, especially if they were brothers. And with the latter task went the duty of bearing off the pumace (the remains of the cane after the juice was extracted) , which was carried by arm- fuls and dumped into a pile perhaps to be hauled later to carpet the horse-lot. The furnace where the juice was cooked was as crude as the mill. All but the iron kettle home- made. The furnace was made of clay, kneaded into cones and these laid in layers, given time to harden. To construct a furnace which would stand, bear the weight of the kettle and also "draw" was no small art, and only about one man in a community could do it. The furnaces were constructed in many patterns, some with opening at one end and chimney at the other; others with the opening for wood beside the chimney, the flames making a circle. To build one of these was considered as great a feat then as the con- struction of a wireless outfit now. When sufficient juice was obtained, it was I20 Saturday Night Sketches poured into the kettle and a fire started. As soon as the juice began to simmer, it was necessary to skim it. This was done with a skimmer made of a tin plate, perforated with nail-holes, and nailed on to the sloping end of a blackgum pole which served as a handle. On the diligent use of these skimmers depended the quality of the syrup. Two of these skimmers were necessary, and a third implement was a "cooler" made from a tin pan, perforated with larger holes than the skimmer, and also attached to a gum handle. Occasionally the fire would be too hot, and the juice would threaten to boil over. Then the skim- mer was laid aside and the cooler came into use. As the juice was skimmed, the scum was poured into a keg. In a day or so this fermented, and skimmings beer was the product. Given time to harden, like cider, it would "make drunk come," and tradition says a good grade of rum could be distilled from it. When the boiling juice reached that beautiful red-gold color indicating syrup, frequent tests were made by dipping the skimmer, holding it up and letting the juice cool as it ran off the inverted rim. Bubbles leaping to the surface of the boil- ing liquid were unfailing signs of maturity. When the boiling was ready to come off, things got busy. Then Jim needed help. The boiling syrup was dipped with a big, long-handled gourd into a cedar "Helping" Jim Grind Cane 121 tub or "piggin," then poured into a trough hewn from a cypress log and mounted on legs. The boiling syrup was strained through a piece of cloth as it was poured in. As Jim dipped the syrup while assistants held gourd or piggin on the other side stood two men with a tub of juice. When the last of the syrup was up, the word was given and the juice poured in — hurriedly, for fear the hot kettle would burst. Then the work of boil- ing was all to do over again. It required longer to boil the juice than to grind it — besides, the mill had to work first; therefore, while the cane mill was started at daylight, it was necessary to keep the kettle at work until far into the night. It was to this night vigil, perhaps on the same idea that young people went to "sit up" with the sick, that the neighborhood gathered to "help" Jim after supper. And a merry crowd it was ; Jim at the furnace, skimmer in hand, enjoying the fun as much as the young folks. Games were played in the firelight; we drank juice, with much laughing and a few pranks in the semi-darkness of the mill; we sat in front of the furnace fire and chewed cane and told stories, many of them ghostly; we drank the half sweet beer and feared not the consequences; we constructed tiny paddles and ate the foam from the syrup in the trough. Did you ever feed warm, yellow syrup foam, 122 Saturday Night Sketches almost candy, with a cane peel paddle to a pair of red and laughing lips, and then lick the paddle? If you didn't, you have missed something. Nearly always we would have a candy pulling and perhaps a dance on the last night of the cane grinding (inappropriately called "sugar boiling" by those who know no better). But sufficient for this night were the good things thereof, those things which belong to youth and the hey-day of life — the testing of the harvest by the lips of life's springtime. At last the boiling was off, the syrup and juice covered with handy cowhides against dew or a possible rain; the furnace fires drawn, and Jim gone to a well-earned rest. But for his late assist- ants, the best of the night was coming — the walk home through the wiregrass beneath the starry skies. Her arm tucked in yours — with perhaps just a little more of her weight than absolutely necessary, as she snuggled closer when a screech- owl called, or an alarmed partridge whirred up from beside the path. You were a monarch then, with life and the fullness thereof before you. In after years, the familiar sight of the grind- ing mill or the smoking furnace; even the smell of boiling syrup would bring to you scenes of years far gone when the sweetness of cane grinding time^ its open hospitality, its wholesome good-fellow- ship, but typified the sweetness of Life in its youth. THE OLD WASH-HOLE "" "Look out, boys; here goes a good 'un!" The exclamation awoke the Boy, just in time to see his older brother, standing on the edge of the mutual bed, the sheets wrapped around him, dive head-foremost to the middle of the floor. The noise awoke the family; the brother was awake when he hit. He had been dreaming of Sunday afternoon, and the wash-hole. This was down on the little creek, called a "branch," a mile and a half across the wiregrass through the pines. A curve in the stream formed a half circle, and the eastern bank a bluff. In those days, the South Georgia streams did not dry up in the summer, and this "wash-hole" (no; it was not called a swimming-pool in those days of few words and primal things) was just deep enough to afford a short swim, without danger. Saturdays, or Sunday afternoons, or perhaps some time during the week at the noon hour when the work was not pushing and the fathers were taking a nap, the settlement boys congregated. There was a race between first arrivals as to which could disrobe quickest, and running out on 123 124 Saturday Night Sketches the log, one end of which extended over the water, dive into the cooling depths. Next, and then next, until all were in. Then the races for either end, the water fights, and the mud battles, in which latter enough grime was accumulated to make another swim a necessary pleasure. In the shallow waters the smaller boys who had not learned to swim stood, jumping up and down, or dipping their heads, or perhaps attempt- ing the first timorous strokes in the art which so often saves life. Unluckily the one from among these who came within reach of one of the swim- mers; a ducking, a sand rubbing, even a playful pretense to throw him out into deep water, fol- lowed. But it was all in fun, and healthful fun. There were no bath-tubs, no artificial swimming-pools in those days. While the weather was cold, the only ablution the youthful body got was what the watchful maternal eye made necessary; but when the hot days came, the waters looked so cool and tempting that despite the paternal admonition and mother's anxiety, enough baths were accumulated to carry through the next winter. When we hear so much about sanitation and its kindred, we think of the old wash-hole, and skepticism is pardonable; for the youth of that day who made healthy, hardy, and vigorous men, got along with mighty little washing after they The Old Wash-Hole 125 got out from under the mother's hand — except in the summer-time. And we knew nothing of contagion, infection, blood-poison, or similar "boogers" of a later day. Uncle Johnny Ford's field fence came down near the creek and wash-hole. He had many cattle, and in the spring penned them, afterwards planting the rich, cow-penned land in sweet pota- toes. In these potato vines grew watermelons we have never seen equaled. As the boys went to the creek, they passed the melon-patch and as all such things were free, each got a melon. Into the water these were thrown, and for a time the swimmers used them as buoys, swimming with them from one side to the other. Then, when a melon was cool, out to the bluff it was car- ried, bumped across the log and burst, and its red, juicy heart gouged out by ready hands. Talk about sterilized forks and individual drinking- cups I No one ever tasted melons like these, and nobody ever was made sick by them. Then back to the water, more play, and anoth- er melon eaten. About the time repletion was reached, some boy started things by "skeeting" seed — pressing the slick seed between the thumb and finger, until it catapulted against another's face. Then some one would throw a handful of melon, another a piece of rind, and the battle was on I Wonder is they could stand so much 126 Saturday Night Sketches and not get hurt or angry, but their hides were tough and anger meant a fight, and fighting was not fun. Then another race, to see which could be dressed and ready first. In this, the barefoots had a great advantage. The shades of night alone drove us home, with tell-tale wet hair, to which unusual zeal in dis- patching the evening's chores was sure to call at- tention. WITH THE RITES OF THE ORDER ''''Unveil thy bosom, silent tomb, Take this new treasure to thy trust: And give these sacred relics room To slumber in the silent dust." About the family cemetery clustered a small grove of blackjack oaks and scrub pines, sur- mounting a small hill. Around a partly filled grave, on which a few summer suns and rains had fallen, a group of solemn-faced men stood. Their voices, as they raised the hymn, were joined from the surrounding crowd. Nearby, on the green wiregrass, a group of women sat and wept, for the father, son, and brother had gone ; around them gathered children, whose inquiring eyes did not yet comprehend the orphan's bereavement. Nearer the grave clus- tered the close male relatives of the dead, with handkerchiefs to their eyes. Standing barehead- ed in the August sunshine, or grouped in conven- ient shades, were hundreds of friends of the man who was gone ; many of whom had journeyed far to lend their presence to the solemn rites by which his fellow-members bade an earthly fare- 127 128 Saturday Night Sketches well to one of their order who had ever been faithful to its precepts and zealous for its weal. Those were days of magnificent distances and the lodge to which the deceased belonged had members over a territory covering more than a day's journey. When his death came, abrupt as a cataclasm, there was no time for warning; the embalmer's art was to that section unknown, so nature's laws were obeyed and the body laid to rest; a portion of the grave left unfilled, and a day set when his order should gather and pay to his remains the last tribute. This was the day. From many ways and by many means they had come — the man on horseback, with a day's feed for man and beast in his saddle-bags ; in the horse- cart, the father riding the animal, the family grouped carefully over the axle to avoid a spill; in the slow and humble ox-wagon, and not a few, afoot. Few, very few were the buggies, in that day emblematic of wealth and luxury. In the auditorium of the big, square-framed court house on an adjoining hill they had gath- ered, and then by twos, the tiler with drawn sword at the head, the stewards with their rods of office, the chaplain with his Holy Book, the other Insignias of the order in their proper places, the members in full regalia, marched down the wide staircase, across the intervening vale, to the grave that waited upon the hill. Awe-inspir- With the Rites of the Order 129 ing, with the solemnity of the mysterious unknown they appeared to the Boy, gazing wide-eyed and pale faced, as they passed. At the grave, the ranks opened, and passing beneath the crossed rods the brethren took their places in the circle; at the head the master, a patriarch of commanding figure and flowing beard, who led the ritual, supported by his officials, stand- ing on either side. Briefly they told of their love for the one who was gone; of the vacancy in their ranks and of the gap in their circle; of his passing as a re- minder of the uncertainty of life and the cer- tainty of death; of the emptiness and delusion of things earthly. Into the grave was deposited the apron, em- blem of innocence, and the badge of his order. With it bitter-sweet memories from each in the circle of the many times he had worn it; of the soul-trial with which it had been won; of the dig- nity with which it had been borne, as a trust sacred. On the apron was laid his white glove, sym- bol of fidelity; of his faithful service, his loyal observance and of his love for his brethren. Also for their testimony of the fealty of the circle to the one who was gone. As it was laid away with him, came memories of the many times when he had proved that fidelity was not an empty word. 130 Saturday Night Sketches The grand honors were given, and as the circle moved around the grave, each member dropped a spring of arborvitae — evergreen, emblematic of eternal life and the immortality of the soul. A sweet thought; a fitting tribute. Most solemn and impressive of all came the last parting. Into the grave each brother poured a handful of dust, thus finally consigning all that was mortal of the departed one to the earth from whence it came. But, glorious hope; at the same time pointing the right hand heavenward, in hope and pledge to meet again in the world where there is no death. And those who stood and watched felt spiritual- ized; as men made better by this glimpse of an- other Hfe; the bereaved comforted by the hope of reunion; even those drawn by casual curiosity impressed with the dignity and solemn earnest- ness, as well as with the deep religious lesson of the ceremony. For the order is one as old as history, and the words and symbols with which it bade earthly farewell to this obscure member in a land but little removed from the wilderness, had been used at the funerals of potentates, and emperors, and men mighty in the realms of war, church, and letters. As the circle closed, the vacant place was filled and the brethren marched away, the declining sun gave warning that the homeward journey was fFith the Rites of the Order 131 long. Teams were hitched, farewells were said, and mother and widow, children, friends, and brethren of the order left him to sleep alone until the trumpet shall wake the dead, to assemble in the grand lodge of Eternity, where the Master of all presides. CAL TURNER AND THE BLACK RUNNER Cal Turner was afraid of snakes. In this he in no way differed from the aver- age barefoot boy in South Georgia forty years ago, but Cal added nervous frills to the ordinary fear. When he was fishing, if he saw a snake, he jumped at every crooked stick for the balance of the day, and the savor of wooing the nimble pike and hungry red-eyes, was gone. His associates knew this weakness, and they played upon it to the extent of many boyish pranks and practical jokes. But this fear of Cal's was acquired, not inher- ited. In early boyhood he played with snakes. It was one of his jokes to take a garter snake or a chicken snake by the tail and chase a bevy of squealing girls around the yard with it. Or he would swing the reptile around his head a few times and with a quick jerk, as if manipulating a whip, pop its head off. How Cal's familiarity was changed to fear, is the story. Cal was siding corn in the big field across the creek. The day was hot, and Cal munched his tobacco and ruminated as he followed the scooter, attached to a grasshopper stock and a deliberate 132 Col Turner and the Black Runner 133 mule, up and down the long rows. There was the fishing coming next Saturday afternoon, and only a few weeks off, preaching over at Booger Bot- tom, with the Johnson gals certain to be there. The thought of Cynthia Johnson, in her blue fig- ured calico dress and pink sunbonnet, brought a smile as the mule reached the end of the long row and turned from habit up into the corner of the worm-rail fence. A rustling, like the swish of a submarine per- iscope, caused Cal to glance over in the fence jamb and there, from under the bottom rail, the head and about six inches of a black runner showed, the red tongue licking out at Cal spite- fully. Nov/, the black runner is not at all classed among the fighting snakes, and often had Cal chased one to its hole, or caught it unaware and snapped off its head. This one was evidently a giant of its species, but it was with the feeling of chastising an impudent coon that Cal picked up a small pine knot and hurled it at the runner's head. The missile went true. Perhaps the blow dazed the snake; perhaps, due to the hot weather, it had a brainstorm; more probably under the worm rail fence its spring eggs were hatching. In any tvtnt,, to Cal's alarm, instead of running away, the snake came at him with open mouth. If the runner wouldn't run, Cal would, and 134 Saturday Night Sketches just as the reptile, coming within easy reach, made a lunge at him, Cal turned and flew. In those days, few boys under twenty wore pants while at work. Cal did not and his only garment was a homespun shirt, reaching to his knees. As he whirled to run, and the snake struck, the switching tail of this shirt was the only thing in reach and into this, near the hem, one long tooth of the runner caught — and hung, for the cloth was honest and strong. Cal felt the cold snake touch his calf and with a yell of horror he "lit a shuck" down the long corn-row, along the furrow he had just plowed. Because it could not get loose the black runner, over three feet long, trailed behind. That the snake couldn't help this, Cal did not know; he thought the runner had severed diplomatic rela- tions and was trying to commit an overt act. His breath growing short, Cal glanced behind him — the snake was coming along the furrow, like a black streak, right at his heels I With another yell, Cal put on a burst of speed, the sweat pour- ing down his face and body in streams under the May sunshine. Thinking later that surely he had distanced the runner in a fair test of speed, Cal looked behind. There was the snake, not an inch the loser! This time Cal went down for it, with every atom of strength that tense muscles and frightened mind Cal Turner and the Black Runner 135 could give. His bare toes dug into the freshly plowed ground, throwing behind him a shower of rattling pebbles and a cloud of dust. It was nearly half a mile across that field, and soon Cal's breath was coming in panting gasps, and from sheer weariness he slowed up. As he slackened speed, the snalce dropped until it touched his ankle. No other stimulus was needed, and once more Cal threw her into the high clutch and set his teeth for the homestretch. Exhaustion was coming when into his dimming vision came the rail fence at the end of the rowl Maybe he could make it? Was the snake still following? A backward glance proved that it was, and with one more supreme effort he made for the fence and safety. When he struck the fence, Cal intended to climb on top and then tell the runner to go to. But he was too weak to climb. The best he could do was a running jump, by which he struck the two top rails, knocked them off, and with them fell on the other side, face downward. On the back of his bare legs the snake fell, and when he felt its cold body on him, Cal gave up and for the first and only time in his life fainted. In some way, the runner extricated itself, and when Cal came to was gone. After that, Cal played no more pranks with snakes. "BIG COURT" IN THE OLDEN TIME Hark, from the court, the sherif's call: Jurors attend the cry, Come lawyers now, into the hall — Where you shall shortly lie. The courthouse was a square building, set in a public square that was the nucleus of the town. People were on the square in those days. It was a two-story building, substantially constructed of wood. The lower floor was divided into four sec- tions by two cross halls, east to west — north to south — cool in the summer and preventing con- gestion when crowds were on hand. Up stairs, all the space was taken by the main courtroom except a room each for the grand and petit juries. Around the square were catalpa trees, and a few hundred yards away, in a hollow, was the jail. Likewise it was a two-story structure, built of hewn pine timbers, the lower floor a dungeon, to be entered only by means of a trap door in the second-floor. Around the square were grouped two or three grocery stores and a number of dwellings, the lat- 136 "Biff Court" in the Olden Time 137 ter occupied by the county officers, or farmers whose lands lay near by. The presiding judge, the solicitor-general and the members of the bar traveled on horseback, for there were no railroads and very few roads then. The first two and the most prominent among the lawyers were veritable circuit-riders, for about three months in the spring and an equal length of time in the fall. The terms of court never lasted longer than one week for each term in a county and there were only two terms a year. Called or special terms were unheard of. The judge, solicitor and members of the bar (except the usual resident lawyer, one to each county seat) , usually traveled in company, and the rounds of the circuit were enlivened by many anecdotes and amusing experiences. To practice at the bar a man had to be a law- yer in those days. And the judge was necessarily a man of deep learning and wide experience. He had to judge the law, therefore know the law, for there were no elaborate libraries and court reports then at each county seat for reference. The judge usually knew his business, as attested by the fact that there were so few appeals, and when there was, a small number of reversals. "Big Court" was a festal occasion for the com- ty seat village. For weeks preparations were ac- tive. The house, always spotless, was thoroughly 138 Saturday Night Sketches gone over, from steps to roof; the floors fresh sanded, the chimney facings blue-clayed, the yards clean-swept, the cedar water-buckets and the drink- ing-gourds scoured and sunned. Hogs were killed, a beef butchered, chickens by the dozen penned and fattened; eggs and butter saved up, ginger-cakes, pound-cakes, turn-overs and potato custards cooked to feed an army. Every house within two miles of the courthouse was a boarding-house, limited only by its capacity to spread mattresses in every room, including the dining-room, and on the broad piazzas where the only room each sleeper was entitled to in re- turn for his quarter was as much as he could lie in sardine-wise. The best that could be done for the judge was two to a bed and he usually shared with the solicitor-general. There was big eating and much coffee-drinking for the week, and the price was only a quarter. Few boarding-houses made money, for the visi- tor usually regarded the quarter as a tax and tried to get the worth of his money — and succeeded. Not all the attendants on "Big Court" boarded. The jurors usually rode out a few miles at night to the home of an acquaintance, but the great mass of the attendants camped. They came pre- pared with wagons, rations and bedding, and around the nightly campfires there was much yarn- spinning and merry-making. Those from one sec- "Bi0 Court'* in the Olden Time 139 tion of the county would usually camp together. Many fights, always "fist and skull," enlivened the camp. Not one-third of the attendants at "Big Court" had business in the courthouse. They were the great semi-annual business gatherings. Had a merchant in a neighboring city business with a man, he went to "Big Court" and found him. They were semi-annual clearance weeks, when con- tracts were made or filled, accounts opened or settled, and after commercial fertilizers came into use, note -taking occasions of spring and note-pay- ing times in the fall. The newspaper men also made their semi-annual visits to the counties then, sat under a convenient shade-tree and wrote re- ceipts for appreciative and prompt-paying sub- scribers. In these records the horse-swappers must not be forgotten, for horse-swapping and horse-trading were going on all the time, so long as court was in session. The busiest men were probably the storekeep- ers. There were rarely more than three of these, and usually only two. The stores were oblong buildings, a row of shelving along one side con- taining a miscellaneous stock of dry-goods, no- tions and a few canned goods — the variety was not great then, cove oysters being the great fa- vorite. Across the end was a counter mid-waist high and behind this the bar. Every grocery store 140 Saturday Night Sketches had Its bar in those days, even though the stock consisted of only a jug each of corn and rye. The most elaborate had only a little more variety with much greater quantity and beer (lager then) was counted only a drink for sick folks, women and preachers — and these not "hardshells." The jfiddlers were there In force, as well as the horse-swappers, and from morning to night and far Into the night, the violins were going. Seated on the dry-goods counter (the other was busy) with an admirer to beat straws, there was "Hitched my horse to the grocery rack, He got loose, and broke his hackl Susie! And what are you about, Susie!" Until tired ears wondered If they never wearied. Inside the big, square building, the legal grind went on. Not monotonous, for there were llght- nlng-llke flashes of wit, and speeches that were master-pieces of eloquence, often the most tri- vial cause bringing out a pyrotechnlc-like display. For many of the lawyers of that day were the statesmen of the next, and the veterans In the service, men who carried the scars and laurels of many hundred legal battles. Great men they, of an age that was great. An age when an empire, that of the South, was In the making and whose people were strong be- cause to the pioneer, strength is essential. To "Biff Court" in the Olden Time 141 call a roll of the lawyers attending "Big Court" then would be to repeat a list of many men who have made South Georgia great. In themselves disciples of the written law, they were a part of the great scheme of nature: "That very law which moulds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source. That law preserves the earth a sphere And guides the planets in their course." THE COMMUNITY COTTON PICKING ^''Lucinda is a pretty girl; I've known her all my life. And if ever I get married, Lucinda 'II he my wife." The October sun was just peeping above the distant pines and in the clear air of early fall, the Boy's song rang, as he hurried to Jim's. Jim's cotton field was white for the harvest and his neighbors had gathered to pick it for him. Six families of them, from the mother and father to the baby in arms (the latter to spend much of the day on a quilt spread in a conven- ient shade) were there. Two or three of the older women would stay with Mrs. Jim to aid in the preparation of the midday meal but all the others went to the cotton field. Mayhap it's a case of cause and effect, but we did not see so many women of frail health in those days and they usually did a liberal share of a man's work. The dew was still on the cotton when they opened the swagging gate and entered the field. There were only ten acres of it — what Jim could 142 The Community Cotton Picking 143 cultivate after providing supplies for himself and family — and the sloping hillside was white. Down by the branch was a half-acre patch of sugar cane, its leaves rustling in the autumn breeze, ready for the sugar mill later. With the exception of the evergreen bays and a few others of their kind, the foliage on the trees in the small stream had taken on the brilliant autumn colors, the grass in the field was dead and the tinge of early fall everywhere. Rapidly the pickers separated into groups, each picker taking two rows and the mother took the youngest child large enough to pick with her. Jim in his capacity of host and general director, dis- tributed the cotton-baskets at convenient points. In separating personal propinquity as usual predomi- nated. Two older men would take adjoining rows and talk crops or politics or tell stories as they picked. Two mothers would do the same, swap- ping neighborhood gossip and occasionally stop- ping in a shade or fence corner to pass the snuff box for a congenial dip, and an undisturbed social chat. There were always two boys with some reputation as swift pickers to start a race, which lasted intermittently throughout the day, and al- ways of course, the youth and maiden, to whom the semi-privacy of the cotton field gave golden opportunity for those interchanges of silly noth- ings styled nonsense by the older ones but which 144 Saturday Night Sketches have so much to do with the mating and perpetu- ation of the human race. In a clean and neatly fitting dress of brown checked homespun, her face deep-hid in a sunbon- net of pink calico She summed up for him all that was lovable and desirable as he occasionally straightened up for a word or two as he picked the locks, one at a time, from a refractory boll, his eyes resting hungrily and admiringly on Her. Soon she would stop also, never looking at him direct but with those fleeting glances that see all and reveal so little. Of course he would finish his rows first and would always help her out; She would hang back a little if necessary unless in some jesting wager a race was on. Many matches were made in the cotton-fields of those days. As the cotton was picked from the bolls, as fast as the hand was full it was dropped into a big, white homespun sack, swung from the shoulder. When this sack was full it was emptied into the basket, which was packed as long as the cotton could be trampled into it. Then it was carried on a man's shoulder to the wagon which waited at the end of the row and when the wagon was in turn filled, it was carried to the house and the cot- ton usually piled on the piazza of the home or in a shedroom. At noon, tired and very hungry, the pickers gathered under the big oak where the table was The Community Cotton Picking 145 spread, laden with good things. The first potato custards of the new crop; cuts from a quarter of the last beef of the season; the last of the sum- mer preserves — the late crop of speckled peas boiled with old bacon — and always the chicken — in a half dozen forms, and all of them good. As there had been hard picking, there was also hard eating, for of indigestion we knew nothing, and of hearty appetites we were not ashamed. To be sure, when the eyes of the boys were on them, some of the girls would blushingly lift a pea at a time on a fork — but when the boys were gone they would gather around the pot by the fireplace and shovel them in with a basting-spoon. Dinner over, perhaps there was more courting by the tall sweep and the pomegranate bush out at the well; gossip and chat by the older folks, and then back to the job again, for Jim's field must be cleaned by night. And it was. Perhaps next day, or some time during the week, Jim would join the others at the field of a neighbor, and so in turn, until the work was repaid. But cotton was not the purely commer- cial article that it is to-day. We did not pay the profits of the crop to shiftless negroes to pick it and spend half our time hauling them to and from town — for there were no towns close by, and few negroes. The harvesting of the cotton crop was made 146 Saturday Night Sketches the occasion for a social gathering, just as with pulling the fodder, boiling the syrup, the log- rolling, house-raising, and many other tasks that could be done better by the community than the individual. These "workings" as they were called relieved the monotony and loneliness of country life; brought the people closer together and fa- cilitated work, for they gave to the task a zip and enthusiasm lacking even with the most in- dustrious when alone. The cotton itself entered more into the home life, for out of each crop was saved the year's supply for knitting thread, or perhaps for the loom. Hard work and crude people, perhaps you may say. But they had something we sadly lack in these days when money is the one great objective, and we rarely see our neighbor except on Sunday — if we go to church. CUTTING A BEE TREE "Wop!" a ball of fire hit the Boy on the jaw. As his hand flew to the injured spot an electric current bit his tongue from the wad of honey- comb he had just crammed in his mouth; at the same time a touch of flame on his bare ankle caused him to jump as he howled. He beat a precipitate retreat to a safe distance. The savor had gone out of wild honey for the time being. A group of men bent hurriedly over the fallen pine, one chopping into the hollow with an axe; another holding the smudge of smoke, the others taking out the comb honey and putting it into pans, cedar piggins, wide-mouthed gourds or other handy receptacles. At a distance considered safe a group of women watched and waited; nearer by the dogs and boys ventured, only to get stung sooner or later, as venturers do. A fire of lightwood-knots illumined the scene and threw the surrounding forest into background, like a dark green wall. Under foot, the carpet of wiregrass and near the workers at the fallen pine a small fire, smudged with pine boughs, sent out a cloud of bluish-white smoke to 147 148 Satwday Night Sketches keep the bees in check. Finding a bee tree was an expert's job. With the bloom of spring, the bees were found drawing their store of honey from the flowers in the yard — the honeysuckle, the yellow jasmine, pinks and bridal-wreath; along the edges of the branches from the dogwood, wild honeysuckle and gall- berry. Here a trail was often taken. Another place to find them easily was where they sucked mud on the bank of the drying stream. Uncle George was a man of patience, and pa- tience was required to trail bees. To be sure sometimes a tree was found by accident while walking through the pine woods, but this was not often the case, and sometimes a supposed find turned out to be only a nest of yellow-jackets. Where the bees were sucking the flowers in the yard a bait was set; ingredients of this varied, something containing honey or sugar was a favor- ite. The bees would come to suck; gather their store and then take a straight course for the hive. This course was carefully noted. Perhaps a little flour would be put on the bait, and the first bee to whiten itself would be timed and thus the dis- tance to the hive judged. Once the course was settled the bait was left, and along the course the watchers would take stations noting the bees as they passed. Finally the hive would be located, Cutting a Bee Tree 149 far up in the boll of a hollow pine. But the work required a sharp eye, a knowledge of bees' habits, and infinite patience. Once located, the tree was marked and this mark made it as much the property of the dis- coverer as a mark and brand on cattle. Then it was left for the bees to complete their store. In early summer invitations were sent out to the bee tree cutting. The time was usually set for some Saturday night, for that day was a part holiday, and night preferably because the bees would not be so active. The folks came at early candle light, a fire was built, and the axe-men went to work. One on either side, they soon had the tree almost ready to fall; then about the point it was calculated would be close to the fallen hive, the smudge fire was built. With a crash the tree came down, and un- watched dogs rushed in, thinking it a coon or squirrel hunt. They soon learned better. The men hurried up just as the bees, recovering from the shock of fall, angry and buzzing, came out. Rags were fired, and with the smudge from the pine-boughs the bees were driven back or out of the way of the workers. The honey lay in long, golden layers of soft comb up and down the hollow. These were cut loose and lifted out, strange to say few of the 150 Saturday Night Sketches men actually at work getting stung. But woe to the bystander or the forager, for such fell ready victims. The bees were mad as the robbed have a right to be, and they considered not where they struck, but struck hard. The bee can only sting once, but that is no consolation, as he leaves the sting hanging in the wound, and has plenty of willing helpers. It was no uncommon sight to see one of the wounded going for help to remove a stinger from the cheek or some place not so handy to reach. Dock Reynolds wouldn't wear his collar but- toned. His wife talked but Dock left his shirt open just the same. Dock was leaning over lift- ing out a big chunk of comb, when he suddenly straightened up; then humped over, threw one hand to his back and the other to his stomach. Then despite the women close by, he came out of his shirt. And Cynthia had to hunt for the stingers. After the honey was gathered, the bees were left to buzz around the ruins of their home and arrange to start another, while all went to Uncle George's house near by. The women-folks had gone ahead and before we arrived the waffle irons were hot. One or two of the neighbors had brought extra irons along, and by the time the men and boys applied tobacco juice to the burn- ing stings, washed up and combed, a big pile of Cutting a Bee Tree 151 hot waffles was waiting. Did you ever eat hot waffles and wild honey fresh from the comb? Then you do not need any talking about it; if you did not, it is no use wast- ing words on you. FRIDAY AFTERNOON IN THE OLD- TIME SCHOOL 'Toz/ s-c-a-r-c-e-l-y can expect, a l-i-t-t-l-e boy like me; Put out h-e-r-e where all can see — To make a s-p-e-e-c-h as well as those Who wear a l-a-r-g-er kind of clothes." Panting with embarrassment, the speaker drawled out the doggerel, shifting his weight meanwhile from one bare foot to the other, oc- casionally scratching the calf of the right leg with the nail of the left big toe. He had come out when the teacher called his name, head hanging and shame-faced, and blushing like a freckled pumpkin as the eyes of the assemblage turned on him. Tow-headed, and his garments simple in the extreme; a shirt of hickory stripe, tucked in pants of Kentucky jeans, these insufficiently sup- ported by one suspender formed of a strip of blue denim passing transversely across front and back; constant vigilance and frequent hitches being nec- essary to preserve the waist line near the tropics. When he took his position on the torture block 152 Friday Afternoon in the Old-Time School 153 he saluted with a bob of the head intended for a bow; his "piece" spoken, the bob was dupli- cated and he started for the bench, his steps grow- ing faster until he reached the haven almost in a run. It was Friday afternoon in the little log school- house. All the week the days had been counted with anticipation until Thursday morning, when the nightmare of the Friday exercises came as a fly dropping into a saucer of cream. Outside, plainly seen through the unceiled cracks between the logs, the bees droned lazily; a butterfly circled in the afternoon sunshine; afar off came the call of a homing cow. Usually the school would have been half asleep with nothing between it and "dismission" except the big class spelling. But to-day all was awake, those who had not been to the grill pale with dread, those who had been through the mill frolicsome and jovial. Around the walls on three sides sat the pupils. There were only seventeen of them, for schools were small in the sparsely settled country. The teacher, a woman just past twenty, sat in a home- made chair by one door, a pine table in front of her. Poor pay and much work was her portion, but she loved the task and the children. The state paid about five cents a day per pupil for sixty days only in the year, and that pay was then 154 Saturday Night Sketches as now very slow In coming. The remainder of her promised stipend of eight to ten cents a day per pupil was made up among the parents. Note we say "promised," for by no means all of it was paid. The schoolhouse stood on the brow of a hill in a grove of scrub oaks. To the west, a small creek which with its swamp and ever-present moc- casins and mythical wild-cats was a source both of wonderment and delight. Its undergrowth, alas, also provided the rods of correction on the rare occasions when they were needed. Once a month the house also did duty as a church, the scrub oaks serving as hitching-posts. On three sides was the pine forest and apparently endless stretches of wiregrass; a footpath led down the hillside to a spring; along which path many pil- grimages were daily made. Across one end of the schoolhouse, on a long bench especially reserved for them, sat the visitors — three or four mothers of pupils — the fathers were always too busy to look after a little thing like a child's educational progress. These visitors unwittingly added greatly to the embarrassment of the young Ciceros and female poets. Every Friday afternoon, after the midday meal and the concluding lesson, came the exercises. First recitations, as they are now termed, "speak- ing a piece" we called it then. The smaller boys Friday Afternoon in the Old-Time School 155 and girls with a few lines each, with the boys "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck," grading up from doggerel verse to "Bunker Hill," ex- tracts from Patrick Henry, and occasional ven- tures, on rare occasions, to a translation from Cicero, Among the smaller girls, "Mary Had a Little Lamb" ran neck and neck with "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," and for the larger girls, who were guided into the mysteries of a "Compo- sition" (now called an essay) "Flowers of Spring," "Birds," and "The Beauties of Nature," formed an endless procession. As their names were called, boys and girls al- ternating, they would march to the terrible square of the floor across the room from the teacher, with a curtsey, a bob of the head or a formal bow, speak their pieces, say their verses, or read their compositions. As many different methods as there are phases of human nature; some so hurried that their words were jumbled in an indistinguishable mass; others stammering and halting; still others, with studied deliberation. And always, no matter whether failure or success attended, there was a smile of pride and approval from one on the mothers' bench. One boy had been laboriously groomed by a proud mother for something out of the ordinary. He was to attempt a verse beginning, "There Is But One Lamp by Which My Feet Are Guid- 156 Saturday Night Sketches ed," and carefully had he been drilled therein until he was letter perfect. But when he got out on the floor, he had a buck ague of stage fright. He started bravely, "There Is But One Lamp," and forgot the balance. Repeatedly he tried, "There Is But One Lamp," but could get no fur- ther. At last, with "There Is But One Lamp — Lamp — Lamp — Lamp — Lamp," each repetition growing louder until the last was shrilled at the top of his voice, he burst into tears and fled. During a lull in the exercises, a little girl, pre- tending to be studying but really for an excuse to get to the water-bucket, sidled up to the teacher, her finger pointing to a word in the open book in her hand. "Discrimination," the teacher pro- nounced. One of the larger girls across the room, who was impatiently curbing her spirits, misunder- stood, "Dismissi-missi-missi-missi-mission," she sang, throwing down her book and dancing half- way across the room. The absolute silence and the frown on the teacher's face showed her mis- take, and she sat down, hiding her flaming face. But all things end some time, and after a while the torture was over, the big class in spelling came, and then dismission. School was out until Mon- day, and two long days of rest ahead, with nothing to do but feed the stock, work in the field, do the chores of the farm, run errands and play. Primitive methods and primitive people, but Friday Afternoon in the Old-Time School 157 both were thorough. A majority of the lawyers, preachers, doctors and statesmen of the South Georgia of to-day got a start toward an education under just such circumstances. What they made of themselves is another story altogether, but of the times and people, sufficient unto the day was the task thereof. We must judge by results, and from such a standard, they did well. CORN PLANTING TIME On the slope of the pine-clad hills the new crop of grass was springing, a brilliant green; along the branch below the field the poplars and black- gums were putting out fresh leaves and the ever- green bays and magnolias had taken on a more verdant tinge; down where the field merged into the branch lowlands, the patch of plum trees was a cloud of snow-white bloom; farther up the hill- side the peach trees, covered with a pink mantle, perfumed the air; in the yard, the yellow jessa- mine, the jonquils and crocus were in flower; in the air a feeling of don't-careness; the sunshine had a zigzag haze well called "laziness dancing;" on a nearby stump a lark sang and watched, and from a distant pine a crow looked on and waited. It was mid-March and Bud and the Boy were planting corn. After Christmas, the land had been broken. Then manure was hauled out from the lot and distributed in conical piles. With a long stake to the top of which a newspaper had been tied to make it more easily distinguished, the rows had been measured and laid off carefully, six feet 158 Co7-n Planting Time 159 apart. Across them at three feet distances, rows were run, until the field resembled a big checker- board. Where the rows crossed, there the hills of corn would be. But first the youth and boy, with aprons or boxes, put out the manure; two handfuls to each hill, a slow and back-breaking task. Now they were planting corn, the Boy dropping the grains; Bud covering it with the plow. From the crib the ears had been selected, nubbed, and the Boy carried a supply in a sack slung from his neck. Once two furrows were re- quired to cover the corn in each row and the Boy had an easy time, Bud having to make two rounds to his one. The past summer Bud had a stroke of genius. In the branch he had found a gum with a fork just the right size. It had been cut and carried to the house, seasoned, and then trimmed for a plowstock. An old pair of handles and a beam had been added, and to the forked foot two scooter plows attached. So Bud could straddle a furrow and cover a row at a trip, and the Boy had no time for leisure. Up and down the rows they went, the nose of the horse just a few inches behind the Boy's back. It looks easy to drop corn, but looks are deceptive. Every grain had to go exactly to the right place, else when later cross-plowing came, the corn would be plowed up. In the hand a small supply was i6o Saturday Night Sketches carried, and over the first finger each grain was shoved by the thumb to fall into its place ; to ger- minate and grow, that man and horse might be fed. All the morning long, the work went on with occasional stops to drink from the water-gourd with the diamond-shaped hole cut near the top, that stood in the shade in the corner of the fence. Would dinner and rest never come? The Boy's feet were lead-weighted; anxiously he would glance toward the distant house; laziness danced in the air, and coursed sluggishly through the Boy's blood; surely the day was a week long. At last the long expected call came. That tired feeling disappeared, as under a magic elixir. The Boy helped untie the plow-lines from the bridle- bits, while Bud unfastened the hamestring, and drawing back hames and backhand deposited the gear astride the stock. On the sweating back of the horse the Boy was boosted for the ride home. Bud walked. A gap had been made in the fence by letting down two panels. Out at this the horse walked, the Boy on his back, while Bud stopped to put up the rails. The horse was as hungry as the boys, and hurried. Down across the small branch, and up the opposite hill toward the house he went at a fast walk, and Bud followed leisurely behind. The lot gate stood open, and in front of it Corn Planting Time i6i straight across the lot, the door of the log stall yawned Invitingly, promising corn and fodder for the hungry horse. Across the wide gate, from post to post, was a cap-piece and the top of the stall door was just high enough to allow the horse to enter. When the horse neared the open gate, the Boy saw the cap-piece and for the first time realized his danger. It was too low for him to pass un- der. He was too small to dismount without assistance, and the short rope bridle-rein was beyond his reach. Frantically, he shouted "whoa!" but the horse, intent on dinner, only went faster. He called to Bud, and Bud, seeing what was coming, struck a trot, calling also to the horse, which for the time being had as well been deaf. But Bud was too far behind. Nearer the gate cap-piece approached, and down on the horse's back the Boy flattened, his frightened eyes measuring the distance. Under they went, but it was a close shave, the cap-piece scraping along the Boy's back. Now the stable ! And the horse hurried faster. The noise attracted the Mother to the door, and she also ran toward the lot. Relentless as fate, like a condemned culprit watching for the axe or the knife of the guillotine to fall, the Boy watched the approach to that stable door. There was no escape, and as the horse walked 1 62 Saturday Night Sketches in, the Boy was wiped off along his back and over his tail as smoothly as a bug from a banana. He hit the ground flat of his back, with a bump that knocked the breath out of him. The horse went on to his feed. There was much wailing, of course, but no broken bones. The Boy lost his taste for riding from the field for some time to come. Long since, his hurts have healed. Now they have fertilizer distributors and machines for plant- ing corn. We work faster these days and live much faster. There was more detail labor then, and more time was required for a task, but we had plenty of time. There was a whole year in which to make a crop ; we had no fertilizer to pay for; no expensive clothes to buy; no grocery bills, no laundry bills to pay; and no money to spend for cigarettes or cold drinks; it did not cost so much to live, and we had plenty of time in which to provide the necessities of life. TOWN BALL ON THE SCHOOLHOUSE YARD "Wet or dry?" called the tall youth with one knit suspender, as he spat upon the side of the paddle and tossed it in the air. "Dry," responded the stocky youth with the missing front tooth and copperas breeches. "Wet she lies," the bystanders shouted, and the boy with the stocking suspender won. He had first choice of team-mates and the first turn at bat. They did not necessarily have nine to a side in those days, and the two teams of four each marched out to the rear of the yard, where five spots clear of grass marked the bases, pitcher's box and home plate. While town ball was the predecessor of base- ball, it was quite a different game in many ways. The ball used was home-made, the work of many patient hours. First, for the thread, a pair of home knit socks, worn beyond hope of repair, was necessary. These were cut off at the ankle and the cut ends picked out until the unbroken thread was reached. Then, hour after hour, the threads 163 164 Saturday Night Sketches of the sock were raveled and wound into the ball. For the center, a rock was commonly used. In later days, when the railroads were building, sometimes it was possible to obtain a priceless piece of the hard rubber, used somewhere in the axle boxes of the freight cars. Such a center made a ball of wonderful resilience. But if nothing else was to be had a large round pebble was used, and it answered very well. It must not be too large, because damage might be done, as you will see later. These balls were made from cotton socks usually, but if a man could be found in the com- munity who wore woolen socks, the life of his foot-covering was the object of much watchful waiting, for the yarn made a ball great on the rebound. After the sock was unraveled and the ball wound, mother's aid was called in (or per- haps grandma's), and the outside was carefully stitched. The ball was literally "pitched," the pitcher taking it in his hand, palm upward and tossing it to the batter, the ball rising and descending In a long semi-circle. There were no "bats" used then. One would have been laughed at. The batter used a paddle with a wide blade, usually made from a board which had seen better days, with one end trimmed with a pocket-knife until it could be grasped with the hand. The main ob- ject was to hit the ball, just as it is to-day. Once TOWN BALL Town Ball on the Schoolhouse Yard 165 a player came in with a white-oak chairpost for a bat. Nobody believed he could hit anything with it, and when he did, and lost the ball in the wiregrass, his chair leg was ruled out. The batter had three strikes; no balls were called on him, and if he did not hit with three he was out. Also, if he hit at a ball and missed it, and the player behind him caught it, either be- fore it touched the ground, or on the first bounce, the batter was out. If he hit the ball and a fielder caught it before it struck the ground or on the first bounce, he was out. In running bases, if he was hit by the ball, he was out. The fielders did not hold bases. They were disposed where their captain's experience dictated they could do the most good, so when a batted ball was secured, it was not thrown to the bases, for nobody was there. It was thrown at the runner direct, and if the ball was hard or heavy or the thrower strong, some time the runner was downed. If the runner secured a base, he was batted in by his mates, much as they are now. There were no umpires and no professional pitchers. Anybody pitched, and nearly everybody caught. Disputes were settled by the sense of fairness, or the muscular superiority of the play- ers. If the game ended in a scrap it was no way different from many of the games of to-day, and the schoolmaster always could be depended on to 1 66 Saturday Night Sketches interfere at the proper time. The school grounds were ample, for they in- cluded a part of over a million uncultivated acres in the county. By some means the trees had been cleared from a few acres, and one plowing at some time in the past had put the wiregrass out of business forever. Not far away was the school- house, a framed building built some day by re- mote but progressive ancestors and about the only building exclusively used for school purposes in the county. It was at the county site. The state was not very liberal to the schools then — indeed it never has been — and paid only about five cents per head for tuition for three months of twenty days each during the year. The balance of the sum considered by the teacher ab- solutely essential for existence was made up by the community. The teacher was a man of few words but prompt action. What he lacked in per- sonal magnetism or persuasive powers he made up from an assortment of neatly trimmed black-gum sprouts always kept standing behind his chair. The entire school, a motley assemblage of gawky youths and boys and girls and maidens, ranging in ages from twenty down to seven years which was then the limit, followed the players out to the ball ground. The teacher looked on and chewed his tobacco reflectively from the vantage point of a stump near by. Town Ball on the Schoolhouse Yard iS'j The suspender boy, by virtue of his right as captain, marched to the home-plate and took his stand. Choosing his own distance in front. Cop- peras Breeches faced him. Without any prelimi- nary winding up or grand-stand plays the ball was pitched; it went wide. The next one came closer and with a mighty "swish" the paddle went at it, but missed. It struck the ground and rebounded and the catcher came to life. He made three fran- tic grabs at it as it came by him on the first bounce but he missed it and it rolled away on the grass. The next one the batter let go by but he caught the fourth fairly with a mighty "swoop," and it went far out afield as the batter dashed for first base. He passed first and was on his way to sec- ond when the ball came hurtling toward him, like a bundle of shucks. He paused and dodged and it went wild, but another fielder quickly stopped it and he only made second. His companion sent the ball out into the edge of the wiregrass and he had made third and sprinted for home when the fielder called "lost ball," which was supposed to stop the game. He ran on, and a riot nearly ensued, the runner claim- ing that the fielder purposely failed to look for the ball, and the other side that the runner should have stopped when the ball was lost. It was too early in the proceedings, however, for the players to allow a dispute to stop the game, so the runner 1 68 Saturday Night Sketches went back to third and another mate went to the bat. He was caught out on the first ball he struck at and another one batted straight into the stom- ach of a fielder near by, who stopped the ball from necessity, picked it up and with a resounding thud nailed the man who was running to first. The man on third came in just in time, for there was no one else to go to bat. And so the game went on until the noon recess was over and the shout of "books" called them to the school room. Some of those boys have played bigger games since. Among them has been represented the bar, medicine, surgery, financial and agricultural South Georgia, and we are sorry to say some of the criminal history of the state. A closer observer, by watching the ball game, could make a guess as to the paths in life the players would follow. THE OLD WAY OF SHELLING PEANUTS There is a demand for peanut shellers now and the machinery manufacturers are doing a thriving business. We used different machines in the old days — much less expensive, but infinitely more pre- cious. After the Christmas holidays, in the midst of the spring plowing, we went over to Jim's to shell his peanuts for him — only we did not call them peanuts then — the new name has come with mod- ern machinery and the commercializing of the pea- nut. It was as good, old-fashioned groundpeas that we knew them. And all farmers were not finicky about having their groundpeas shelled for planting — they just dropped 'em in, hull and all, and trusted to luck. They usually came up. But Jim was thorough in his ways, shelled his ground- peas, soaked his seed corn, rolled his cotton seed in hen house manure, and did all those other things considered necessary to good farming. We gathered at Jim's at early candle-light. Mrs. Jim had prepared for us, for the yard was fresh swept, down to the front gate between the rows of winter pinks; the floor was spotless — a 169 170 Saturday Night Sketches normal condition — the furniture moved back, and a dozen chairs in a half circle in front of the wide fire-place, in which blazed a crackling fire of pine logs. The young folks came in couples — usually, and in couples they sat just out of range from the heat of the fire. A pan, or a piggin, or a small basket — even a boy's hat, served as a receptacle for the groundpeas for each couple. And soon nimble fingers were cracking the hulls, and the shelled groundpeas dropped usually into an apron, spread across the girl's lap. Jokes were cracked about as fast as groundpea hulls, girlish giggles or boyish laughter keeping a musical accompaniment. Occasionally a song, more often a story, but the majority of the fun was furnished by the community cut-up — always a boy — and the tense and embarrassing moments by the settlement tease — usually a girl. The cut- up invariably wore a red tie, so glaring that one feared it would ignite his celluloid collar; his vest lacked two inches of connecting with the waist- band of his pants, and the latter were always skin tight and three inches too short. Add a pink shirt and blue and white home-knit socks showing above his brogan shoes, and we had an ensemble to make anybody laugh. His freckled face was always grinning, and his contagious good-humor brought the introductory smile before his joke provoked The Old Way of Shelling Peanuts i^i the laugh. Also we had the fireman whose duty it was to keep the blaze going. Jim did this, also keeping groundpeas on hand. There was not much opportunity for spooning — the conversation was too general. But occa- sionally the low-spoken word, the speaking glance, and the electric tingle when two fingers acciden- tally touched. Few temptations are stronger than fresh shelled groundpeas to the appetite of youth, and not a few were surreptitiously slipped between boyish lips or ground by pearly teeth, but as a rule we were on honor, and although the mouth might water, the groundpeas were safe for planting. Talk about your shellers of to-day. There was never anything to equal the shellers of forty years ago. Those were not machines — the shellers then were the real thing. Many of those who shelled then have cracked the knotty problems of life since, but the great majority have, like the ground- peas, returned to earth and been born again into a new and greater life. Only an hour or so, and the groundpeas were shelled and poured into a common receptacle. There had been races, or course, and the winners smiled proudly, but more than anything else there had been laughter and chatter, because youth is gay and fun is the savor of life. Now, chairs are pushed back, and Mrs. Jim 172 Saturday Night Sketches and two of the girls (with straw brooms cut from the broomsedge of the old field across the branch) sweep the scattered hulls and trash into the fire. One of the girls whispered to Mrs. Jim ; she nod- ded and sm.iled. "Bill," the girl said, "if you'll draw some syrup, I'll hold the hght." Would Bill? He wouldn't have missed it for half that gave Rockefeller indigestion. Bill lighted some long sphnters at the fire-place, while the girl went with Mrs, Jim into the kitchen for a pitcher. Then out to the smokehouse in the yard, other couples considerately refusing to go along. The syrup barrel stood up on end in a corner. There was no faucet, a wooden peg stopping the bung, while a strip of leather, cut from the vamp of an old shoe, directed the flow of liquid. While the girl held the light. Bill tilted down the barrel, pulled out the peg and watched the syrup flow into the pitcher. Of course, it ran over, and the overflow was caught on eager finger and licked off, to prevent waste. They were gone a long time, for there was much to say, and when at last they came back, her cheeks were glowing and Bill looked as if he had tasted something far sweeter than any compound of man's making. While they were away, preparations had been made, and now a big iron cooking spider was set on a trivet brought from the kitchen fire-place, The Old Way of Shelling Peanuts 173 and under this a bed of coals was soon glowing. The syrup was poured in, and before long was foaming up to the top of the spider. Fast ladling kept it from boiling over, and occasional tests were made to ascertain how far it was from candy. Then at the right time, groundpeas, previously broken, were poured in. Soon the whole was cooked into groundpea candy, one of the finest confections in the world. When done, the candy, dark brown with light specks of groundpeas, was poured up into larded or buttered plates, and set out on the watershelf to cool, for you cannot pull groundpea candy. While it was cooling, the real fun of the night began, for those young people were not tired yet. Chairs were set back against the wall. The bed had been taken down already. One of the boys had a harmonica and two had jew's-harps. This trio were given seats of honor, in the chim- ney comer, partners were chosen, the music start- ed up, and to it were added fresh young voices in song. For hours then the fun went on, twisti- fication and many varieties of singing plays, groundpea candy serving for refreshments in the brief intervals of rest. It was long past midnight when the most prudent, thinking of the day's plow- ing and the early start for to-morrow, left, while still four couples were keeping time with tripping feet to the music and their own voices in: 174 Saturday Night Sketches ^^I'll make my living on sandy land; I'll make my living on sandy land; I'll make my living on sandy land; So ladies fare you well. Perhaps you think it cost Jim too much to get his groundpeas shelled? Jim did not think so. AT OLD CHINA GROVE "Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound; Mine ears attend the cry." The preacher closed his Bible, picked up his hymn-book and lined out the first of the old, fa- miliar song. The congregation rose. An elder, an aged pa- triarch, raised the tune; one by one the men joined in. From across the aisle a female voice took up the air; gradually the song grew in volume, until "Ye living men, come view the ground Where you must shortly lie." rolled out in a wave of song from the log church, through the oaks surrounding, across pine and wiregrass covered hill and vale. The church stood on the crest of a hill, com- manding a view of the beautiful, almost primeval, country surrounding. To the east meandered a small stream towards the Gulf; its waters alive with fish; along its borders one of the finest deer ranges this country knew; the stream taking its name from the memory of an Indian warrior killed 175 176 Saturday Night Sketches on Its banks. Surrounding the church was a grove of oaks, and around this, miles of unbroken forest. The church had been built of pine logs, cut to make room for the building, peeled of their bark, notched and set into place by hands ready in the service of the Lord. The roof was of shingles split from pine blocks and drawn, one at a time, by hand with a drawing-knife. Even the pulpit, framed of small hewn logs, was built of boards split with a frow from the pine. The benches were of logs, split and hewn, and fitted with legs driven into augur-holes. It did not require money to build a church in those days, but a vast amount of labor. Mate- rial was free and the work was by many ready hands, so after all the task was not so great. The result was as substantial and time-defying as the sturdy yeomanry and their religion. "Hardshells" we call them — Primitive Bap- tists now, but the name represented that which was solid and lasting, rugged perhaps but true as tried steel, a religion which noble men lived by and died by. The song they were singing was like them — nothing frivolous, nothing temporary, but solemn and earnest; bringing thoughts of God, also of the certainty of death and the vastness of eternity. There were few revivals then; none among these people; the evangelist was unknown. But there At Old China Grove 177 was a staying quality about their religion that in- spired one with the confidence that the mariner must feel in the Rock of Ages. The ordinance of baptism had been adminis- tered that morning. The convert was a young matron, and she gave her hand to the preacher and her life to God amidst a solemn stillness that impressed and glorified. She was baptized where the road (a three-path trail) crossed the stream. Her head bowed in humility, but fearlessly, she had walked through the water until she reached the preacher's hand and the sacred pledge of faith was taken. Loving hands had built of poles and sheets a dressing- room, and after her clothing was changed the crowd climbed the hill to the church, which was filled. Then to the new member was extended the right hand of fellowship, and to the outsiders the event of the day was at hand. On two opposite benches the male members faced. Across the house, on two more benches also opposite, the female mem- bers grouped. It was the observance of foot- washing, the sacred custom peculiar to that church; a testimonial of their humility, even as their Mas- ter was humble. Then the sermon came. The preacher had a wonderful gift. He was a man who worked for six days of the week on his farm, but he had time for meditation, and on 178 Saturday Night Sketches the Sabbath it was good to hear him. His sermon stirred the great crowd, and the moment was a tense one when the solemn hymn was raised. There were few tears, but many faces were drawn with emotion. It was a red-letter day with a people who were as the salt of the earth. In the congregation were many of the men who built South Georgia. The matron then, is nursing her great-grandchildren now, but the light she saw that day has guided her through a life of great usefulness. THE BAPTISM SOL DRAWHORN AND THE GREY LIZARD Sol Drawhorn was a nervous man. He was afraid of creeping things ; snakes were an abomination, spiders a dread, scorpions and centipedes kept him on the watch, but more than all these he dreaded grey lizards — those little fel- lows that hide under the fence rails on the shady side and under pine knots and logs in the woods. One of these would come near throwing him into a fit and he made a point to kill all he found. Like the rest of us he knew they were harmless, but they just had a terror for him that he could not get away from. It was mid-summer and road-working time. The overseer had been around the week before and warned all the hands on his division, and in the early morning they came, with hoes and shov- els, a few axes, and one sent a horse and plow instead of a hand. They had five miles of road, nearly all of it a three-path trail, and as there was little travel so there was little work to be done. A log or two to cut out; a few roots washed bare on a hillside by the spring rains to remove, 179 i8o Saturday Night Sketches and occasional little gullies to fill in with hoe and shovel. Walking was the big part of the day's job and they finished at the five-mile post marking the district line when noon came. Dinner had been brought in tin pails, small bas- kets or In a package, slung In a bag across the shoulder. Down the hill was a spring at the branch-head, and with a drink of water all around, the dozen or more men sprawled on the thick car- pet of wiregrass, under the cool shade of the big pines, eating dinner, cracking jokes, and spinning yarns. Sol was something of a wit, and he hurried through his eating, to have some fun. He was standing up, telling a funny yarn and doing most of the laughing. He wore a striped hickory shirt, home-knit yarn suspenders, copperas-dyed jeans breeches and brogan shoes. The breeches hung loose and gaping at the waist and the shoes were fastened with buckskin laced once and tied, the tops gaping open like the orifice of an inverted bell. Sol was right In the middle of his joke when the fat man who was lying on his elbow and smok- ing a stick-and-dirt pipe noticed something. "There's a lizard on your shoulder, Sol," he said. Sol went white, and glanced around. Only too truel There was one of the dreadful little gray Sol Drawhorn and the Grey Lizard i8i fellows looking over his left shoulder, its pulsing throat protruding and sinking back as it breathed. With a yell like a Comanche, Sol jumped side- ways, swiping at the lizard with both hands. Hor- rors ! Instead of knocking it off, the glancing blow sent the lizard downwards and it fell inside the gaping waistband of Sol's pants. Underwear was not worn in those times, especially on week- days, and as Sol felt the cold slimy thing strug- gling for a foothold on his bare legs he came as near giving an exhibition of hysterics as any grown man ever put up. He commenced jumping straight up In the air, as high as his muscles would carry him, and every time he went up he yelled, "Oh!" When he hit the ground he rebounded like a rubber ball and went up again, and when he got as high as he could, he would holler. It looked as if he could not stop, and perhaps that was true. As he kept going up and down, like a churn dasher, making a noise like a female concert at a holy roller re- vival, the men looking on rolled over on the grass and laughed until they were too weak to help Sol, even If they had wanted to. Holding his shaking sides as he gasped for breath, the fat man begged: *'For God's sake stop him, boys, or he'll kill me." The jar of Sol's jumps had dropped the lizard down his pants leg into the gaping vamp of his iSz Saturday Night Sketches shoe, then down by his foot, but still Sol jumped and hollered. At last when the lizard had been crushed under his foot to a shapeless mass, Sol continued to jump — only now he was barely able to raise his feet from the ground and his yell had degenerated to a feeble grunt, "Uh!" Finally, when he could no longer raise his feet clear, his heels would come up, and as they dropped back he still grunted. At last exhausted, he fell and they carried water from the spring and sprinkled his face to bring him around. Two had to walk a mile to borrow Bill Davis' ox cart to carry Sol home. Yes, he certainly was a fool about lizards. SHEEP-SHEARING TIME There was the sound of cracking whips, bleat- ing lambs, and calling ewes ; a cloud of dust hung in the hot sunshine; afar down the road, into the lane leading to the sheep-pen appeared the head of the drove; behind, easily sitting their horses or riding quickly to the left or right to bring in would-be deserters, rode the men. For it was May in Wiregrass Georgia and sheep-shearing time. By thousands the small ani- mals had ranged the pine-clad, wiregrass carpeted hills for twelve months. Winter or summer they required no feeding, the range being all sufficient, and only passing attention, to keep down depreda- tions of dogs or other animals of prey. At last the balmy days of spring had given place to the hot sun of early summer, and the winter coats of the animals, accumulated since the May before, became unbearably hot — therefore it was a neces- sity in the name of humanity as well as for the owner's profit, to herd the sheep and remove the heavy wool. Shearing time was also gathering time, marking, and branding time. As far as possible, the sheep 183 184 Saturday Night Sketches belonging to different owners were separated, but occasionally some ewe with her lamb, or a ram or wether would wander far from the home fold. Such were always cared for, identified by the mark or brand of the older one. The lamb would be put in its owner's mark, and the wool sheared from the old sheep and carefully put aside. Some time during the summer, when there was "passing," this "coat" would be sent to its owner. For the stock men of that day were scrupulously honest. For several days the men, perhaps a dozen, the number depending on the range and the size of the flock, had ridden the range. From their camps and bottom grass feeds the sheep, In small herds, had been gathered, until In this drove there were several hundred. All the morning, panting in the heat they had marched, and the old leaders knew the goal was in sight. Down the lane they came, a ram or austere wether leading. A cross lane passed in front of the gap to the pen, but this was guarded on either side by herders who had hurried on in advance. The leader came to the road, tried to turn this way and that; headed off In either direction, and pressed by the flock behind him, he advanced to the open gap, sniffed, turned, again about-faced and snorted at the entrance — then with a bound he was through, and once through, the balance fol- lowed, as fast as they could crowd through the Sheep-Shearing Time 185 gap, unless some belligerent ram turned to contest the passage until routed by the long, black-snake whip of a watchful herder. Inside the big pen, the animals had a short while to rest, and then, a dozen or two at a time, were driven into the small pen at the shearing-sheds. Here, under long board shelters, were the shear- ing tables, of rough pine plank, worn slick with usage, about the height of a man's waist. All through this country then were experienced shear- ers, to whom the season was what cotton-picking is now. Several pair of shears, made of one broad piece of steel, either end a sharp point and bent just enough for the blades to spring apart when the pressure of the hand which brought them to- gether relaxed. These had been sharpened to a razor-edge. The shearers worked elbow to elbow at the long table.^ Each shearer caught his own sheep, quickly and dexterously tied its four feet with a thong of buck- skin, and threw the bleating animal upon the table. Then the fast "snip-snip" of the shears removed the coat in a time ridiculously short, for the shear- ers were experts. The coat ofF, the sheep was released, the wool rolled up into a bundle, tied with a twist of its own length and thrown in a pile in a corner. Then another sheep was caught and the process repeated, day in and day out, until the flock of hundreds or thousands was sheared. 1 86 Saturday Night Sketches Tired, hot, and hungry, the dinner-horn was a welcome call. Out at the well, under the big mul- berry tree, on a bench, was a row of tin basins, and gourds of home-made lye soap. Here the grease and dirt were removed from face and hands, but the odor of the sheep remained until the clothes were changed. Into the big log kitchen, with its white sanded floor and its long loaded table, herders and shear- ers trooped. At the head, a jug of buttermillc on one hand and a big coffee-pot on the other, sat the matron of the house; on her left the husband; behind her the younger females of the family or perhaps two or three from neighboring families (for where the young men gathered the young women were soon found) stood to "wait on ta- ble." First place among the edibles was given to mutton, fresh, juicy, and fat, an epicure's delight and a hungry man's satisfaction. The meal, in- terspersed with jokes or gay badinage, was the day's most pleasant event. After dinner, an hour's chat under the big oaks in the yard, perhaps a gay banter between youth and maid at the water-shelf on the long back piazza, and then to work again, the shearers to their pens, the herders to separate and drive home the smaller flocks of varying ownership whose owners lived near, or to mark and perhaps brand the new crop of lambs, part of the owner's reck- oning of his year's profits. THE SINGING SCHOOL 'V saw a wayworn trav'ler In tattered garments clad, And struggling up the mountain, It seemed that he was sad: His back was laden heavy, His strength was almost gone, Yet he shouted as he journeyed, 'Deliverance will come!' " The class paused for breath, even youthful lungs panting in response to the rapid measure. The leader reached into the side-pocket of his coat, took out a bifurcated steel instrument called a tuning-fork, set It between his teeth, jerked it out, and held the ringing tines to his ear: "Catch the sound," he commanded. "Do-o-o-ra- me-fa-so-la-se-do !" The class caught the note, and they were off again. It was a log schoolhouse, used alike for occa- sional religious services and the three months an- nual term of semi-public school. It was summer- time, and with the crops laid by, the young people had opportunity for the cultivation of the voice 187 1 88 Saturday Night Sketches and social propensity, and the itinerant singing teacher took advantage of the opening to organ- ize a music class. The building was primitive, as were its furnishings. A rough pine table beside which the teacher stood, benches of split logs, rough-hewn on top, but worn smooth with the passing time and generations. Through the cracks between the logs and the open doors and windows came the cool summer breeze, and out again floated the notes of melody. The class was barely a dozen but they atoned in zeal for any lack in number. The book used was the time-honored "Sacred Harp," providen- tially made oblong that the more students might scan the printed page. To obtain one of these books was a struggle, for dollars did great duty then. From each book, two, three and sometimes four sang, usually three, a boy sitting on either side, holding the book, the girl between. Even when four sang from the same book, there was not the least objection to sitting close. The girls were simply dressed in cool calicos or muslins; the boys perhaps wearing a coat of last winter's vintage, and perspiring accordingly, or no coat at all and comfort. The only class distinction was that between those who wore bro- gan shoes and those barefoot — and usually the barefoot ones were the best singers. But those girls — merry, bright eyes, rosy cheeks, mouths The Singing School 189 alike tuned for laughing, for singing or for k — oh, shucks! that's all over now! But it was from those girls that Georgia Peaches got their name. The singing master was a sawed-off man, with a strong voice, a nervous movement, an alpaca coat, and a red goatee. His stipend depended on results, and he went at his job like a red-bug for a picnicker. The class sang by main strength, but they sang. At the conclusion of the song, there was an- other rest, the tuning-fork was again brought into use, the note sounded, and the tune raised: ''^There's a land that is fairer than day And by faith we may see it afar; For the Father waits over the way, To prepare us a dwelling-place there." Out of the joyousness and bounding spirits of youth they sang; veiled to them the future, when the callow youth should be a man of affairs, the burdens of hundreds on his shoulders; the laugh- ing maid a matron and grandmother, whose smile brought light to a dozen homes, and whose exam- ple was a beacon to the paths of peace; when the barefoot boy with the earnest face should be a physician whose trained hand and deft touch stilled pain and whose skill fought disease and brought health and life where death hovered; when the girl with the straggling hair and thoughtful eyes 190 Saturday Night Sketches should be a leader In education and uplift work, because she was unhampered with the burden of a family, being a mother to hundreds; when the boy with the cow-lick and the stone-bruise limp should climb the ladder, through the bar and the courts, Into the arena of politics and his name be- come a national one ; when the girl with the loud laugh and the tomboylsh spirits should be Instru- mental In bringing many souls to see the Light and at last should give up home and kindred ties and consecrate her life to the heathen of foreign lands. Fortunate then, that the future was behind the Mystic Veil; sufficient unto them was the day and the fulness thereof. But as In memory again we meet, we see not so much the school as the road home; when the party, at first a merry throng, has come to this by-way and that, until only two are left, boy and girl of course, pursuing the homeward path, a trail through the switching wiregrass, beneath the murmuring pines. And hands are joined and fin- gers Interlocked as, still Imbued with the spirit of song, the green-clad hills re-echoed: "C//^ to the bountiful Giver of life, — Gathering home! Gathering home! Up to the dzvelling where cometh no strife, God's children are gathering home!" A song prophetic of what is left to-day of that singing class of "Auld Lang Syne." HELPING AUNT MARY MAKE SAUSAGE The sausage Aunt Mary made tasted just a little better than any other in the world. There was a combination of meats and condiments and art in grinding, mixing, stuffing and smoking, that produced a harmony of whole to tempt the most capricious appetite. Even in these later days of dyspepsia and indigestion, and their attendant evils, the mouth waters when recollection's ghost again spreads the feasts of the past, A cold morning, a few days after hog-killing, and after the early breakfast, the Boy was out to help Aunt Mary with the sausage. Close by the log smokehouse the sausage grinder, of cast iron, had been screwed fast to the end of the meat- bench, on which the year's supply of ham, shoul- ders and bacon had been salted down the day be- fore. To the other end the stuffer, also of cast iron, had been fastened. These two useful ma- chines were neighborhood property, passing from family to family during the hog-killing season. The meat was the trimmings from the pork, before salt had been applied. The tenderloins, strips of lean from the joints, and bits of fat from 191 192 Saturday Night Sketches the flanks; just the right proportion of each. Cut into strips, these were fed into the grinder, the Boy furnishing the steam power; lean and fat al- ternating, until the meat exuding from the small aperture in the bottom of the grinder was a red- dish gray. After several hours' grinding — the Boy mean- while having frequently "hollered for the calf- rope" for relief at the crank — the meat nearly filled the cedar tub used as a receptacle. Then Aunt Mary's skill came into play. Carefully pul- verized by beating in a coarse cloth with a mallet, was the sage — which had been gathered the sum- mer before from the bushes by the garden fence, dried in the sun and put away for the occasion. Pulverized also the pods of brilliant red pepper, which had also grown in the garden and had been gathered as soon as ripe, strung on long threads and hung upon the walls on the big house piazza. Then the salt, and other seasonings — just the right amounts, for therein lay the secret of Aunt Mary's success. Then the mixing, with spoon, pestle and with hands, over and over again, until sage, pep- per, salt, etc., had been worked into the meat right where each belonged — not too much, but mixed with a painstaking thoroughness unknown in our days of hurry. Then came the stuffing. The iron box of the long stuffer was filled with meat, and over the tin Helping Aunt Mary Make Sausage 193 tube on the end the casing was drawn. These casings themselves represented great patience and much labor. First after hog-killing they had been stripped of outside fat, ridded, washed and turned. Then soaked over night; then washed and turned again. Then another soaking and a third wash- ing, before they were considered ready for use. Always, the Boy wanted to turn the stuffer, and always he turned it too fast until a warning cry stopped him. Much patience was required here, but slowly the pile of stuffed sausage grew, each long, pink, snake-like fellow tied at either end with a string. Every few minutes the Boy ran to the fire near the bench to warm his hands, and always Aunt Mary's fingers were busy — turning a link to stop a rent, tying an end, or slipping more casings over the stuffer's snout. The stuffing done, the long strings of sausage were balanced and draped over small drying poles and hung from joist to joist overhead in the smokehouse. Then came the smoking, for Aunt Mary's skill did not stop with sausage making. Just the right kind of dry, pine sap, or oak, and the smudged fire was kept going, day and night, until those sausage were cured just as she wanted them. And the result? When the mists of dawn are flying Before the rising God of Day; 194 Saturday Night Sketches Just to smell those sausage frying In the kitchen, 'cross the way. On the table, dark brown, luscious; Pile the dish up, full and high. Bring a hoe-cake, one for just us; Give elbow room and let ' er fly! Oh, ye gods of things delicious! A vaunt, Lucullus, of fabled shade! Of all the best of childhood's dishes. Give us the sausage Aunt Mary made! Gone are the sausage with the other good things of childhood, and youth. Remains only memory, but thank God for memory ! Strange, isn't it, that the mixed hog and beef scrap sausage of commerce compares with those brown links of epicurean lus- ciousness about as sawdust compares with ambro- sia, or an osage with an orange? Do you remember how they tasted Sunday morning for breakfast, with hot, beaten biscuit, and brindled gravy? Or, did you ever come in from a long tramp, cold and hungry, in mid-after- noon, stop by the smokehouse and purloin a few precious links; then broil them on the coals of a smouldering fire and eat them with a chunk of cold cornbread? If you did neither, then it is no use to talk longer. A DEER DRIVE IN THE OLD DAYS "Hold him, boys; here It comes 1" And seeing that it was useless to struggle, with two sinewy hands grasping either arm, the youth submitted to be "blooded" with the life fluid of his first deer. Early that morning, the four had started for the "drive" ; three veteran hunters and the recruit. Two carried rifles, in themselves no light load; long of barrel and small of bore, the bullet molded from bar lead bought in the distant town, the powder carried in a gourd swung from the shoul- der, each load to be carefully measured, packed with the ramrod, and the bullet, set in its square of cloth, driven down on it. Loading was a slow process, but not many loads were wasted. One carried a shotgun, with its charge of nine buckshot in each barrel, while the recruit had a carbine, a relic of war times, immense of bore but short of range. The hunt had been planned for several weeks. Its object was "Old Sam," a buck with spreading five-point antlers, who had lorded the range for many years, despite frequent and carefully planned 195 196 Saturday Night Sketches expeditions to trap him. He had earned his nick- name in many encounters with canine pursuers, In which the dogs always came home in shape for the hospital — if they came home at all. It was a six-mile tramp to the headwaters of the Lola creek, where the drive was to start, but the hunters thought little of that. They were ac- customed to walks of twenty miles or more during a day's hunt and the early breakfast was usually the last bite (except plug tobacco) until night. The trip was across streams, pine-clad and wire- grass-carpeted, gently sloping hills and vales, through a virgin, trackless forest. Before leav- ing. Uncle Den had sounded the horn which hung from his shoulder and his seven hounds, ears flop- ping and mouths agape, howled and leaped around him in answer, suspending In the excitement their regular job of scratching fleas. Now on the trip they were kept carefully in leash, lest their baying give the alarm, or they get away on a premature chase. Those older men knew all the habits of the deer, and Old Sam had been seen on the range the day before. The dogs were to be put In where the big bay, rich in Its store of juicy cane shoots, joined the swamp of the creek proper. They would drive up the bay, a man on either side, to Its head and there the deer would almost surely break cover and run across the range of A Deer Drive in the Old Days 197 hills to another bay which emptied into the War- rior. (These "bays" or "heads" were short branches from the main stream, thick with under- brush.) The deer often fed along these, either on tender grass outside the brush, or on the cane shoots when the growth was young. It was al- ways possible that the deer would break cover before reaching the head of the bay, but their "runs" were well known, and they usually fol- lowed the same route. One of the men with a rifle was sent to the east side of the head; the recruit with the carbine to the west. The other two came up on either side of the bay, opposite the dogs, whose deep voicing soon announced a fresh trail. The recruit took the "stand" assigned him, between two towering pines, which gave shade and cover. The others had waited until he had time to reach the place, and now he had nothing to do but wait. Afar off came the indistinct baying of the dogs ; now growing nearer, then more distant as the trail doubled. The sun slowly climbed toward the zenith, the malignant yellow flies kept one hand busy; a few ripe blue huckleberries on a bush near by afforded a pleasant interlude. For hours he stood; would they never come? The dogs must have lost the trail, for he heard no bay- ing now. Tired of standing, he was easing down to a squatting posture when the sharp crack of 19B Saturday Night Sketches a rifle rang out far down the bay. A moment or two later, the double boom of the shotgun sounded. Pshaw I and then some ! The deer had broken cover and Uncle Den and Lum had them! The sport was over for the day. A moment later he heard a halloo. It was one of warning, but he thought It a call to join the others, and turned and hurried toward them. His mind Intent only on what he thought they had killed, he paid little attention to a rustling In the bushes near. A moment later he almost ran, face to face, against a giant buck! The animal had broken through the screen of bushes, and deer and youth saw each other about the same moment. He stopped for the time motionless; the deer the same, with head erect and nostrils dilating. The animal recovered first and wheeled to run; which reminded the youth that he had a gun. Hastily bringing it to bear, his knees knocking with the well-known "buck-ague," he took sight at the rap- Idly moving deer, running straight from him, and fired. As much to his astonishment as that of the deer, the buck turned a somersault at the crack of the gun and lay sprawling. Shouting for Uncle Bull (the man on the other side of the head), the youth ran up with drawn knife to cut the deer's throat. He seized the antlers and started to cut, KLCK-AC.UK A Deer Drive in the Old Days 199 but at the touch of the knife the buck, with a flirt of his head, sent the youth spinning, and sprang to his feet. The ball had struck him back of the head, between the horns, and while turning him a somersault, did little further hurt. As the youth caught his balance and turned, the buck, his eyes blazing, came at him in full charge. Well the lad knew that once those sharp hoofs or keen-pointed antlers reached him, he would be cut to ribbons. Too many dogs had he seen after they had been riddled with the same weapons, for the buck was too large to be anything but Old Sam. His gun empty, the youth sought safety in flight; but the deer was quicker. The antlers al- most touching him, the youth dodged around a tree, and then for a minute — a minute as long as a lifetime — they had it; both circling the tree, the deer almost at the lad's heels, but he with strain- ing muscles and bulging eyes was putting every ounce of strength into an effort to escape with life. The race would soon have been over and the youth's career as a hunter ended had not at that moment the lead dogs. Queen and Rover, burst from the bushes at full cry, just as Uncle Bull, having heard the shout of triumph, came around the head. At the buck the dogs dashed, and as he turned to paw them, the youth struck him with all his 200 Saturday Night Sketches force across the forehead with his carbine. Stunned, the buck fell, and before he could re- gain his feet Uncle Bull ran up and drove a long, spring-back knife behind his shoulders. While the youth was still gasping for breath Uncle Den and Lum, whose shots had slightly wounded the animal, came up just in time to be in at the deatli. It was after the buck had been strung up and disemboweled, that the youth had to submit to be "blooded," a ceremony considered absolutely necessary when the first deer was killed. But the prize was worth the price, even the scare and narrow escape, for the antlers went down through the family as an heirloom, together with one of those strange stones called "bezel" only rarely found in the stomachs of old deer, and which were supposed to have the power of curing rabies. There are no deer there now, for what was then a range is now cultivated fields; Uncle Bull and Uncle Den, Lum, Queen and Rover, are long since gone to their different rewards; the youth- ful hunter is a grandfather and hunts no more; but still many times in the silent watches of the night, when the nightmare rides, he sees those blazing eyes and dilated nostrils, and again he "hot-foots" for his life around the bole of a slen- der pine. THE HOMEFOLKS DANCE "Cheeks like a cherry — cherry like a rose; How I love Lucinda, God Almighty knows." The mellow notes of the violin, the tapping of the straws were accompanied by the sound of trip- ping feet. Through the open door of the cottage, across the grass-carpeted valley and over the pine- clad hills, bathed in the soft moonlight, the sounds floated, to set the blood dancing; or mellowed to a plaintive sweetness. With his chair tipped back against the facing of the wide fire-place, from which glowing pine- logs lighted the scene, the violinist sat, his head bent reverently over the centuries old instrument from whose depths he was drawing the best there is in music. The contour of his face, the Roman nose and flowing white beard, formed almost an exact picture of Longfellow. The poetry of his soul breathed out through his violin. Three decades before he had come to this pine- barren wilderness a young man of wealth and of an old and revered family; his acres were num- bered in thousands and his stock ranged many 201 202 Saturday Night Sketches hills. Now the only possessions left him, except his family, were the priceless Stradivari whose curve was tucked beneath his chin, and the trusty rifle which rested on a rack of deer-antlers above his head. His skill was as renowned for one as for the other. The cottage was built neatly and substantially of the material ready to hand — pine logs, by the labor of his sons. At the foot of the hill to the east flowed the Warrior, its waters alive with fish, Its swamp abounding In wild turkey and deer. Around, for many miles, there was only the pine forest, almost trackless, indistinct trails leading to the homes of the nearest neighbors. It was a goodly land, although a wild one. In keeping with his own untamed, eagle spirit to which this man had brought the Ideals of youth. At his knee, keeping time with bounding straws to the notes from the bow, sat his son, one in whom the soul of the musician dwelt, as in the father. Even as he taps, the music In him must find expression, and the "straw-man" hums: "/ wouldn't marry a weeping girl. And I'll tell you the reason why: — Her nose is always dripping, And her cheeks are never dry." Sitting In a chair tilted back against the facing of one of the doors another son called the figures The Homefolks Dance 203 of the quadrille, to which the four couples were dancing. The ladies were the mother and her three daughters, the youngest just rounding into woman- hood. From the parent was inherited the love of music which found ready expression in the dance. Like the mother, they were graceful, their movements, poetry in motion ; to watch them was an inspiration. The dance of that day was accounted no harm among the secular classes. The "church-folks," members of any church, did not dance at all. They were not asked to dance by those who knew, al- though the younger ones were often invited to homes where dances were held, they were not ex- pected to participate. The dances of those days were different from those of to-day. There was no personal contact except the mere touching of hands in the swing and promenade. Certainly, there was nothing impious, nothing irreverent in the dance in progress then. No abandon, but the expression in action of the spirit of music. The young men gathered for the Saturday night dance which had grown to be a custom in this home, had walked many miles, after the week's work was over, for the enjoyment that made wear- iness forgotten. For many hours, until midnight approached, and even youth grew weary, the dance 204 Saturday Night Sketches went on, with changing partners, the inexhaustible repertoire of the violinist furnishing a variety that never cloyed. Few are left now to remember the scene of that night long ago. The home is gone, the pine forest and wiregrass have yielded place to cultivated fields; the game is gone, the patriarch and hunter long since gathered to his fathers. The mother and oldest daughter sleep at old Kimball; two daughters are settled matrons. One of the young men of the four dancers has long since "heard the call" and is numbered with the most earnest, zeal- ous and efficient leaders among the Master's work- ers in Wiregrass Georgia ; another before he died was a leader in financial affairs and a man of means; another now numbers his farms by the hundred plows and writes his check in five fig- ures; another was bitten by the newspaper bug, and never amounted to much. As we close our eyes the scene comes again, as of forty years ago — the flickering firelight, the figures swiftly changing in the measures of the dance, the aged violinist and his pupil at his feet. As the vision comes, the noise of the street out- side softens and changes; again there sounds the mellow tones of the violin, the rhythmic tapping of the straws, the light tripping of nimble feet, the sing-song voice calling the quadrille : And as we listen, the fiddler raises his head and The Home folks Dance 205 smiles; his bow is poised, and the tune changes to the good-night measure : "Run along, John, or I'll tell your daddy, The way you've been a-courtin' ." THE REVIVAL'S CLOSE "Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly." On the warm air of the summer morning the notes of Wesley's immortal song echoed from the pine-clad hillsides. It was sung to the tune dear to the believer of forty years ago, from strong lungs, with the power of faith, and with it carried inspiration. Grouped near the small stream, the congrega- tion stood. Around them the wiregrass spread, a carpet almost endless, underneath the shadowing pines of a forest little broken for many miles. The mighty silences of the deep woods surround- ing accented and lent force to the notes of the song. At the foot of the hill ran a small stream, one of its bends giving the necessary depth for the present use. Near the water's edge a dressing-room had been improvised of gum poles and blankets. The work had been done by the loving hands of fathers and brothers, who now stood by, while the mother and female friends aided in the final preparations. 206 The Revival's Close 207 From the room a maiden stepped. Clad in white, fit emblem of the spotless soul that day consecrated to its Maker, blushing as the hundred eyes centered on her, but strong in the faith that had led her to Jordan's brink, she walked to the water's edge and gave to the preacher her hand, as she had already given to God her heart. And as the congregation sang: ''There is a fountain filled with blood," she sank beneath the waters, to arise to a new life of consecration and service. For two weeks the preacher had labored. He was not a scholarly man, but he was an earnest man. He expounded the Word as given him, and his own sincerity and deep conviction carried con- viction to others. During the week-days his peo- ple were busy in their fields, for while it was mid- summer, the work must go on. But at "early candle-light" they gathered, and from the pulpit of rude pine boards, the priceless jewels of God's message were given them. The little church, sur- mounting a lonely hilltop in the depths of the for- est, was of logs, the walls unceiled, but the Spirit was there, for the Lord loves humble things. Each night, or week-end days, many horse-carts or ox-carts and a few buggies and wagons were grouped outside, the animals tethered to the pines; and the number increased. 2o8 Saturday Night Sketches The Spirit was present, but those people were slow of action. At last the crowning moment came when this maiden, a daughter of a family of wide influence and repute, was converted and gave her soul and life to Jesus. Neither father nor mother were "church folks"; her brothers were brave and manly, but wild and reckless; she the only daughter and youngest child, was the family idol. Many thought there would be pa- rental objection, but not so. Instead, father, mother and brothers gave her every aid and en- couragement, and stood by wet-eyed, during the beautiful ceremony. This over, back the congregation drove a mile to the little church. And there a blessing almost Pentecostal, came. The preacher, small in stature and homely in dress, was inspired, and the words which fell from his lips were as electric currents. The Spirit hovered; it could be felt in the air. As one patriarch and father in Israel after an- other arose and testified to God's greatness and mercy, women wept as women must ever weep, and the faces of strong men quivered with emo- tion. For there was rejoicing in all hearts that the young eyes had seen the light and that the young feet had been led into paths of peace. Nearly half a century has rolled by since then. The maiden grew to womanhood, took on herself the duties of wifehood and accepted the responsi- The Revii>al's Close 209 billties of motherhood. Long since, after a Hfe of great usefulness, she has gone to greet the loved ones gone before. Even now, with quiet and closing eyes, comes back the feeling of uplift and inspiration; the green woods and the murmuring stream, the emo- tion-drawn faces of the singing crowd — for the good and great things of life never die — they are a part of Jesus: "Thou of life the fountain art Freely let me take of thee; Spring thou up within my heart, Rise to all eternity!" THE DOWNFALL OF A MILLIONAIRE "I was a millionaire only once in my life," said Charlie, as he took a small swig of "H. and H.," licked his lips appreciatively, and turned the glass around slowly, gazing at the liquid. "I made it on cotton, and I lost it the same day." We were sitting around a polished table in the Seminary Club, drowning our sorrows in sarsa- parilla, ginger ale, lemon soda, etc., after a trying day in which a drop in the cotton market had caught several of us "with our suspenders off," so to speak. Three refillings with his favorite sarsaparilla had put Charlie in a mood sad and sentimental, so he grew reminiscent. "Dad gave us boys what we could make the first year on forty acres of sassafras hummock land to clear it up. There were three of us, and we went at it early in the spring like Germans after a Pole. I bet we sweat four hogsheads apiece that summer if it had been measured; enough brine to pickle ten bull yearlings. We piled the sassa- fras roots in long rows as high as this table and as long as Peachtree street. The terraces we throwed up looked like Somme trenches. 210 The Downfall of a Millionaire 211 "But we made a pretty good crop and I got a bale of cotton for my part. The other boys wanted us all to go in together and buy a piece of land in Florida, but I bucked. I had never had any money in my life before beyond a quar- ter at the time and I wanted to keep that for awhile to hear it rattle. "I hauled the cotton to the gin, by myself, and then carried it to Atlanta. The market was good, and I got forty-five dollars for it. Made the man give me the money in silver and dollar bills, and it made some wad! I wouldn't have swapped places with Vanderbilt or Jay Gould, and the won- der is that my skull didn't crack under the strain. "I had been planning off and on all the fall what I would buy with the cotton money, but now I had it, I didn't want to buy anything. Perhaps after a while I would buy out a gold mine, or a city block, or a department store, or something like that, but just now I didn't want a thing but to stand around with the plutocrats and feel rich pains. "Around town I wandered for some time, in an ecstasy of happiness, looking at everything with the thought that I could buy it if I wanted to. I really felt sorry for ordinary people, who didn't have much money, and wondered if they could tell that I was a man of wealth just by looking at me? Every now and then I would rattle my 212 Saturday Night Sketches silver or feel my roll, just to make sure the whole thing wasn't a dream. "Finally, in my perambulations I strolled into an auction room down on Decatur street. There was a considerable crowd around, and the fellow that ran It was on to the job. I stood way back on the outer edge of the crowd, with my thumbs in the armholes of my vest, just looking on at the poor folks buy. No; I didn't want a thing. "After a while, I saw the boss fellow cut his eye at me, and I know now that he then sized me up as his meat. He didn't say anything or do anything — then. BImeby, he reached down in his box and brought out what I thought was the pret- tiest thing I ever saw. It was a watch as big as a door-knob, and it glittered so it hurt my eyes. " 'This has been a good day,' the fellow said, 'and I want to offer the grand prize of all, this matchless $150 watch, of solid Brazilian gold, works from Switzerland, and the handsomest piece of jewelry ever brought to the South. It is the gem of my entire stock, and I bought it for my own use. But I can't afford it. I am going off after a new stock soon and I must have money, so I am going to close a good day's business by practically giving this priceless timepiece to my customers.' "There was a lot more rot like that, and when he said that the watch was a fit pocket-piece for The Downfall of a Millionaire 213 a millionaire, he caught me, for then he was talk- ing about my class. To cinch the thing he said he'd let the hide go with the tallow, reached down again and brought out a chain that would have pulled in a saw-log. When he hung it onto the watch and draped it across the front of his vest, it looked like a clear sunset after a summer storm. That bait landed the sucker. "When the bidding started, I staid out until it got to about $10. Then I dropped in, raising a dime at a time, until finally at $25 all dropped out but me and another fellow that I know now was the side-partner. He kept raising me, and by that time my fighting blood was up and every time the auctioneer would turn to me I would raise him another dime. Finally, at $38.60, the prize was mine. I felt like King Solomon when they put the buffalo robe on him. "I was too rich to walk away just then, and before I escaped the auctioneer brought out just the thing he said I needed to go with the watch and chain. It was a banjo. He said all the girls would be crazy about a handsome young man with a watch like that, and I would need something to entertain them with, I thought so, too, so when the price went to $6 the banjo changed hands. "If I felt hke a millionaire going, I felt like an emperor coming back to the wagon yard. True, I had only forty cents left of my bale of cotton, 214 Saturday Night Sketches but what was mere money to the possession of untold riches? I spent ten cents more for a box of sardines for supper, made the man throw in crackers, and feasted as a king should feast. That night I sat up late before the fire in the wagon- yard house, tumping on the banjo and looking to see what time it was. Couldn't sleep much that night; was up every hour to see if the watch was still running. For a wonder, it was. "Next morning, I was up early and started home. For awhile I couldn't exactly make up my mind how I could stay in the same old room at home, and wondered if the folks there would notice the difference in my looks. After passing the last house going out, I took up the banjo and began to 'thump-tump' trying to strike a tune. I could just see myself with a bunch of the girls around me, begging for another piece, and then imagine how I would head the serenading parties that winter, on moonlight nights. Every few min- utes, I would pull out the watch, take it out of the little doeskin sack the fellow gave me, and time the team. "A little shower of rain came up, but I was used to it, and didn't mind. But I didn't know the banjo ought to be kept dry. It was a long way, and when the rain passed and the sun came out, I got sorter sleepy and dozed a little. The Downfall of a Millionaire 215 **BImeby, I smelt something. I had on cop- peras breeches, and at first thought it was them, but It wasn't. Finally, I looked at my watch, and watch and chain were a deep, dark, but not beauti- ful green! The rain and the animal heat had done their dirty work. "I could have cried, but It wouldn't do any good. While viewing the ruins of my watch, I had laid the banjo behind me In the wagon, where the sun shone full on the wet head. As I was gazing on the once loved time-piece and slowly realizing that the auctioneer was a swindler, some- thing went 'bang!' and I nearly jumped off the wagon. I looked back. Ye shades of Midas! The heat had busted the banjo head, and again I was a poor man! "Sorrow turned to rage, I jerked off the watch and chain, picked up the banjo, and throwed both as far as I could send, down the steep hillside. Into the creek swamp. And I guess they are there now." Overcome with emotion, Charlie drowned the rising tears In the last of the H. and H. "What did you tell the homefolks?" asked the man on the right as he pressed the bell for the woolly-headed Bacchus. "Told 'em I was robbed. First tried to bruise myself up a little, but it hurt so, I just put up a yarn about somebody stealing the money from 2i6 Saturday Night Sketches under a bundle of fodder I was using as a pillow." "Did they believe it?" "Ma did," was the answer, as the waiter came back. CANE CHEWING TIME Sugar cane is ripe for chewing in South Geor- gia. Down here in "God's country," the sugar cane is not the vulgar article of commerce which made the wealth of Havemeyers, the Spreckelses and their associates. Here it furnishes the juice which, while it inebriates not, is the delight of the poor, the solace of the wealthy and the comforter of the troubled in heart. It is at this season that the dinner horn has an added charm for the South Georgia boy. Its wel- come sound calls him homeward, with his cotton sack slung across his shoulder, his throat dry from the rays of the sun, husky with the dust of the field and the lint of the staple which he has been gathering. Hungry though he may be, he veers from the homeward path when the "c^ne patch" fence is neared. With eager feet he climbs the barrier and with discerning eye selects from the waiting rows the stalk promising largest yield of treasured sweetness. From it the blades are stripped with careful attention to the irritating fuzz and a loud snap proclaims that the treasure is his. 2i8 Saturday Night Sketches Again to the rail fence, with careful selection of a panel with a flat rail on top. Then, with heels firmly braced In the cracks below, Ignoring protesting stone bruise If any there be, the ready Barlow knife prepares the feast. Carefully the peel Is removed and a "round" of juicy pulp Is ready. Then, while distended jaws and chin are uptllted to prevent waste of good cheer, the eyes rolled heavenward In ecstasy, the willing teeth do their duty and nature pays rich tribute to Industry. Nimble Bacchus never bore sweeter nectar to Jove, nor graceful slave poured more delicious drink for Lucullus' guests. Just why the chewing of sugar cane Is disap- pearing before modern customs It Is hard to say. It affords health and pleasure alike to old and young, where the appetite has been cultivated and the condition of the teeth will allow Its indulgence. The juice, as obtained by chewing the cane, Is a panacea for dyspepsia and kidney troubles and as a tonic and flesh builder for weak children It has no superior. It is at this time of the year that In the land of the sugar cane the child who has grown sallow, thin and weak during the stress and heat of the summer acquires flesh, rosy cheeks and goatlike spirits, and all trace of "worms," that bane of Cracker childhood, disappears. The sugar cane does the work. No medicine could accomplish the wonder In so brief a period. Cane Chewing Time 219 Perhaps we no longer chew cane because we are too busy doing something less useful. A large element of our population, too, has never known its delight. Part of this may be due to the fact that much of the sugar cane put on the market is not the best for chewing. The cane, dark red in color, or red with alternate stripes of yellow, while sweeter is not the most desirable variety for chew- ing. The best has a green peel, or a peel of alter- nate stripes of green and yellow. This variety is soft and juicy, and once its taste is learned it is a source of delight. A South Georgia farmer has had an illustration of the public mistake in the quality of sugar cane. With an unusually fine crop he decided to supply the Atlanta market, give the people there a taste of real South Georgia life. At some expense he loaded a car with some of the finest green colored sugar cane ever seen in the South. But when it was offered for sale the Atlantans would not have it. Because the peel was green in color, they af- firmed it was not ripe and told him to take it back home and wait for it to turn red. CARRYING COTTON TO GEORGE SPRING'S GIN The wagon had been loaded the night before. By the light of the smoking pine torch, basket after basket of seed cotton had been dumped In and trampled down, the Man and Boy working until far into the night. When the body, of ramshackle plank, was full more plank were added at ends and sides, these held in place by boards or shingles thrust down into the cotton. When trampled down, the cot- ton would work up again as pressure was removed, and to obviate this, the inside of the wagon-body was sprinkled with water. At last all that the improvised body would hold was on, and to this was added cotton packed and tied up in bedsheets and piled on top, until at last it was guessed there was sufficient to make a bale that would escape the "pony," a penalty for all weighing less than 300 pounds (which penalty still exists). Next morning, after breakfast by early candle- light, the oxen were yoked to the wagon, and the journey to the gin begun. The road was a three- 220 Carrying Cotton to George Spring's Gin 221 path trail through the pines, the air was cool, and the Man walked. The Boy, perched high on the cotton, burrowed in for warmth and wrapped in the quilt Mother thoughtfully provided, as he swung the blackgum goad and shouted to accele- rate the oxen's speed. Even then, the sun was nearing the meridian when the gin was reached. Ginning plants were not then the models of mechanical perfection that make it possible to market so quickly the great cotton harvest of the present day, although they represented the best of the builder's art of that time. Steam was little known and less used; horse and mule fur- nished power. The ginhouse stood eight feet clear of the ground on substantial posts of heart light- wood logs. The house proper was built of small pine logs, the body being only about six logs high. Above this was the immense roof of split pine boards. As a rule, there was only one gin, of sixteen to thirty saws, and this was fed by hand, the feeder standing in front of the breast of the ma- chine and distributing the cotton with his fingers. Below, the mechanism was a little complicated, even for those days. Horses were hitched to two long levers, and these turned an upright a foot in diameter, to the top of which was fastened by a series of set-in braces a wheel of pine surmount- ed with home-made iron cogs. These turned the 222 Saturday Night Sketches machinery above, and operated the gin with one belt — ^belts being very scarce articles. It was a crude contrivance, but to the egg-eyed boy a won- derful piece of mechanism. On the end of each lever, behind the horse, was fixed a seat for the driver. Here the chil- dren's job came in, and two belonging to the owner, either boy or girl, rode all day long in the endless go-'round to keep the horses to their pace. Needless to say, these jobs were the jeal- ous envy of ev^ery visiting lad or lass. The wagon was driven up to the platform in front of the gin, a basket was handed down, packed with cotton, handed up, emptied into the stall or bin of the customer's regular turn, and handed back. So with much time and labor the cotton was unloaded, but time was plentiful and labor cheap then. When the customer's turn at the gin came, the cotton was again lifted in a basket and poured into the hopper of the gin, in reach of the feeder's hands. The seed fell underneath the gin and were shoveled to one side, to be left or carried away, at the owner's wish. Being considered of no value, they were usually left on the ginner's hands, except for a small quantity needed for planting. In the course of the season a pile of seed could be seen out near the gin-house resembling the piles of saw-dust at the lumber mills of a later Carrying Cotton to George Spring's Gin 223 day, or the straw piles behind a threshing ma- chine in the wheat country. There were no condensers then, and the lint flew like snowflakes from the gin into the al- most airtight room built for it of plank, then very scarce. Here, the bale finished, it was again packed in baskets and carried on the shoulders of the gin help, up a flight of steps, and packed, by trampling feet, into the box of the big press. Those carrying the lint, and the two trampling it in the press-box were so covered with the white flakes that neither clothes nor features were easily distinguishable. The cotton-press was another master-piece of the builder of that day. The gin-house was a mammoth structure, so substantial that it was first refuge in case of storm or threatened disas- ter to the home dwelling, and usually on a hill could be seen for a mile or more, but the press towered many feet above it. Built of substantial timbers, foundation and up- rights, the lower box must be of a cotton bale capacity, while the upper box must hold enough lint, trampled down with the foot, to press into a bale. The screw was of wood, ten or twelve inches in diameter, and to cut one from a heart pine with a chisel was considered the supreme test of a carpenter's capability. And a test it was, for the endless flanges must be perfect. These 2 24 Saturday Night Sketches screws were usually about twenty feet long, and after being cut were tallowed until they worked smoothly. Above the screw, two long levers came to- gether in the shape of an "A." The apex was covered with a roof of pine boards, to protect screw and press; to the levers extending nearly to the ground the horses were brought from the gin and hitched, starting again in their endless mill, each trip around the circle bringing the screw with the packer beneath down upon the cotton. The sight of the roof at the apex of the levers turning slowly around was one the lad viewing for the first time would not soon forget. When the cotton-box was full, the ends of the levers were many feet above terra firma, but the drivers would climb to their perches and slowly descend as the revolutions brought the big screw down on the cotton until the ends of the levers brushed the ground. The bagging already had been laid, top and bottom, in the press, and now the ties, redolent with the odor of coal oil, then unfamiliar and rather pleasant, were thrust into place, in much the same manner as to-day, fastened, and the bale rolled out. Slow and laborious process, you say; but in this way the staple that made the Old South the richest country in the world and brought upon Carrying Cotton to George Spring's Gin 225 it the jealous envy that always follows the pros- perous, was prepared for market. When you read of the millions of bales produced annually, nearly half a century ago, it is well to remember that each one had to go through the process of much handling of which a description is herein attempted. The Boy, perched upon the bale and homeward bound in the late afternoon, had seen many won- derful things — wonders whose impress not even the mighty achievements of modern science have been able to efface. And the trip was the only one for that year, for one bale was considered sufficient; not all of the cotton went into that bale, for enough had been saved to supply Mother's knitting needles for the year and an occasional trip to Grandma's loom. But In the twilight, as the oxen hurried on the homeward path, there were images of wealth of the Indies to come when the bale went to market; visions of a new hat, of squeaking shoes, of a tie of brilliant red, perhaps even a can of cove oysters, and other things of the riches that a bale of cotton meant. FOURTH OF JULY IN THE OLDEN TIME "Oh, Lordy, Ma; Jack Kilcrease has drunk seventeen cups o' coffee, and now it's all gone." The plaintive wail of the bereaved caused some of the eaters nearby to turn their heads and look, but their attention was brief. Four or five deep, they stood by long lines of tables, the men outside, the women inside, with hands full of barbecued meat and cornbread, jaws working, and pocket- knives cutting from time to time liberal portions to supply the vacancy the expanded swallows created. The one feature of the festival of forty years ago in which time has wrought little change is the barbecue. There is a difference in detail now, but the essentials are about the same as half a century gone. Then there was not much of a display of Old Glory, for too many men were alive to whom the flag brought unpleasant memories; but the speech was pretty much the same; the barbecue almost the same — only the people were different. The beeves, the hogs, the goats and the sheep had been killed the day before, and brought in 226 Fourth of July in the Olden Time 227 by the contributors during the afternoon. In the long pits fires of oak wood, hauled from a dis- tant grove, had been burning all day; now a bed of embers glowed their length. Near by there was a burning heap of oak logs, to replace the coals from time to time. On spits of oak laid across the pits, the meat rested — usually a quarter of beef cut in half; a hog, sheep or goat split lengthwise. Under this, all night the fires were kept going, the meat being turned occasionally as it slowly cooked. It was this deliberate, gradually broiling process, that gave the barbecue its flavor. From time to time the chief cook's first assistant passed up one side and down the other of the pits, and with a mop on a short handle basted the roasting meat from a bucket containing salt, pepper, and various sea- soning condiments. For barbecue in those days was seasoned in the cooking. All night long the cooks kept their vigil, for constant supervision was the price of well-cooked meats, and on the cook the success of the day de- pended. Many were the yarns told — principally per- sonal recollections of the war just passed, for usually it was veterans who were supervising the cooking — during the night around the fire. When morning came, the cooks were gaunt-faced and egg-eyed, but their task was not done, for the meat 228 Saturday Night Sketches must be cooked up to the hour the tables were placed, and then the fire withdrawn just in time to allow the meat to cool enough to cut. About nine o'clock the crowd began to arrive. They came in buggies, a few in two-horse wag- ons, but a great many In horse-carts, the man on the horse, the family balanced In the cart over the axle; still others on horseback, but a great many, hundreds in fact, on foot, for little was thought of a ten-mile walk in those days. After each newcomer had made a round of in- spection of the barbecue pits, each expressing his opinion of how it ought to be done, they gathered under the shade of the pines, to swap gossip and neighborhood news, trade horses, or crack jokes. There was a lemonade stand with its hard- worked force, for ice had been hauled many miles, at great expense, and the weak compound was swallowed more for the cooling "kick" than for any ingredients it was supposed to contain. Of watermelons there were none, for they did not ripen so early then. Near the stand were many boys, with long breeches and watering mouths, gazing on what they had not the money to buy. They had been the rounds of the pits. Inhaling the savory odor of the cooking meats until hunger drove away even the smart from bare feet that had incau- tiously stepped on live coals. Fourth of July in the Olden Time 229 Only too close by was the grocery, where stronger liquors were sold, and where later in the day a row started which afterwards bereaved two families. A small platform had been built, covered with brush and floored with borrowed plank. Here the orator of the day held forth. The Fourth of July speech then was much the speech of to-day. The tail feathers of the eagle were yanked until the bird of freedom screamed, and the adherents of the more or less famous politician applauded according to their devotion or enthusiasm, liquid or mental, while the urchins looking on and un- derstanding not, wished he would quit, so dinner could come. The babies cried, the young folks courted, a group near by laughed at a joke, sundry matrons swapped confidences and dipped snuff — all within plain hearing of the speaker, who heroically stuck to the job. Everything must end, and at last the speaking was over. Up from the pits, tubs and cedar pig- gins of the meat were carried and distributed along the tables, these innocent of even paper covering. There was no Brunswick stew in those days; no pickles, nor trimmings, but the cue was there in abundance for every man to eat his fill, and for many of the provident to carry off a sup- ply against the day to come. The housewives had brought great stacks of 230 Saturday Night Sketches pone cornbread — there was no baker's bread to be had — and this was cut and distributed with the meats. Then the wives brought forward trunks and baskets and from these what looked like an inexhaustible supply of good things to eat, and added them to the cue on the tables. Many could not miss, even for a meal, the cup of coffee, and to supply them, pots had been set on the coals near the pits until their contents boiled. It was when he diminished the supply in sight that a thirsty citizen provoked the boy to protest. Those people did not know much of the deli- cacies, but they brought to the meal appetites of plowhands and the digestions of rail-splitters. It was no small task to feed them but the men in charge knew what to provide for, and at last they were fed. Then hot-foot for the well, and crowd and push for the water that after all is the only perfect quencher of thirst. After dinner, the speaker gone, the platform gave place to the fiddlers, the straw-beaters, the caller and the dancing couples. Despite the July heat, despite the perspiration that made rags of the home-laundered shirts and collars and caused the color to " run" in many a beloved calico dress, until the shades of evening drove them home, the dancing went on, ever-changing individuals, but the same thing in form. There we leave them, the old folks hitching up for the homeward journey, Fourth of July in the Olden Time 231 the young folks still stepping lively to the jingling tune of the "Arkansaw Traveler," or one of his many kindred, or: "Johnny, get your hair cut, hair cut, hair cut, Johnny, get your hair cut, shave and shine, Johnny, get your hair cut, hair cut, hair cut; Johnny, get your hair cut, just like mine." HELPING GRANNY MAKE SOAP It was soap-making day. Granny was doing the work, and the Boy was bossing the job. A fire of dead pine sap was burning under the big iron wash-pot out in the back yard, near the well. Near by was the wash-shelter — four light- wood posts set upright, across pine poles, and on these boards laid. Back of the shelter, fed by rich suds, was the big pomegranate bush, and near it a luxuriant growth of cane reeds, with long, waving white and green striped blades. Into the pot the due proportion of water had been poured and in this the lye dissolved. For this Grandpa had cut the wood back on the edge of the creek swamp ; it had been burned kiln fash- ion, the ashes carefully gathered and dripped in the big lye-hopper which stood beside the log smokehouse. These drippings formed the lye which was now put to domestic use. With the lye into the pot went the grease, this time "crack- lings" — fat trimmings from the hogs killed the winter before, the lard dried out and only the crisp, cooked flesh squeezed as long as it would yield a drop, left. Some of the cracklings were 232 Helping Granny Make Soap 233 used for corn pone "fatty bread," the remainder saved for soap. Over the pot as it boiled Granny stood, at first skimming the top until all foreign substances were out, then stirring it with her battling stick, occa- sionally lifting the stick on high until the liquid adhering thereto had a chance to cool. Touch and taste were both brought into service to judge when the soap was ready. For soap-making was a work requiring an expert. Cooked too long, it crumbled and was useless; not enough, and it was too soft. Just right, the fire was drawn, and it was left to cool in the pot. When cool, it was hard enough to cut into sections with a case-knife and was laid up on a shelf in the smokehouse until needed. This soap was not only used for toilet purposes but for laundry as well — at least we call them toilet and laundry now — then they were hand and face washings, and the wash-pot and tub. Under the shade of the big peach-tree the Boy was also busy — fashioning from cornstalk foot- soldiers and cavalrymen with a barlo borrowed from Uncle Jack. Cornstalks are soft; cut into sections they make ideal bodies for men and horses, the flinty peel affording just the stuff wanted, easily worked, for carving legs and arms — even muskets and sabers. Also, a long joint, with a knot on either end, flattened on one side 234 Saturday Night Sketches and the pith removed was just the thing for a feed-and-water-trough. Granny and the Boy were busy as bees, and when there came a hail at the gate, far across the yard and in front of the big house, neither was pleased. The soap was just in the making, and Granny could only spare time to peep around the crepe myrtle bush that obstructed her view of the gate. Nobody was in sight. Thinking she was mistaken. Granny went on with her soap-making. "Hello!" again the voice called. Again Granny laid aside her battling-stick, and this time stepping well around the crepe myrtle, took a good look. Still no one did she see. "It's them plague-taked boys, hollering and then hiding to scare me," Granny said, referring to two grandsons who were none too good for such tricks. "I won't let 'em bother me," and she turned her attention to her soap. "Hello!" again the voice came. "Hell high, and pass by!" Granny returned, touching her index finger to the dripping battling- stick and tasting to see if the soap was done. "And don't skin your shins," the Boy added, pegging a cavalryman to his horse. For awhile there was a dead silence — one of the kind that bring premonition of something wrong. Helping Granny Make Soap 235 "Hello!" this time the voice was choking, and something in it unfamiliar sent Granny on the long walk to the gate. And there, previously shut from her view by one of the big catalpa trees which stood on either side of the gate, a man sat on his horse, rocking with laughter. He had ridden forty miles to see Grandpa on business, and was bright enough of wit to appreciate the joke he had on Granny. For a few minutes, the bright, warm sunlight of noonday went dark for Granny. Then the hos- pitality which was second nature asserted itself; she had the stranger dismount, put up his horse and sit on the broad piazza of the big house until the men-folks came in from the field, while she hurried to put on biscuit for dinner. But that pot of soap was a total loss. For the only time in her life. Granny forgot one. And never again did she call in answer to a gate hail until she saw beyond doubt who was there. The stranger remained two days. He teased Granny at every meal, and she could only smile. AN OLD TIME FIRE-HUNT "Shine 'em eye, boss ; shine 'em eye, right da' I" loudly whispered the excited negro. Around, the blackness of night was as a wall. Overhead, even the sky was dark, only the nearer stars showing a faint glimmer. The Boy stood with rifle on half-cock; in front a negro lad about his own age, carrying the family frying pan filled with lightwood splinters, whose blaze lighted a small space around them. In front a few yards staring out of the wall of blackness, two balls glis- tened, reflecting the rays of the light. They were the eyes of a deer, and the wide space between told the experienced that the owner was a big buck. The two boys were fire-hunting. It was "dark nights" and the deer were fat with the grasses of late summer. The deer of those days were curi- ous animals. If not aroused too soon from sleep in the early night, by someone carrying a bright light, the bucks would not run, but would stand with head thrown up and stare at the light until the hunter came within range. It was this pecu- liarity that made fire-hunting popular. Only two hunted together, one to carry the light, and this 236 An Old Time Fire-Hunt 237 job usually fell upon the negro, of whom there was nearly always a family on every farm. But this kind of hunting required a knowledge of the deer's haunts, patience, and caution, for it would not do for them to hear too soon. The boys had made up the hunt the night be- fore, and during the day's plowing laid their plans. One quit work before night to get a supply of fat splinters, the other requisitioned the frying- pan without Mother's consent and pieced out the handle with a stick of wood. After supper at early candle-light they started. It was over a mile through the thick pines and wiregrass before the creek was reached, and a halt was made to light the torch. Then they pro- ceeded slowly, neither speaking except in whispers. Here was a favorite run for deer, where they came up the creek until near its head and then crossed a dividing ridge of hills to the headwaters of an- other creek. This ridge was a watershed between tributaries of rivers flowing in nearly opposite directions. The deer would perhaps be lying in a clump of pines on the near hillside, or in low bushes just outside the creek swamp. So the two made their way through the bottom grass between the hill- side and the creek. For two hours or more they walked, halting often to peer around them for the shining eyes 238 Saturday Night Sketches which alone would denote the presence of a deer. It was nearly eleven o'clock before the warning whisper of the negro told the Boy that game was sighted. Carefully, for the slightest sound might frighten the buck, he brought his rifle up, and with a rest on the shoulder of the negro he drew a careful bead. The rifle was the old-fashioned, muzzle- loading kind, and the hunter had only one chance. At last the twin sights came into Hne with the black spot between the glistening eyes — the Boy held his breath, and pressed the trigger. As the rifle cracked, like a whip, the two started to run forward to see the result. "Swish!" "Bam!" "Kerplunk!" A 42-centimetre shell hit the fire-pan and sent the splinters spinning in every direction. With his last breath knocked out in a blood-curdling yell that could have been heard a mile, the negro was sent to earth with a shock that half-paralyzed him. The Boy didn't know what hit him, but he came to his senses in a few seconds and raised up on his elbow. The negro was lying flat on his back, and mak- ing good use of the breath that had just come back. "Oh, Lordy, massa, don't hit me no mo' ! Please, massa, call the yethquake off ! Oh, Lordy ! I ain't done nothin' and I won't do nothin' no mo' ! Oh, Good Lordy I don't let the yeth swaller An Old Time Fire-Hunt 239 me." "What's the matter with you, Gabe?" the Boy asked, too scared himself to laugh. "A yethquake's come, and the world's gwlne- ter end," the negro pleaded; "Oh, Mos' Lord; hab massy on me." "Dry up!" said the Boy, who by this time was coming around to a realization of things; "there ain't no earthquake." "What wuz it, then?" the negro asked; "did the tree fall on us?" "No," was the reply, and there was sorrow in the voice; "I only missed the buck, and he ran smack over us." The splinters, from which the fire had been knocked by the shock, were now catching again, and setting fire to the wiregrass. This was stamped out, material collected and with the pan once more alight, they started home. Both had had enough hunting for that night. The Boy was carrying the light and walking swiftly ahead, keeping a lookout around that the direction might not be missed. They had scarcely gone an hundred yards when he stumbled and nearly fell, the pan flying from his hands. Looking down, he jumped straight up into the air when he saw the carcass of a deer. For some unknown reason, the buck had thrown up his head just as the rifle fired, and the ball, 240 Saturday Night Sketches instead of hitting between the eyes, had struck centrally in the chest and gone through the heart. With the impulse known to follow such shots, the buck had bounded straight ahead, overturned the two boys, and run until the death momentum failed, when he had fallen in his tracks. Luckily, the boys had turned homeward; had they not, the buzzards would have had a venison feast. Chattering delightedly, the boys swung the car- cass, riddled it, tied the four feet together and took turns at carrying it home. They walked and talked, going over their start- ling experience, until suddenly it dawned upon them that they should have reached home long ago. Neither had a watch, but when the Boy stepped outside the light's radius, he could tell by the stars that morning was not far off. Soon, they came to a black stump which had a famihar look, and the Boy, who was carrying the deer, thought he remembered snuffing splinters at it half an hour gone. He looked; there were the coals — they had been traveling in a circle ! Then they put out the light and went on with- out it — something they should have done at the beginning, for nothing else so readily gets a pedes- trian lost in the woods. The Boy could easily tell the points of the compass by the stars, but he did not know in what direction home lay. Fin- ally, calculating by the fact that they had not An Old Time Fire-Hunt 241 crossed any streams, he struck out, guided by the north star. A mile or more they walked. From the top of a hill they saw, against the horizon, a break in the forest. "Must be Uncle Johnny Ford's field," said the Boy. Uncle Johnny lived only a mile from their home. They steered for it. At last, coming out from the trees, instead of seeing the rail fence at the back of the neighbor's field, they saw their own front gate. They had walked around at least ten miles on the way home, and carried a buck which by that time weighed a ton! They were tired enough to sleep as soon as they hit the hay. Not even joy could keep them awake until the morning, which was coming over the pine tops in the east. THE SUNDAY SCHOOL CELEBRATION "All hail the power of Jesus' name! Let angels prostrate fall! Bring forth the royal diadem, And crown Him lord of all." Two thousand people stood to sing the opening hymn; out from under the immense tabernacle rolled the great volume of sound, drowning the organ accompaniment. When it was concluded, there was a rustle as the crowd was seated, and then a gray-headed patriarch, his giant frame still unbent with years, stepped forward to Invoke Di- vine guidance. It was the annual celebration of the county Sunday Schools. For a year, in season and out, with varying success, meeting in log schoolhouses or churches, in rough frame buildings, or even In more desolate sections at private residences, the tireless workers had struggled on — brave, un- daunted spirits, men and women who were build- ing nobly on the foundations for a Christian cit- izenship. Perhaps in extreme of winter no one met with them for a few weeks; perhaps they 242 The Sunday School Celebration 243 took a short vacation — "winter quarters" — but usually where even three or four gathered to- gether, there was the lesson, the song and the prayer. Perhaps the attending children walked many miles along paths through the wiregrass beneath the pines to reach the school, perhaps there had been discouragement from sources where encouragement was expected; but one way or another the year and its work had passed, and with the coming of spring and the glorious weath- er of May, they were all gathered for a revival of spirit and the fresh impetus for the task that comes through co-operation. Their association owned its tabernacle in a cen- tral town; an immense wooden shelter on sub- stantial posts of fat pine logs, the seats of pine boards, the ground covered with sawdust. Un- der it now was a great fluttering of fans, a scent of cinnamon and Hoyt's cologne, augmented by an occasional whiff of hair oil. Girls in cool white or bright colors in lawns and muslins; boys in striped seersucker (of varying length, accord- ing to the number of washings), and beside them the sober garments of the men and women of maturer years. Outside as far as the eye could see, stood teams and vehicles of varying character according to the owner's means, from the humble ox-cart to the glistening carriage and pair; besides these, many 244 Saturday Night Sketches hundreds came on the excursion trains operated from either direction. To the south, the cold drink and refreshment stands, operated by the association to capacity all day. There were reports from each school, the su- perintendent of even the most remote having his brief moments before the crowd. Then an ad- dress, or maybe two, from men of scholarly at- tainments and devotion to the work, who will- ingly left their homes and duties in neighboring cities to contribute to the day's good things. More singing, by different schools, or by the audience as a whole, and then dinner! Tables formed the outer open walls of the tabernacle. On these was ample room for the cloths and the bounteous picnic spread. The chicken was there, in multitude and abundance; also in salad, pie, roast and fry. Cold boiled ham from the home smokehouse, beef roast, 'cued, dried and fried; pork, pickles, sauces, salads, ad libitum. And cake — of every color, flavor and design, but all good. Who could eat one of those dinners and ever forget? Best of all, the whole- hearted hospitality; few ate at their own table alone, but roamed through the crowd, chatting and tasting here and stopping there, as sure of a wel- come as would be the visitor to his or her own spread. After dinner, an hour for the thirsty to drown The Sunday School Celebration 245 it as best they may ; for the young people to court and giggle and laugh, as youth will; for older ones to exchange news and gossip, and for the associational heads to rearrange their plans for the afternoon. To get such a crowd together after the noon meal required a magnet, but the man and the oc- casion met in R. B. Reppard, a Savannah lumber- man, a godly man, whose great heart could scarce- ly hold his love for the children of that day and the Sunday school cause. Reppard could collect a crowd quicker and get it interested easier than any man of his time. He could make five hun- dred children hold their breath while he told a story and drove home a lesson that would remain through the years as a golden line on memory's tablet. He has gone long since to meet the chil- dren he directed on the way. Then, the crowning event of the day, the sing- ing contest for the association's blue and silver banner, which had waved its graceful folds all day over the school victorious in the contest of the year before. Each school selected its song and its leader, but all participating must be bona fide members. The judges, whose task was a hard one, were always selected from outside the county. The entries were handed the president, and as its name was called, the school arose and sang. 246 Saturday Night Sketches In front stood the leader, book in hand; the class selected from among the senior members. As he sounded the note, gave the word, and the song rang out, there was a burst of melody, a zip of harmony, a concord of trained young voices that put the quickest-eared judge on his or her mettle to pick the winner. When it was over and the decision announced, there was no grumbling pro- test, but a hearty congratulation of the winners on one side and a determination to get ready for next year on the other. All things, even the best things of life, come to an end. A happy day had been well spent, but the lengthening shadows, the sunbeams now across the tabernacle, attest approaching night, and once more the assembled thousands stand as one for the farewell song — a farewell that means a final parting for many; to others but au revoir until the cycle of time again brings May and reunion: "God be with you 'till we meet again; By His counsels guide, uphold you, With His sheep securely fold you, God be with you 'till we meet again." WHEN THE WIREGRASS WAS ABLAZE Bud stopped his plow and turned, holding the lines and stock with one hand, as he sniffed the air: "I smell grass burning," he said. It was early spring, and Bud with John, the Mexican pony horse, a grasshopper stock, home- made, and a turning plow, was breaking the land for corn. Ahead of the plow, spring laziness weighing like lead on his footsteps, the Boy was cutting the briars that had grown all too numer- ous since oats had been cut from the land the sum- mer before. Slowly, painfully up, and dispirit- edly down, the hoe rose and fell. The Boy all too gladly turned when Bud spoke. Across the field, the haze of spring, the air laden with the humid- ity of the season of gestation. Far across the branch and the new-ground beyond, high up above the circle of tree-tops, the blue of the sky was obscured by a whitish but discolored vapor. Watched, it rose in waves, steadily growing dense, and giving the sunshine a reddish glare. "It's the woods afire, and this wind is bringing it right in," said Bud, as he began unhitching the horse. Together to the house the two boys went; 247 248 Saturday Night Sketches left the horse, secured rake and hoe, and in a half trot hurried to the scene of danger. In those days, in Wiregrass Georgia, the face of the earth was covered with a carpet of wire- grass broken by small farms, trails of roads, and small streams. This carpet was thickened by fall- ing pine straw, and if left alone for a few years formed a heavy covering. Every spring it was the custom of the cattlemen to fire the woods, burning off the old grass that a new growth might spring up for early summer pasturage. Then it was often the case that fire was started in the wiregrass by careless hunters, or sometimes put out by boys for mischief. Once in the woods, these fires were a source of dread to farmers, and rarely a spring passed that did not see a loss of more or less fencing. Once under good headway, with a strong wind behind, hard fighting was nec- essary to save fencing or even homes. Before crossing the back fence of the new- ground, the boys saw their work was cut out for them. Across the branch head to the south on the crown of the opposite hill, in a long, sinuous, crackling line, the fire was coming in. Behind it was a stiff breeze, and the flames leaped forward, advancing almost as fast as a man could walk. Occasionally they flared higher, as heavier grass was caught; again a dead pine blazed, or the top of a sapling made a flaming torch. Over all hung When the JViregrass Was Ablaze 249 a pall of smoke, and there was a dull roar, as waters at flood. But the boys had no time to gaze. Although young, they knew their work, and jumped to it. The chances were good that the fire could not cross the small branch, where there was still much water, but that it would have to circle around its head. It would be worse than foolish to wait for the fire to come in — the thing to do was to fire against it. From the corner of the fence to the branch, a few hundred yards, a string of fire was run, taking thirty feet at a time. Then, ten feet east of this, a parallel line of fire was set. This was done by pulling up a handful of long wiregrass and straw, twisting it together, lighting it and then, when it was ablaze, stooping low, in a run shak- ing the burning particles into the grass beneath. Soon, in two lines, the fire was blazing. The heat would draw the flames of each line together, and when they were In the act of joining, the boys by hard and fast work would beat out the west line with pine-tops, young saplings cut to convenient size. It was hot work, but soon they had a line fired from the corner of the fence as far down into the branch as it would burn. By this time, the incoming fire had turned the branch head, far to the east, and blazing high in the rich bottom grass, 250 Saturday Night Sketches was sweeping in a long circle toward the fence. Then it was a race with the boys against fire and wind, down the long worm fence, running north and south and forming the eastern boundary of the farm. Up this fence northward they started, pursuing the same tactics, firing a short strip, waiting for the heat of the parallel fires to draw them to- gether, and then beating out that nearest the fence. Bud did the firing, hastily raking handfuls of straw, twisting and strewing, while behind him the Boy came, his pine-top rising and falling like a flail. Soon they were joined by Bill Driggers, a neighbor, who had seen the distant smoke and had come to help. Then later the Mother came, for all must do their bit in* time of stress. The Father had gone to mill — just their luck, in time of fire. Even with reinforcements, it was soon appar- ent that the race would be close. The big fire was sweeping in, with an ever-increasing roar, and already the advance smoke was making breathing difficult. But working in feverish haste, stopping for nothing and steadily advancing, Bill helping Bud and Mother the Boy, fighting for every inch, they made slow but steady progress. Finally, panting, short of breath, with smoke- begrimed faces and watery eyes, the north corner When the Wiregrass Was Ablaze 251 of the fence was in sight. Fifty yards more and the fight was won. But only forty yards away, like a holocaust, the fire was coming in. Could we make it? Bud and Bill took a chance. With big handfuls of blazing straw they ran ahead, carrying the two parallel lines past the corner. Then they turned with pine-tops, to help the oth- ers whip out. But too late! At the critical moment, with nerves tense and victory in sight, came a change In the wind to the east, driving the oncoming flames, now leaping ten feet high, across the feeble defending line, into the fence. Frantically the Boy stuck, beating down the blazing grass until human flesh could endure no more, and out he ran toward fresh air, his face blistered, his breath coming in smoke-choked gasps, his eyes streaming tears, his arm thrown up to protect his face; weeping with wrath, the sting of defeat and the acrid smoke, which would leave its effects for days. Mother was already out, and a few minutes later Bud and Bill, both the kind who would stick to the last, staggered into the open. The fight was lost and the fence was gone. For a breathing spell they watched the dozen fence panels south of the corner blaze; then as the fire started down the north fence. Bud and Bill awoke to action again. First the east fence was torn 252 Saturday Night Sketches down past the fire and the Boy sent to watch there ; then, not once or twice, but half a dozen times the north fence was torn down, only to be sur- rendered to the blaze. At last the fire was head- ed, and with Mother and the Boy on guard. Bud and Bill turned to the blazing trees in the field, which had caught from sparks from the burning woods. These dead trees were covered with sap two inches thick and in this fire would smoulder for days, only to break out at the most inopportune time. A slight wind would blow the sap sparks for an unbelievable distance. The only way to stop this was to cut down the trees, and at this the youth and man went to work, their axes soon ringing in unison. It was not until long after nightfall, the dew on the grass had checked the blaze and assured a measure of safety until morning, that all found surcease from effort and home was sought, where still the Mother had to prepare supper. After this was sleepily eaten, the rest that came was the well-earned sleep of exhaustion, into which came no thought of the morrow, whose tasks were its own. THE SINGING PLAY ^'London bridge is falling down; Oh, girls; remember me! London bridge is falling down — So, heighof ladies, turn!" It was indeed "a sound of revelry by night." The blazing fire of lightwood knots in the wide stick-and-clay fireplace lighted the animated scene. Four couples, youths and maidens, on the floor were tripping nimble feet to the music of their own voices, led by the tall youth with the deep bass, who also led in the movements of the play. Circling around with joined hands; a sudden swing, turn, the boy to the left, the girl to the right, until each had swung the circle 'round, and the partners met. Then a promenade, back to their places, and either the same movements re- peated, or another song started, and the form of circle, swing, and promenade varied. Around the walls of the single-pen log house were seated those not engaged in the play, for which there was only room for one "set." The mothers, swapping gossip and passing around the 253 254 Saturday Night Sketches snuff-box; girls as yet of too tender age to be often asked as partners, children not yet overtaken by "Napper," and the babies — always the babies, either on quilt pallets or in mother's arms; some- times handed over to a neighbor to hold while the mother, still young enough to enjoy the game, joined a partner. Outside in the moonlight, under the chinaberry tree, sitting on the fence or leaning on the gate- posts, the older men smoked, yarned, or discussed crops and politics. Occasionally groups of young men, taking the air after the exercise of the play, laughed and chatted and teased. At the doors on either side of the house, looking hungrily on, stood bashful boys, ashamed to go in but nearly dying to do so, feet unconsciously patting time to the singing. Around the house were others, still less venturesome, peeping in between the cracks of the log walls. Occasionally one of those in the door, screwing his courage to the sticking- point, would make a break and blushing and stam- mering approach one of the girls inside and se- cure her as partner, proudly taking his place in the forming square or circle, jeered but deeply envied by his late companions. Jim and Mrs. Jim were "giving a party." It was the holiday season, the crops all in, the spring work still several weeks off. Around the settle- ment, by word of mouth, the invitation had gone, The Singing Play 255 and for miles the young folks, occasionally accom- panied by careful parents, had assembled. Little was thought of a five-mile walk both ways, with a night's frolic in contemplation. It was in those days when the country dances were becoming less frequent. The preachers were getting in their work, and a majority of the young people belonged to the church. Church folks did not dance in those days in Wiregrass Georgia. So for the young and amusement-bent, the singing play was allowed (although frowned upon by the strict) as a vent for high spirits. Many of the plays were not very far removed from dances, "London Bridge" being very much like a cotillon, and another, "Twistification," to the words: "0/i, come along, my pretty miss; Oh, come along, my honey! Oh, come along, my sweet sugar-lump And we won't go home 'till Monday. And now I turn my sugar and tea; And now I turn my honey ; And now I turn my sugar and tea And now I turn my darling." partook very much of the form of the old Vir- ginia reel, the first four lines being sung to a quick march by the leading couple between the lines of the others, and the last four lines as they swung opposites and each other, the "sugar and tea" 256 Saturday Night Sketches being the opposite and the "honey" and "darling" the partner. As each couple took their places at the foot of the line after going through, they were followed by the couple at the head, and as each trip was followed by a "promenade all," it will be seen that the play kept things humming. Everybody was supposed to sing. The singing play was the legitimate evolution of the kissing play of childhood. The youth who led that night is a power among the preachers of the gospel to-day; a godly man of ripe years and understanding heart; another is in politics; another in business. Some of the girls are grandmothers now, others have long slept, like many of their partners, in the warm bosom of Mother Earth beneath the mourning pines. But for that night the present was all sufficient, and even as the morning star swung into the horizon and the first bars of dawn fell athwart the sky, those going home first left a number still unsatiated with merriment, and the first part of their journey was enlivened by the merry notes from the house, accompanied by the sound of tripping feet: "Hands all Wound in the Irish trot; Hands all 'round in the Irish trot; Hands all 'round in the Irish trot; Oh, ladies fare you well!" THREE WATERMELONS AN UN- HANDY TURN "Help yourselves," the Ford boys said, hospit- ably; "take as many as you can carry for the folks at home." The Boy and Cousin Bill Bat had gone over to Uncle Johnny Ford's for Sunday afternoon. Bill had been doubly orphaned by the war just ended, and had been raised by his grandmother and a devoted friend of his hero father. Strange to say, the name given him here was the one by which he was known, and was only an abbrevia- tion of his Christian and surname. He despised a dull time, had a horror of books, and was re- nowned for the almost uncanny strength and ac- curacy with which he could hurl a pebble with his left hand. Although ostensibly a neighborhood social call, the objective of the Sunday visit was Uncle John- ny's watermelon patch. Singular that, in a coun- try where they would mature with little labor or expense, few melons were grown then — one of the contradictions so often met in the Cracker character of forty years ago. But all liked to 257 258 Saturday Night Sketches eat them and watermelons were a highly prized and rare luxury. Uncle Johnny's cattle roamed several hundred wiregrass-covered hills, and in the spring they were rounded up, assorted, young ones marked and branded, and the fresh cows penned for sev- eral weeks. After the cattle returned to the range, the land made rich by these pens was scoot- ered up, turned, and when the summer rains came, set with sweet potato draws. A bountiful crop followed, and in later years, corn and perhaps cotton rotated, the land having nothing but the original fertilization of the pen- ning process — there were no commercial fertiliz- ers to be had then. When the potato plants were set. Uncle Johnny always planted his watermelons, and when, in the late summer months, the ground between the high ridges was covered with a luxuriant growth of potato vines, nestling among them could be found hundreds of cool, delicious, succulent watermelons — whose superiority to the melons of the present day was not alone due to boyish taste and appetite. There was no market for them; there were more than the family could use, so the neighbors were welcome — as they would have been, were there only two melons to divide. The Ford boys met Bat and the Boy at the big gate, and escorted them around to the roomy Three Watermelons an Unhandy Turn 259 backyard, where soon the usual game of marbles was in progress. Then, down to the melon-patch, where red, juicy hearts were split and enjoyed; on to the wash-hole in the big branch back of the field, where melons were used as buoys and after- wards eaten; then as the shadows lengthened, back to the melon-patch, where the visitors were urged to carry a feast to the home-folks. That was what led to the downfall. After much thumping, turning, and scraping with thumb-nail, Bat at last selected two of the biggest to be found — a daddy gray and a rattle- snake. The Ford boys aided the Boy to find two small ones which he thought he could carry. On his way to the fence, Bat's foot struck something and looking down he saw a big muskmelon, whose delicate odor even then caused his nostrils to di- late. "Dog-gone, I've just got to have that!" he exclaimed — and his finish was in sight. So the muskmelon was added to his burden, with a water- melon under either arm, and the muskmelon caught between his hands in front. At the fence the Ford boys bade them fare- well, with some humorous doubts as to their reach- ing home with the load. Bat was a strapping youth of seventeen; the Boy scarcely ten. Home lay a mile and a half straight through the woods, with the big branch and heads of two smaller streams intervening. Before they had gone a 26o Saturday Night Sketches score of yards, the Boy, perspiring and stagger- ing beneath his burden, which had become as lead, had his doubts. Granny had always said Bat's eyes were "bigger than his belly." It was not far to the big branch, and as soon as the shelter of the first gall-berry bushes was reached, Bat's genius began to shed light. "Jest let me show you," he said, when the Boy caught up with him, where he had carefully deposited his burden on the grass; "how I'm agoin' to fix things." As the Boy watched. Bat first pulled off his shoes and took out the buckskin strings; then he removed his pants, transferred the contents of the pockets to his coat, and tied the bottoms of the legs with his shoe-strings. Into each leg he put a watermelon, slung them across his shoulder, took up the muskmelon in his free hand and re- sumed his march in triumph. The Boy was agape with admiration at such resourcefulness and would have followed the example, but the legs of his pants would not take even a small watermelon — besides, he had no shoes. If the Boy had been given time for criticism, there would have been something humorous in Bat's appearance as he marched off, but he was too busy with his own problem. Cloth was not wasted in surplus undergarments in those days, so when Bat pulled off his pants, nothing was left Three Watermelons an Unhandy Turn 261 but the skin. In the general scheme of economy, shirts were not made longer than absolutely nec- essary, and the bottom of Bat's reached little be- low the tail of the small gray jeans coat. This coat was little more than a round-cut jacket. It was always put on under protest and worn relig- iously, under any and all conditions. The spec- tacle Bat presented as he marched triumphantly ahead, would have made the angels weep — had they been looking. But the Boy had too many troubles of his own to notice, and as the way home was through the trackless woods, what difference did it make? Did you ever tote a watermelon? It is about the meanest, most slippery burden man ever bore ; one that reaches out into the atmosphere and gar- ners in moisture to add to its weight with every step. A ten-pounder on your shoulder will weigh fifty at the end of half a mile — and the two had three times that distance to go. The Boy staggered, sweated, grunted, and fin- ally at the point of exhaustion lost all taste or further desire for watermelon. He would not acknowledge defeat, but he was at the end of his row. Passing over a projecting pine root, he let one of the melons fall. "Oh, Bat I" he called to the one ahead; "I've dropped one and busted it." Berating his carelessness. Bat came back, and 262 Saturday Night Sketches the two sat down to eat, that nothing might be wasted. But the joy had gone out of things for the Boy, and a piece of heart almost choked him; he had no heart for it. Wearily, the journey was resumed. As all things pass, the big branch had been crossed, the spring branch surrounded, and now as they rose the hill after a long climb, home was in sight, although still half a mile away, a bottom and two hillsides between. The Boy was finding little re- lief from the dropped melon, for one was so hard to manage, and all the weight was on a fellow's stomach. Bat was tired, so he was glad of an excuse to wait for the Boy, who had fallen many rods to the rear. He slid his twin burden down by a young pine, set the muskmelon on top of it, and while calling to the Boy to "Hurry up ! you're slower than the seven-year eatch," he stood carv- ing his girl's initials in the bark of the pine with his Barlow. What Bat didn't know was that when he slid his burden against the pine, he demolished a small nest of wasps. Caught under the pants and mel- ons, the daddy wasp had some trouble in extricat- ing himself, but this he did after a while, and when he came out he was afire with indignation at the family outrage and desecrated home. Bat was then industriously putting a flourish to the Three Watermelons an Unhandy Turn 263 "P" that represented to him all feminine loveli- ness. Of course, clad as Bat was, there was only one place for a wasp to strike, and there he struck, with a "swap!" the Boy plainly heard, fifty feet away. "Ge-e-e-e-m-i-n-e-t-t-y!" Bat yelled, jumping three feet straight up, his knife as he came down raking a shower of bark from the pine. He clapped both hands to the place hit, and in doing so came near cutting off a slice of ham with the open Barlow. When he hit the ground he hit it running, and the Boy, putting down his water- melon, only overtook him after he had reached the flat and was sitting down in some cool mud. "Geeminetty! Dog-gone! Dad-blame! Dog- bite a dead nigger!" Bat was saying over to him- self as the Boy came up. After awhile, as cooling relief came, he began to devise ways and means. "Tell you what you do, John," he said. "I jest gotter have them pants. You take a pine- top, and go back; you can beat down them wasps jest easy enough, and then drag the pants and melons away a little piece and I'll come and git 'em." "I don' wanter," the Boy said: "you do it — you're the biggest." "I would in a minute," was the reply; "but I 264 Saturday Night Sketches ain't got a bit uv protection in the world." There was no gainsaying this. The personal influence of the big boy over the smaller is great and by sheer force of it, the Boy, armed with a top cut from a sapling, cautiously approached the scene of the late hot encounter. No wasp was in sight. The Boy reconnoitered, and seeing none, thought they had gone. He put down the pine bough and cautiously pulled at onf leg of the pants. Then something hit his jaw like the kick of a mule with a red-hot shoe. A quick slap killed the wasp, but by the time the Boy re- joined the waiting Bat, his face was swollen as if he had an ulcerated tooth. Neither would go back; Bat would not and the Boy had enough. "Tell yer what we'll do," said the resourceful Bat; "we'll go to the house and get me a pair of Fell's pants, and then I'll come back and just ever- lastingly flail the living devil out of them dad- blamed, dog-fetched, heretics." In which ambi- tion the Boy heartily joined, and homeward they hurried. Fell was the Boy's older brother, off visiting for the day, and about Bat's age. Climbing the rail fence back of the lot, and cautiously rounding the pomegranate bush by the smokehouse, they heard voices. Granny and Aunt Ruth had come ov^er to pay Mother a visit, and they were talking at a 2 :40 gait. Worse than that, they were sitting between the open doors of Three JVatermelons an Unhandy Turn 265 the house, where they could see everything com- ing near it. Bat stepped back behind the smoke- house, to rearrange his plans. "I'll slip up inter the fodder-loft," he said, "while you run in the house and git me the pants." As the Boy followed orders Bat snooped along the fence to the lot. Towse, the family dog, met him and insisted on licking him where licking r/as not wanted. "Go back!" Bat whispered, not daring to kick lest the dog howl. But in climbing back' over the fodder, Bat disturbed a hen which had stolen a nest and was setting. Out she flew, down into the lot, with a great squalling and cack- ling, which caused every fowl on the place to join in the alarm. Despite the rattle of their talk, this soon at- tracted the attention of those in the house. '•^Wonder what in the world is the matter with the chickens?" one inquired, answering her own question with, "I bet it's a hawk." For hawks were the bane of the housewife who loved her chickens in those days. More with the idea of frightening off the ma- rauder than with the expectation of doing any execution. Aunt Ruth took down the single-bar- reled, muzzle-loading shotgun from the rack of deer antlers, and followed by her mother and sis- ter, ran out, passing unnoticed by the Boy, intent on securing the pants. 266 Saturday Night Sketches The horizon was scanned in vain; no hawk was in sight. "Something certainly gave those chick- ens a scare," Aunt Ruth said, and just at that time Towse, sure that a rat hunt was on now, began to bark, and circle around the foot of the ladder. "Lordy, it's somebody up in the fodder-loft," she exclaimed, "and I bet it's a convict." Only five miles away, a force of half a thousand con- victs was grading a railroad. Escapes were fre- quent, and a source of terror to women of that section, left much alone, at home. The suggestion was heart-stilling, but Aunt Ruth was plucky. If trouble was coming, she would seize the advantage. Cocking the gun and walking up to the foot of the ladder, she called: "We know you're there, so you just as well come down. Come right out, now; or I'll shoot up into the loft." Bat had not heard the first talk, because of the din Towse and the chickens were raising, but he heard the last. Of course, he ought to have told them who he was, and what was the matter, but not everybody can think of the right thing at the right time. A voice he was accustomed to obey commanded him to "come down," and he came. There is only one way to come down a ladder, and that was the way he came. It was the very worst way possible for him, at that time. The three women, gazing upward did not see Three Watermelons an Unhandy Turn 267 all of him as he came through the trap door of the loft, but they saw enough. With screams that could have been heard to the county site, they fled to the house, covering their heads with their aprons. The gun, dropped in the excitement, was discharged, the load of a thimbleful of birdshot narrowly missing Bat as it buried itself in the fod- der. Towse nearly threw a fit. As the racket was at its height, the Boy ran up with the pants. Down came Bat and seized the articles like a drowning man grabbing a life-belt. "What in the nation's the matter with them wimmen folks?" he asked. But the Boy had been too intent on fol- lowing instructions to be able to answer. Had another gun been at hand, the two boys would have been in danger as they went to the house to explain things. It took hard and fast talking to save both a licking, when at last the truth was comprehended. But a miss was good as a mile, and the thought of the melons to be retrieved helped somewhat. Yes; they went back for the melons, and the other pants. But a bunch of hungry hogs was ahead of them, and all that was left was a mussed up spot on the grass. "I hope the wasps got eat," Bat said. That's why I'm here to tell you that three melons make an unhandy turn. A HOUSE-RAISING AND HOME BUILDING "There was an old man and he wasn't very rich; When he died, he didn't leave much — But a great, big hat, with a little, bit o' brim, All bound round with a woolen string." Out of sheer excess of spirits the song was sung, not for rhyme or reason, but because it was spring- time, and life was in its youth. Four young and lusty men had lifted the pine log, and they sung as they bore it on their shoulders to the rapidly form- ing pen and laid it in place, the notched ends snugly fitted over its predecessor. John, the son of Farmer Jim, was soon to wed Sally, the daughter of Farmer Joe, and this house- raising was part of his home-building. A tract of land in the unbroken pine forest had been deeded to John by his father^ — land was cheap and plentiful then. All the fall, after crop time, and all through the winter John had labored, some- times with the help of a relative or neighbor, but never alone, for with him were visions of what the springtime would bring. 268 A House-Raising and Home Building 269 From the slender and stately pines, careful se- lections were made. The logs must not be over six inches in diameter, straight and without blem- ish. Selections made, they were felled, cut, and notched at both ends. Enough secured, with the ox-wagon or cart they were hauled to the site cleared for the home, and there with a drawing knife, the bark was removed. From dead pines, hardened to lightwood, the foundation blocks were sawed. From the hearts of large pines the sills were hewn with a broadaxe; from smaller pines the "plates" or cap-logs were hewn, and from saplings the rafters were cut. When he had done all one man could do for the time, John sent out "S. O. S." calls, and to his "house-raising" they came. Like all occasions when many were gathered to work, the affair was made a festival also. The festive preparations were made at John's home, but the work came first. Two older men experienced in such work took charge of the young men, divided into squads. First, the pine blocks were set and on these the sills were placed, ahgned and leveled. Then the two largest short logs were brought and placed across the ends of the sills, then two long ones, then two short ones, until the house, in the shape of a pen, began to rise. If John was unusually ambitious, or wealthy, and essayed a "double- 270 Saturday Night Sketches pen," there were two sets of "pens" going up, connected by full-length sills and plates, later to have one roof and a common floor, forming a long house with two large rooms of logs, a wide, cool hallway between, and perhaps as the family grew, with shed-rooms on the sides. But the "double-pens" were the exceptions. It was easy enough while the logs could be placed from the ground, but as the pens arose, it was necessary for men to climb the corners with the end of the log, and when It was up, for the other end to be raised by the same laborious pro- cess. It required muscle and some skill, but they made light of the task. Often the turpentine which had oozed out on the fresh-peeled surface had not thorqughly dried, and this stuck to hands, clothing and neck, when the log was shouldered. But they were not carpet-knights and were not dressed for a pink tea ; they were used to rough work, and expected It. The shirker only was de- spised. Hardest of all was raising the heavy "plates" or hewn cap-pieces, running the length of the house and extending out over each end. Heavier than the logs, to be carried highest of all, placing them in position was hard work and a little dangerous, as the slip of a foot climbing the slick logs meant trouble for all handling the piece of timber. While they were the busiest, across the Inter- A House-Raising and Home Building 271 vening vales, from the home of John's parents nearly a mile away, came the mellow notes of the dinner-horn. They were welcome. The walk was a mere breathing-spell, and when the ancestral home was reached, a bevy of rosy- cheeked, laughing, Wiregrass girls greeted them. Mrs. Jim had pieced two quilt-tops during the winter evenings, and to quilt these while the house was being raised the women-folks had been in- vited. While the men were "washing-up" at the water- shelf, where the big tin basin, cedar bucket and long-handled gourd were fixtures and plenty of home-made lye soap made the removal of the pine gum easy, there was much giggling, joking and flirting. At the table, loaded with good things, with mammoth chicken-pies, big pound-cakes and, dark-green potato custards, the lords of creation ate alone, woman waiting, as she had been trained from the beginning of time, until her master had feasted. After dinner there was a short period of rec- reation — flirting, quoit-pitching, mayhap wrestling or jumping, as inclination led, and then back to work. Before night, John's house was "raised." On either side, through the logs, doors had been sawed; in one end a window, beside the opening for a fire-place. From the "plates" rafters had been raised to the shape of inverted V's, and the 272 Saturday Night Sketches ends nailed; the job for the day was done. After- wards, from the distant saw-mill (operated by water-power) John hauled lumber for the doors and the floors; with boards or shingles riven or drawn by hand he covered It, as he drove the nails dreaming the dreams of youth. But no matter how great his comparative wealth, all that money paid for In the building of that home was the lum- ber and the nails. In time, after the wedding and the feasting, John brought his bride here, to make a home for him while he wrenched from the forest a farm on which to make a living for both, and for the children to come. At that wedding was no ava- lanche of so-called "presents," articles given by those who could ill afford, to those to whom they were of no use — it was not the custom then. But Sally's mother gave her a feather-bed and pillows stocked from the family herd of geese; John's mother added to Sally's store of quilts and sheets; from his ancestors had come down to John a cord-bedstead of fearful and wonderful construc- tion and great comfort; from the one-legged chair- maker across the creek John bought two chairs of stout hickory with cowhide bottoms, good for three generations at least; from the lumber John constructed a table, and a trip to the distant store had brought plates, cups and saucers, knives, forks and spoons ; a coffee-pot, frying-pan, and spider of A House-Raising and Home Building 273 cast-iron. These simple articles completed their house-keeping equipment. No cook-stoves to bring worry or indigestion then. There was no wedding trip, except from her home to his ; no large sums of money spent, which neither could afford; no bridal suites, Pullman drawing-rooms; no porters nor waiters to tip; but all the essentials of happiness were theirs. For it is within us, not in our surroundings, that happi-. ness lies. They had youth, they had love; they had their lives before them. What more could wealth, or power, or ambition bring? What they had was beyond price. For a season, mayhap for life, over that log cabin the Spirit of Happiness hovered. Cheru- bim looked down and smiled, for Heaven was there. The Morning Sun kissed them a greeting; Old Sol at midday laughed to see Love's dwelling- place, and the Evening Sun smiled them good- night. The Spirit of the Morning awoke them with the music of the quickening day and the Spirit of Night sung them a lullaby as Luna, swing- ing high in the starry heavens, bathed in soft and mellow light this home in its peace as sacred as a shrine. Even the whippoorwill called in a softer note, the nightingale tuned his flute to a love-song, and the lark sounded as the gentle dove's coo as he called to them that morn was here. Around this home in time spread broad acres, 274 Saturday Night Sketches from it came forth men and women to build a state ; within its sacred walls were inculcated the principles of right living, of right thinking, of wholesome religion and of sterling honesty and solid integrity that founded a citizenship of which the world holds no superior. For these people were the founders of the South Georgia of to-day. But we run ahead. We had just finished the house-raising, and back to the home of John's parents we go with the laborers, toilers no longer, weariness forgotten, they are merry-makers now. Here supper awaits, and perhaps a merry bevy of girls toss John, the groom-to-be, in one of the finished quilts. And after the supper, there is the fiddler, the man who beats the straws, and the tapping feet of both; the couples on the floor, and we leave them to the rhythmic cotillon calls as the violin merrily sounds : ''Oh, Dooly county girls, can't you come out to- night? Can't you come out to-night — can't you come out to-nightf Oh, Dooly county girls, can't you come out to- night? And dance 'till in the morning!" A NEST OF SQUIRRELS Bud called to the Boy to bring the axe. The call came from the bottom down the branch, a few hundred yards from the house. He could be seen between the intervals of the pines, far down the wiregrass covered, sloping hillside, motioning for haste. The Boy hurried to the woodpile, picked up the axe, dull, and with splint- ered handle, and ran to him. Bud had gone out at the noon hour, while the horse was eating, to kill a squirrel or so; it was a habit of his. Fox squirrels, almost extinct in this section now, were plentiful then. Bud was a good shot, and with his muzzle-loader rarely failed to bring in two or more. The squirrels were readily found, needing no dog to trail them, for they played from pine to pine and often fed on the ground on the "mass" dropping from the opening pine-burs. Those were days when game was plentiful. It was no trouble to kill all the fox squirrels wanted — big, fat fellows, as large as four of the swamp cat-squirrels of to-day; partridges were so easy that ammunition was not wasted on them unless 275 276 Saturday Night Sketches they were caught huddled in coveys; deer roamed the hillsides and often came within sight of the house in which Bud and the Boy lived, and which was surrounded by the pine forest. Across the branch, in the "new-ground" field, deer jumped the rail fence and did a great deal of damage to the fall crop of field peas. In this they were ably assisted by the wild turkeys, which went in droves of twenty to forty. This country knew no dearth of fresh meat then. Bud was dancing excitedly from one foot to the other when the Boy came up. "I saw five squir- rels go into that hollow tree," he asserted. The hollow was away up, but could be easily seen among the big limbs near the top. "I know there is a nest there, and the tree is sure hollow to the bottom. It can be cut down easy, and I've a good notion to do it." Around the tree he circled, sounding it with the axe. It didn't sound very hollow, but he was anxious to cut it, and wish lent aid to the ear. It was a whopping big tree, all right, about three feet through, but that wouldn't count for much if there was a big hollow. Certainly, it must be nearly all hollow far up, else how could five or more squirrels find comfortable lodging therein? Deciding that he would cut In a little way and see If the hollow was there, a small chip was taken, and cut out. No hollow. "Must be right A Nest of Squirrels 277 close," Bud said, and laid off another "kerf." Cut that down, and still no hollow. "Can't miss it this time," he said, and another "kerf" was cut. Still no hollow. The tree was so near half cut now, Bud decided the hollow must be on the other side, and he took a deep "kerf" this time, one that would carry him half way. The tree was as solid as heart lightwood could make it. Having cut it half down, Bud decided he would "let the hide go with the tallow," so to speak, and rather than lose the work he had done, cut the other half. This he did, taking frequent stops to rest, and rub his blistering hands, but with visions of roast squirrel to spur him on. All this time the Boy was stationed to one side to watch the top of the tree and see that none of the squirrels ran out and jumped to the limbs of other trees, as they frequently did, especially when the tree was nearly ready to fall; but no squirrel came into sight. At last, with many preliminary cracks, the great pine inclined, slowly at first, then more rapidly, brushing aside limbs and smaller trees, and at last down to the earth it came with a thundering shock. Up Bud and the Boy ran, he with gun ready cocked, the Boy with the axe, watching for the squirrels to jump — but nary a jump. The tree rebounded, a cloud of dust and rotten wood flying from the splintered top. Still no 278 Saturday Night Sketches squirrel. The boys searched among the debris; at last there was the crushed, mutilated and now worthless carcass of one poor squirrel, caught and killed in the hollow as the tree fell. The sun was almost setting; the afternoon work was lost. Sadder, tired, but wiser, the boys mean- dered home. To this day the Boy does not know where the other four squirrels went to. Did Bud see the same one five times? AN OLD TIME CIRCUS DAY "Booml-ta-rara-Boom-de-ay! Boom!-ta-rara-Boom!" The motley crowd lining the sidewalks craned necks ; youngsters ventured a few steps out to look down the street. Eureka! they were coming! With roll of drum and blare of horn, the band led. Mounted high on a chariot of crimson, silver and gold (drawn by eight prancing horses of glistening white, feathery plumes waving in the sunshine), clad in uniforms princely regal, the musicians with inspiring strains opened a day filled with wonderful things. For six weeks, since first the marvelous posters had appeared, magnifying the wonders of the ani- mal kingdom and feats of derring-do, the Boy had counted the days — even the hours, and waited with the impatience of childhood. Just a few days before the date emblazoned in gilded letters on his mind, one of the circus' advertising men, trav- eling through the country in a buggy on last call work, spent the night at the family homestead and generously volunteered to carry the Boy to the 279 28o Saturday Night Sketches circus city, where he could await the day of days with a relative. On the way, the Boy came near having one il- lusion dispelled. For this fast-talking representa- tive of the riches of the world was out of money; naively confessing that he did not have the where- with to pay the bridge toll at the river at the city's gates. The Boy thought how this same man had, with princely mien, insisted that morning on his father's acceptance of a dollar bill for his night's lodging, a thing unheard of then. And on the father's persistent refusal he had thrust the bill into the Boy's hand and would not be gainsaid. And the Boy wondered ; but the tender of the same bill now as a loan was refused. "I'll get the money," the man said; and he did. Underneath the buggy seat were a lot of left-over circus posters. It was fall time and the negroes had money. Soon the plantations along the river bottoms were at hand, and on either side of the road negro cabins. It only took a brief display of the gaudy-colored lithographs and the offer of them at five and ten cents each to bring eager pur- chasers, and when two stops had been made the bridge fare and the price of a night's lodging was in the treasure chest. The days passed, as days must, and Circus Day was here. With the first beam of morning light, the Boy and his cousins were up, and down by the An Old Time Circus Day 281 railroad yards, where the circus was unloading. They watched the dirt thrown out for the ring, the driving of the stakes and the hoisting of the big tent — all by labor of man and horse, for there were none of the devices of the present day. Now, all was ready and the parade was passing. After the band, John Robinson himself, in beaver hat and jim-swinger coat, drove in state; there followed beautiful ladies in dazzling cos- tumes; handsome men in blue and scarlet; then the massive elephants, the awkward camels, the long- necked giraffes; cage after cage, gilded and fan- tastic, with closed doors telling of the fearful man- eaters that could not be trusted even to iron bars alone. An occasional roar at the proper time blanched cheeks and sent hearts pounding. And then, of crowning wonder, the steam piano ! Call it caUiope if you will, but piano it was, and when steam could be kept up (which was at rare inter- vals) the ears were smitten, as by a board, with "The Last Rose of Summer." Into the big tent the procession passed, and we were left outside to walk the lane of wonders and view the dread posters before the side-shows. The depths of mythology; the scope of natural history, the store of nature's freaks and monstrosities, had been plumbed to gather the aggregation that now tempted from the pocket the precious dime — pre- cious because it could buy so much. But the Boy's 282 Saturday Night Sketches dimes were few and soon he passed, perforce with the surging crowd of white and black into the big tent some time before the performance began. Until to-day he has never understood what the reserved seat at a circus was for. Sufficient for him was the narrow plank, high up near the can- vas roof, where like a king in state he sat; and the marvelous things of earth passed before him. Oh, that excruciatingly funny clown ! With his painted face that sent a nearby babe into hyster- ics; his side-splitting jokes; his wonderful faculty of doing the right thing at the right time. His witticisms treasured and carried home, to furnish anecdotes for a year to come. There was only one ring and only one clown then, but, as Mercutio remarked, they were suf- ficient. And to boyhood, the tinsel was all silver and gold; the glass, jewels of first water; the paint and powder, rare work of nature. Never breathed such beautiful things as those lady horseback rid- ers (one all in silver, another in crimson and gold). Surely, she with the long riding habit, glistening with each step of her prancing horse, was Queen Titania of Fairyland, but come for a brief hour to feast the mortal eye. For Youth takes what it sees and believes; disillusion comes only with experience. The trapeze performers, the high jumpers, the somersaulters, as each came, the Boy's jaw AT THE CIRCUS An Old Time Circus Day 283 dropped, and eyes stuck out in wonderment. Pass- ing along the seats now were the peanut venders, and of a sudden appetite conquered curiosity. Followed the boys with glasses of lemonade, in pink and blue — and thirst succeeded appetite. Not even did disillusionment come when one of the peddlers of liquid was seen underneath the seats filling his empty glasses from parts of those re- maining, and a few minutes later a peanut seller replenishing his stock by similar methods. At last it was over. No use to say concert, for nothing could eclipse what had been seen, and tired but not surfeited with great things the home- ward way was wended, what had been witnessed still furnishing ample topics for progressive con- versation. Perhaps least of all things has the circus changed in forty years. There is more to it now; things have come and gone since the days of John Robinson; but the essential features remain the same. The circus has not changed because human nature is the same, for after all the circus is a part of man. If there were no youth, or old age with the heart of youth, there would be no circus; for with youth and its illusions the circus is a part. With the coming of age and the iconoclastic knowledge that age brings, happy is he who can still retain that part of the heart of youth and its imagina- tions that make the circus still a possible thing! GOING TO MILL WITH BUD "The miller, the miller, he lives in the mill; The stones turn 'round with a free good will; One hand on the hopper, the other on the sack; You carry him corn — you get your meal back." The Youth and the Boy, fourteen and six years, were eating breakfast by candle-light, the Mother hovering near, as mothers ever do. It was a day long looked forward to, when the Youth was to make the trip of twelve miles in an ox-wagon to carry the first corn of the season to mill. By begging, sniffing, and pouting, the Boy had bull- dozed or persuaded a reluctant consent to his mak- ing the trip, and scarcely had he slept the night before. For nearly a week, preparations had been mak- ing. The field had been searched for the ripest ears, and these pulled and carried to the house in a cotton-basket. After supper they had been shucked and the corn shelled by hand. During the day the shelled corn had been dried in the sun on sheets spread on the sloping roof of the chicken-house, on the meat-bench and the frame 284 Going to Mill with Bud 285 on which the beds were sunned. It was by keep- ing the chickens away from the drying corn that the Boy had in part earned the right to make the trip. The morning star was still bright in the east when the yoke was laid across the necks of the oxen, they were backed across the wagon-tongue, the end of the tongue run through the ring from the yoke and a stout iron pin dropped to hold it in place. The Youth laid the lines back between the projecting ends of the neck-bows, climbed into the wagon and announced ready. With a final admonition from the watching parents to be care- ful (useless as always), they were off. The distance was short for the auto of to-day, but it was an all-day trip for the ox-team of forty years ago. And oxen were handy things on the farm where there was only one horse and that one needed in the field. There were two sacks of corn containing a bushel each, and a small sack containing a peck to be chopped into hominy — grits we say now. These sacks, covered with a quilt, formed seats for the Youth and Boy. Beginning a journey Is like beginning life — all the fun is in the start. The morn was still cool and the oxen stepped off lively. Anticipation lent zest to the trip and spirits ran high. It was not so, later in the day. The sun blazed in a cloudless sky; the oxen — at 286 Saturday Night Sketches best only good for two miles an hour — lagged and panted and the Boy with the impatience of child- hood, asked every few minutes "how much far- ther?" Five miles out, the first accident came. The Youth had improvised a pipe by cutting off the tip-end of a gourd-neck and fixing therein a stem cut from a reed from the bushes of the first stream crossed. This pipe had been filled with a compo- sition of "rabbit-tobacco" and deer-tongue, dried and rolled in the palms until it crumbled. While the Boy watched with envious and admiring eyes, the Youth was sending up clouds of smoke, when a metallic clatter off to one side of the road caused both to turn their heads in time to see the tire from a rear wheel roll off down the hillside, strike a pine and tumble on the ground. Dismay followed contentment. The wagon had been standing under the shed for a long time, but the night before the tires had been "shrunken" by pouring on the wheels many buckets of water. On the way, there had been warning sounds of grating sand between tires and felloes, but the boys had not noticed. The tire was brought up and they vainly tried to drive it back on the wheel. Then the oxen were led to shade near by, and after much effort the axle was propped up with two pine limbs, and the wheel removed. Down on the ground, both Going to Mill with Bud 287 boys tried, with mallets of lightwood-knots, to beat that tire on. But, contrary to cussedness, it wouldn't go. Where before it was a loose fit for a Mother Hubbard, now it would not even serve as a tailor-made. It dropped off without help, but to save their lives, the boys could not, sweat and labor as they might, beat it back on. If it slipped over the felloe at one place, it lacked a quarter of an inch going to the edge in another. Five miles from home, and broken down! De- spair settled on the Boy's soul, but the brother was of sterner stuff. Off to a sandy place in the road the tire was carried, and propped off the earth with four pine-knots. Then, over it, all around the circle, pine bark and pinestraw were piled, and these set on fire. While the heat was expanding the metal, the wheel was brought up, and bolstered with knots put under the rims. Then, when the metal was showing red in places, the tire was lifted on two green forked sticks cut for the purpose, and placed over the rim. A few blows with the knots in the right places and, presto ! The tire was on ! But again disaster threatened! The pine wood of the felloes was set blazing by the hot tire, and the whole wheel bid fair to soon be in ashes. Again the resource- ful Youth was ready: Both boys ran to the stream close by, dipped water in their hats and ran with it to the blazing wheel. Soon the fire was out; 288 Saturday Night Sketches more water cooled the tire, the wheel was replaced, and the journey resumed, at the price of two Sun- day hats. But no more that day did the two for- get the tires, and often the sound of hammering arose as they pounded refractory felloes into place with knots, or wedged them tight with strips of pine. All journeys end after a while, if you keep go- ing; so did this one. Sometimes the Youth walked beside the wagon; sometimes the Boy ventured, and both were tired of walking and riding when at last the broad, shimmering millpond and the dusty house on the dam were sighted. The road to the millhouse led along the dam. The team drank at a stream only half a mile back, but as it approached the dam the oxen had their panting tongues hanging out, under the noon-tide sun. The ox is a creature of impulse. When he decides to go, he stands not on the order of the going. When this pair saw the cool water of the mill-pond, they went for it, like a doubtful voter for a quart. Down the dam and into the water they went, the Youth frantically tugging at the lines, and the Boy yelling "whoa! whoal" as he sought safety by running to the rear end of the wagon and jumping off. The oxen never stopped until the water was up to their necks, and then the wagon behind pushed them in a little further. Fortunately, some men at the mill heard the noise Going to Mill with Bud 289 and ran, backing out the wagon and team before any serious damage was done. Then up to the mill-house, the corn unloaded, and the wait for their turn, as others were ahead. Meanwhile, the Boy inspected the wonder of the dam and pond and house, the whirhng millwheel, the rushing water, the busy and dusty miller, as only curious boyhood can look, wonder, and learn. At last their turn came, and he watched the miller as the corn was measured, poured into the hopper, and the toll taken out. Then the mystery of see- ing the corn as it dropped from the hopper into the whirling rocks and emerged, warm and sweetly odorous meal. The oxen had eaten and rested before the boys were ready for the return journey. It was cool afternoon when once their heads were turned homeward, and they stepped off with an altogether different gait to the outward journey. Walking until tired; riding until tired, the return was with- out incident until the shades of night coming, the Boy curled upon one of the bags of meal and went to sleep. The Youth blinked a while and then followed suit, the oxen keeping to the road with steps growing swifter as home was neared. The boys did not even awake when the dread bot- tom was crossed where for many years stood a gallows on which a murderer had paid the death penalty, a place shunned and dreaded by both 290 Saturday Night Sketches after nightfall. At last, "Wake up ; we're home !" brought to the sleeping Boy more joy than the start on the journey had given. So much for the days that are gone. Now we who eat corn meal, have it carried home in a paper sack. Often it is coarse, or tasteless. It was ob- tained then only at the cost of much labor but as the bread of toil It was doubly sweet, and since that long day the Boy never looks on corn bread except with a wholesome respect. A LOG-ROLLIN', QUILTIN', AND FROLIC "/ stood upon the mountain And gave my horn a blow. I saw my sweetheart at the door. 'Yonder comes my beau.' " Instead of a mountain he stood on the top of one of the pine-clad hills of the gentle undulations of South Georgia — but it was the nearest to a mountain that he knew. Instead of a horn, he used nature's bugle. In the sheer exuberance of youth, he straightened his tall figure, swelled his chest and from his leathery lungs came the cow halloo : "Yo-ho-o-e-e! Yo-ho-o-e-e 1" Across intervening vales, from hilltop to hill- top, the sound re-echoed until lost in the distance. He listened, breath suspended for the reply. It came after a while, almost like an echo of his own call. It was from his friend with the same destination. Half a mile farther on they met, the young man walking, his sister riding the family horse with side-saddle and the long skirt of those days. Two miles farther they reached the object 291 292 Saturday Night Sketches of their early morning trip. The log-rolling was essentially a pioneer insti- tution. During the past year in the "new ground" the winds had wrought havoc and there was much fallen timber. No effort was made to clear the timber from the land before bringing it into cul- tivation; the process was too laborious and expen- sive. With an axe the trees were "deadened" by being chopped in a double circle, thus cutting off sustenance from mother earth and soon they died; this dead timber falling easily before the hard winds of fall and winter, covered the land with logs and debris and had to be cleared before the spring plowing began. Preparing for the log-rolling was hard work. The logs must be cut into convenient lengths and for a week the housewife was busy cooking and getting ready. She herself during the long winter evenings had pieced together scraps of cloth of brilliant colors into various attractive patterns, these squares being sewed together to form the top for a bed-quilt. The bottom was of substan- tial homespun, white or colored, and between these a layer of cotton carded into "bats," about a foot long and four inches wide. The quilt in these three layers was carefully stitched to a wooden frame and this suspended to joists in the living- room which was probably the only room. Those people started early when they gave a A Log-Rollin' , Quiltin', and Frolic 293 neighbor a day's work and the sun was not very high when the crowd was gathered. The men were divided into squads of nine each. The lead- er, possibly past middle-age, carried the "prize pole," or fulcrum, which was driven under the end of the logs, and a boy was handy with a block to scotch it. Bearing down on the end of this lever the log was raised and a heavy round hand- stick, of substantial black-gum or hickory, was thrust underneath the end. Then came the tug of war. Two of the stoutest men had the first stick and it was their duty to give the others "light." By main strength they raised the log until the second stick could be thrust under, followed in turn by the third and fourth, until the big piece of timber was carried, mid-thigh high, by eight men. Here there were many tests of strength and often laughing efforts to "pull down" an oppon- ent. South Georgia's sons were sturdy young men in those days and with anything like an even match, to pull down the other fellow's end of the stick was no pigmy's job. There was danger in it also, as many wrenched backs and occasional permanent injuries attested. As a rule, however, the partners to each stick knew each other well from previous experience and there was no effort to make the other fellow's task harder. The con- test came when the opposites were rivals in love 294 Saturday Night Sketches or athletic feats, and then when the timber was green or water-sodden, there were times when the muscles were sorely tried. The logs were piled in heaps of six; three on the bottom; then two, and the cap log. In the spaces between, the lads who were always there had thrown armfuls of bark and limbs and the heaps were ready for firing. To the lads also fell the task of carrying the water buckets; these of cedar with clean, sweet- smeUing drinking gourds, and with the water al- ways went the "brown jug" — not so little this time. In those days nearly all of the older men drank, but few of the younger ones touched liquor. They drank, with a straight swig from the jug, either rye or corn and usually of the variety that cost $2 a gallon retail, including the revenue tax of one dollar. Everybody was hungry, and glad when the din- ner horn sounded. During the morning the women and girls had been busy around the quilt- ing frame, neatly stitching, in ever lengthening circles, the three layers together, swapping gos- sip and exchanging experiences until the narrowed framing showed half their task was done. Then, when the men came, around the water-shelf and piazza, what flirting there was! The dinner was of the times that knew no in- digestion. Substantial bacon, collards, corn bread, A Log-RoUin' , Quiltin', and Frolic 295 boiled ham, pork, perhaps dried beef, and always chicken-pie and cakes and sweet potato custards. They call them pies now — they were custards then, sweet and yellow, or blue and black, according to the potatoes and sweetening, piled a foot high and cut down into squares. To top off the dinner with three or four custards weighing a pound or so each was no extra task for an able-bodied log- roller. After dinner, and back to work until the shades of night fell or the task was finished. By this time the quilt was completed, neatly folded, and laid away; the frames disappeared, a big fire blazed on the hearth, the furniture was removed (although there usually wasn't very much of it) and the chairs set back against the wall. Supper was soon over, the fiddle in tune, and the dancing began. What if some of them had walked five miles or more that morning and had carried the end of a hand-stick under heavy logs all day? Youth was never tired when there was a chance to dance, and having worked all day they danced all night. THE UNION SING "Babylon has fallen — has fallen — has fallen; Babylon has fallen, to rise no more.'* The logs from the lower front of the church had been removed to let the air in and the music out. And the song, from two hundred pairs of strong lungs, rolled in a volume of sound across vale and hill. In front the leader, tuning-fork in hand, beat time with full gesture to the music, the skirts of his alpaca coat snapping like pennants in the army of the muse. At one side, the organ- ist, with main strength and much perspiration, kept barely a jump behind the fork. It was just as the first song, backed by the pent- up enthusiasm of the year of waiting, rolled out, the Boy and the Girl drove up to the church door. Nimbly he jumped out and ran around to let down the buggy-top, that she might not stoop her pretty head to alight. Although she could have jumped a three-foot fence unaided, he handed her out, even as Raleigh might have assisted Elizabeth from her royal coach. The buggy was a borrowed one — also the horse, but little he recked, if but the day's 296 The Union Sing 297 possession were his. For Youth has to-day — to- morrow belongs to Childhood, and Yesterday to old age. She went into the church to join her companions and class for a while, and he carried the horse and buggy around to the shade of a pine, where both were promptly forgotten — until the buggy was needed for a social hour or so. Not all the assemblage could get into the church — and not all wanted to get in. Old folks stood about in groups and discussed crops and told jokes, and all through the grounds, under the shade of the oaks and pines, in buggies or on the grass, sat many couples, perhaps not singers, to whom the sound of the other's voice was all the music either wanted. And this was well, for the church was full to the limit allowed by July weather, and as her class stood to sing, one boy saw two tiny riv- ulets of sweat trickle down the "lily white" cheek of his latest inamorata — and another "mash" was busted. On one side of the house, where the girls sat was the perfume of Hoyt's cologne, of cinnamon drops, and peppermint ad libitum, but the heat was already working sad havoc with the careful work of lily white and the powder puff. On the boys' side there was the heavy odor of hair oil, of bay rum and mint, and many coat pockets bulged with the treasured bulk of a roll of stick 298 Saturday Night Sketches candy — or of cinnamon bark, provided against the time when, in the narrow buggy seat, it could be divided with the only one worth dividing with. From the tops of the upper pockets of the coats, in careful disarray, peeped the gaudy colors of silk (or cotton) handkerchiefs, while some of the bolder frankly wore them around the neck. At last there was surfeit of music, and the call to dinner was sounded. The church stood on an eminence, facing the "big road." In front was a wooded vale, and here beneath the trees, the pic- nic dinner, in bountiful profusion, was spread. Ye shades of LucuUus, lend us your memory; ye of Epicure your pen, while we attempt the task of telling of the good things of those days, when "store-bought truck" and indigestion were almost unknown. First there was the chicken, ever present and indispensable king of feast; fried, baked, stewed and pled. Of potato custards, the chief of the winter feasts, there was none, for we did not keep potatoes the year-round then; but the beef that had been the community blood offering; the pork its brother sacrifice; the huckleberry pie, the peach pie, the blackberry shortcake; the pound cake, that meant what It said; the jelly roll, the cookey, the apple puff, the "crab-lantern," and the many other and almost innumerable testimonials of the house- wife's skill; the preserves, the jellies, the pickles The Union Sing 299 — all home products. The mouth waters, the mind wanders and perforce memory's lid must be dropped. And best of all, we carried to the feast the appe- tites and the digestion of youth — both alike with the things of those days only memories now. And She was there, to urge to eat more; She had cooked this, and her mother offered that, until it was well that the capacity was ample for all com- ers. In those days, salads were comparatively un- known. The fancy dishes of to-day would not long have stayed the appetites then, and but as chaff would have been considered the makeshifts of the city picnic basket now. After dinner, the hour of rest, the buggy, and small-talk. Then the contest for the banner; the optimism; the cruel disappointment; the private opinion of the ability of the judges freely ex- pressed. Then we sang, "God be with you, 'till we meet again." Then the long drive home along the three-path road, through the rustling wiregrass, beneath the murmuring pines, which seemed to stoop and whisper to each other in sympathy as the mare, the lines loose on her back, took her own time leisurely, as the couple "the world forgetting" forgot all else in the subject of the moment — a 300 Saturday Night Sketches subject as old as Eve and as tireless as Divinity. Except for surroundings — the union songs in the Wiregrass Georgia of to-day are very much like those of thirty-five years ago. Perhaps like the ones of the olden time, the best part of them is the drive home in the dusk — but of that we know not now. With the memories of those days float back many hallowed recollections, and as they pass we hear again the leader, his tuning-fork and his call, as they burst into song: "Down at the cross, where my Saviour died; There to he cleansed from sin I cried; There to my heart was the blood applied; Glory to His name." SATURDAY NIGHT Forty years ago, and Saturday night. The work for the week is done, supper is over, and the family is grouped around the blazing fire of resinous pine. During the afternoon, the Boy has "knocked off" to walk the mile to the village postoffice and bring the weekly paper, arrived that morning by horseback carrier from the town twenty miles away. In the rocking-chair in the chimney corner the Father sits, where the firelight falls on the paper to best advantage. He reads aloud, thus all shar- ing alike in the treasured store. In front, the Mother with busy fingers, im- proves the time while listening to the news, for knitting neither interferes with hearing, comment nor conversation. At the other chimney corner the Boy lazily re- clines. His task is to keep the fire going, and as each stick of wood is the product of his own hard labor, none is wasted. The newspaper is a treasure chest of eight compartments, each filled with nuggets or jew- 301 302 Saturday Night Sketches els that come to light as the page is turned. There was the serial story of absorbing Interest; we could with difficulty wait for the week to pass to hear it slowly unfold plot and counterplot and breath-stifling event. Then the news of the week; not so much news as we have now, for there were no great news-gathering organizations and the telegraph was still one of the world's wonders, but a little politics, a few murders, very little sen- sation and no yellow journalism. Papers were better edited then, we think; gave more space and time to literary efforts, and little to wire news. Perhaps they were better; we do not know; cer- tainly they were then, as they are now, and will be to-morrow, mirrors reflecting the communities and the world in which they were published. How well is remembered the scent of the fresh Ink as the wrapper was torn off and the paper unfolded! Perhaps there the Boy got the taste for the newspaper in his blood, which later de- veloped into an incurable disease — or affliction, according to the viewpoint. From time to time the Reader paused, as some Item of more than usual Interest was read, and the family joined in discussing It. The family group broke up only when there was no more pa- per to read and the hour was so late that we were glad the next day was Sunday and early rising not compulsory. Saturday Night 303 The days are gone, the pine is gone, there is no vestige left of the home that sheltered the three. The Mother's busy hands are folded and at rest; the eyes of the Reader grew dim and sightless, the voice now is only a memory; of the group the Boy alone is left and much that was with him then is forever gone. But green as the hillsides of the days of youth; sacred as the memories of the hallowed dead; treasured as jewels in the storehouse of life, is the recollection of the Saturday night of long ago; for to the eyes of the mind it is as close as yesterday. If you are near fifty, what did the Saturday night of forty years ago bring you?