PS 
 
 .0313 
 
 A9 
 
 1897a 
 
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THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 
 SOCIETIES 
 
UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00018582838 
 
 This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on 
 the last date stamped under "Date Due." If not on hold it 
 may be renewed by bringing it to the library. 
 
 DATE 
 
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 200i 
 
 
 
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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://archive.org/details/auntdicestoryoffOOrobi 
 
AUNT DICE: 
 
 ; i 
 
 Zhe 5ior\> of a jfaitbtul Slave* 
 
 H 
 
 .6* 
 
 ■ \ 
 
 NINA HILL ROBINSON. 
 
 < 
 
 THF UNW£^~ : rv -"" - '"''^"fH CAROLINA 
 
 Nashville, Tenx.: 
 
 Publishing House of the M. E. Church, South. 
 
 Barbee & Smith, Agents. 
 
 1S97 
 
 ( 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year i&ff, 
 
 By Nina Hill Robinson, 
 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
(3) 
 
 O 
 
 o 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In this little work the author has preferred to fol- 
 low the simple truth, feeling all interweaving' of fiction 
 to be out of keeping with the character of whom she 
 has written. Beyond the use of a story-teller's license, 
 sparingly indulged in, this story is strictly true. 
 
 As the details of everyday life would prove monot- 
 onous to the reader, the writer has given but little 
 more than the outlines of the life of this beloved serv- 
 ant ; and though a short work — only a recreative hour 
 for the busy American — a simple story simply told, it 
 is written as a tribute to the memorv of one who was 
 faithful in all her ways, with the hope that her name 
 may be honored and remembered. 
 
 It is known that the speech of the Tennessee negro 
 differs slightly from his extreme southern kinsman. 
 Aunt Dice was free from many of the stumblings or 
 more uncouth forms of the negro dialect. The word 
 " master " she used with an "o" sound, as in " mostcr." 
 Her way was her own ; she borrowed no form. 
 
 In conclusion, need it be said that it is yet the hope 
 and desire of the Family to remove the sacred dust of 
 this honored servant to her chosen place of burial, 
 where Caesar sleeps and the Candlesticks bloom ? 
 
 (5) 
 
AUNT DICE: 
 
 £be Ston? of a tfaitbful slave. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HERE are large possibilities to men of ad- 
 vantages. Material help is a needful step- 
 ping-stone to greater things. A cultured 
 faith in a higher life aids much toward the upbuild- 
 ing- of true worth and character. 
 
 But to the unlearned, whose rude surroundings 
 hold no uplifting element, to whom all books are 
 forever sealed — their lettering unmeaning hiero- 
 glyphics — what is the inspiration to be faithful, 
 to live uprightly? What is the stimulus to noble 
 living and well-doing in the kitchens of the igno- 
 rant? 
 
 Of such a one I write ; nay, more than this : born 
 a slave, she called nothing on earth her own. Un- 
 tutored, save in the monotonous drudgery of work, 
 she found only one help in her way — the simple 
 story of the cross, sung in many a southern kitchen ; 
 the cross that uplifts wherever its blessed shadow 
 falls. 
 
 Of her simple, rugged life no poem need be 
 woven, though other lives of lesser merit have 
 found a way into prose or rhyme; but from oft- 
 
 (<) 
 
8 aunt dice: 
 
 repeated tales, the picked-up relics of her deeds 
 and sayings, the story of her life may at least prove 
 her memory wholesome. 
 
 Neither can be told of her any great achievement 
 or heroic action, for she had read no Psalm of 
 Life, no Book of Golden Deeds; but only one of 
 humble plodding in the way of duty — the only duty 
 she saw plainly before her, that of faithfulness. 
 
 The neighboring" slave owners of South Afton 
 were curious when it was learned that William 
 Macy had purchased the negress Dice. Men of 
 standing these were, in a well-to-do neighborhood; 
 of plethoric purses, of broad acres, and crowded 
 negro quarters; men who understood as well the 
 requisites of negro barter, the buying and selling 
 prices, as they were familiar with the good points 
 of their best horses. So the surprise was great 
 when a generous sum was paid for the negress by 
 the owner of Riverside, known to be a wise and 
 cautious dealer, who for once overlooked the fact 
 of her thirty-four years, her delicate frame, her 
 deficiency in bone, muscle, and flesh. 
 
 It was talked of at the river mills, the cotton 
 gin, and the stillhouse among the hills, where men 
 grouped on Saturday afternoons to discuss the lat- 
 est Whig news, the prices of negroes and cotton, 
 or the relative value of their own prime whiskies 
 or peach brandies. 
 
 But the question was settled at last by a quiet 
 answer: " I bought her to raise my children." 
 Perhaps the wise owner looked farther than bone 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 9 
 
 or muscle in the purchase of one to whom he could 
 trust his children. Hired to him for two years 
 previous, he had found her trustworthiness alone 
 sufficient to uphold him in the sum paid for her. 
 
 It was in the winter of eighteen hundred and 
 thirty-four (for she came in with the century) that 
 Aunt Dice, with her two children, was removed 
 from a thinly-settled district twenty miles distant, 
 and installed as chief cook and general superin- 
 tendent at Riverside plantation. Beyond her kin- 
 ship to Uncle Amos, the most trusty and best be- 
 loved of the slaves at Riverside, little was known 
 of her or hers, save that her mother was an excel- 
 lent servant — a pioneer negress of Middle Tennes- 
 see, brought from Virginia to the old Nashville 
 Fort, in the perilous days of Indian warfare. Her 
 one other recommendation was that she was reared 
 " in the house," an important element in the pur- 
 chase or sale of a negress: a raw "field hand" 
 occupied no enviable position beside the superior 
 house girl: though in her case this did not greatly 
 add to her value, as, orphaned in earlv infancy, she 
 was brought up amid surroundings so rude and 
 uncouth that the wonder wjxs that her thirty-four 
 years had found her true and worthy. 
 
 Concerning her own private griefs or wrongs 
 Aunt Dice, as she was called, was strangely reti- 
 cent. If a burden were hers to shoulder, she pre- 
 ferred to bear it proudly alone. It was only after 
 years of intimacy that her new mistress, who deli- 
 cately forbore to question her, learned that her 
 
IO aunt dice: 
 
 former master kept an inn or hostelry noted for its 
 drunken revelry and riotous living, where travelers 
 passed the night on their way to the " far west " ; 
 where negroes were bought and sold, or gambled 
 away; a home upon which civilization had hardly 
 turned its light, or religion its morals. 
 
 " My mistis was a good ? oman," Aunt Dice had 
 said. Perhaps the influence of this one "good 
 'oman" had much to do toward the shaping of 
 her character; if so, then indeed the hard, bare 
 existence of this " mistis " was not passed in vain. 
 
 There were few places on the river so pleasantly 
 situated as Riverside plantation. Commanding a 
 high and wide outlook, the farmhouse, with its 
 painted whiteness, its airy rooms, and cool, wide 
 galleries, looked inviting enough through the sur- 
 rounding maple grove and silver poplars. A green 
 lawn, ornamented with old-fashioned hedges of li- 
 lacs and pink crepe myrtles, sloped from the steep 
 bluff overlooking the river to the great double gate 
 leading to the graveled drive by the water's edge. 
 Beyond the house, and farther up the river's side, 
 were the negro quarters — a long row of log cab- 
 ins with double chimneys, and gardens attached. 
 There was the "loom house," where the spinning 
 and weaving were done. The cotton house stood 
 near the great, wide barns, and the " shop," with 
 its charcoal forge. Across the "big branch," and 
 still farther up the heights, was the family cemete- 
 ry, solemn with its waving cedars and white marble 
 stones. 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. II 
 
 There were broad bottom fields skirting the riv- 
 er's edge; rolling uplands sweeping out to the dis- 
 tant hills, where the swine were fattened yearly; 
 thence onward to the Barrens, where the cattle 
 grazed. Lucky the farmer who owned an outlet 
 to the Barrens — a wild, almost unsettled country, 
 rich only in native grass and cool springs. 
 
 A fair domain it was, set like a jewel within Ten- 
 nessean hills, fairer for its romantic scenery, its 
 native wilds; dearer for its crowning grace of 
 southern life and cheer, which, alas ! is but a 
 memory. The palmy days of Riverside have de- 
 parted with the changing times; but the river 
 that swept around the old homestead, whose blue 
 waters silvered in the sunshine and deepened in 
 the shade, laughing over rocky shoals and silent 
 by the high, still cliffs — the river of "ye olden" 
 days — is still the same beautiful, lovely South 
 Afton. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 T must be said that the whole plantation pros- 
 pered under the steady rule of Aunt Dice. 
 No sooner was she domiciled by her broad 
 cabin hearth than she began to enlarge her bor- 
 ders. Her two years' experience as a hired un- 
 derling held her in good stead: she understood 
 her master's needs, the merits and demerits of his 
 slaves. Her second coming was an era of greater 
 importance. The negroes, from venerable Uncle 
 Amos to the smallest pickaninny, realized that she 
 held a certain amount of power — how much, she 
 herself did not stop to question; she only knew 
 that she was grateful to a kind master, and she 
 proved her gatitude with the remainder of her long 
 life. For her, too, the change was wholesome; 
 whether from her comfortable surroundings, or the 
 kindly treatment of a new and much-loved master, 
 it is hard to say, but certain it was that the frail, 
 sickly negress gained new strength as the years 
 passed on, until the neighboring slave owners re- 
 luctantly acknowledged her " the likeliest nigger on 
 the whole creek." Certainly she was the hardest 
 worker: she often said there was not a lazy bone in 
 all her body. Not only did she help to tend and 
 rear the children, but she was the ruling spirit of all 
 the " hum and hustle " of each busv dav. Her first 
 (12) 
 
 i«trf»in it! fii-»m'^_._i . 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 1 3 
 
 duty was to sound the long, wild call of the hunt- 
 ing horn from the back gallery, and dole out to the 
 slaves their morning " drams" from the rum bar- 
 rels in the cellar before the day's work began. 
 
 It was here that she commenced her discipline. 
 The long row of rollicking laborers filing up the 
 path from the quarters hastened to a quickstep 
 under her searching glance. Not that she disap- 
 proved of merriment. "Light hearts make light 
 work" was a proverb at Riverside. But she re- 
 ceived no laggards at her early drink offerings. 
 Uncle Jack knew to a nicety how long to hold 
 his inverted position, his usual obeisance to his 
 morning dram. Aunt Dice heard complacently 
 the rhythmic "pitapat" of merry feet, the back- 
 steps knocked out on the graveled walk, or the 
 jokes which were " swapped " in bantering tones 
 and high good humor — a form of greeting that va- 
 ried little from morning to morning. 
 
 " Hi, dar, nigger; stir yo' stumpers!" 
 
 " I takes no slack jaw dis mo'nin'. I walks right 
 ober vou 'reckly." 
 
 "Huh! ef yo' sasses vie, I slams yo' down, 
 chile, and puts my foot on yo' haid. What's de 
 kon'squence ob dat?" 
 
 "A daid nigger! Dar'll be de kon'squence," is 
 the cheerful response, while a succession of calls, 
 " hoorahs," and cries of " Hear dat nigger now ! " 
 "Ain't he asteppin'?" sounded clear and vibrant 
 on the still air. 
 
 On they came. Uncie Amos quietly in the lead, 
 
14 aunt dice: 
 
 baring his head to Aunt Dice's courteous " Good- 
 mo'nin'," Uncle Silas following with his usual 
 plea for a " leetle drap mo' for de mis'ry in de 
 back," and the sharp response, "Step on, Silas; 
 I want yo' room." 
 
 "Come, boys, be lively; daylight's burnin'." 
 And the dusky column moved on with boisterous 
 shouts and musical calls, startling the sleepy cocks 
 from the barnyard roosts, and echoing across the 
 river, which lay aflush under the eastern skies. 
 
 Aunt Dice, though supervisor, scorned an idle 
 hour. It was she who prepared the well-cooked 
 meals for the master's table; who ordered provi- 
 sions for the quarters; overlooked the butter-mak- 
 ing, the spinning and weaving, the cutting of gar- 
 ments, and the plain sewing for the numerous 
 slaves ; never resting her weaiy feet until the last 
 laborer went back to the fields after the midday 
 meal. Her master sometimes gently interfered: 
 " Two hours' rest at noon, Dice. Man and beast 
 should rest in the heat of the day." 
 
 So when the soncrs of the laborers ran£ out from 
 the fields, and the music of wheel and loom went 
 merrily on within. Aunt Dice went out to her cabin to 
 take her well-earned rest and enjoy a quiet smoke, 
 her only indulgence. Her clean, fragrant pipe, 
 used in unobtrusive hours, was never offensive. 
 
 The master smiled over his purchase. He had 
 made no mistake. Conscious of his trust, she soon 
 assumed control of the slaves — in a way. Respect- 
 ful they certainlv were; man, woman, and child 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 15 
 
 were under her imperious sway, and well she 
 ruled. Aunt Dice believed in discipline ; while 
 one and all liked and admired her, she thought it 
 best to instill into this liking a little of fear, to make 
 it wholesome. A lazy negro was her special det- 
 estation. She delighted in scattering a crowd 
 of dusky forms, basking, lizard-like, in the sun. 
 Few of the laziest could stand the curious sidelong 
 glance of her sharp eyes, and many a step quick- 
 ened under that searching look. 
 
 How far her rule extended even the master did 
 not question, nor the mistress, who began to lean 
 upon her and trust to her guidance in the mani- 
 fold duties of a southern matron. The rule of the 
 house — its domestic duties — it was hers to order. 
 Her judgment was supreme, her counsel never lost. 
 The mistress, who as " Lady Bountiful " dispensed 
 a wide charity, had only to sav to her, "x\unt Dice, 
 our neighbor is sick; she needs help." Aunt Dice 
 packed a full basket and started on her errand of 
 mercy, ministering to the poor in a way well fitted 
 to heal a mind diseased. She fed and nursed, she 
 cleaned and swept, until the bare, rude homes of 
 the poor whites shone bright with the sick faces. 
 
 The master found himself referring to her wis- 
 dom: " Dicy, shall we kill hogs this week?" 
 
 " They's eatin' they heads off, Mos William. 
 an' fat as mud." 
 
 The hogs were slaughtered. 
 
 " Is it time to plant potatoes. Dicy? " 
 
 " 'Pears to me the groun's waitin' fur 'em," 
 
16 aunt dice: 
 
 was the busy answer; and the potatoes were 
 planted. 
 
 But Aunt Dice was also learning. Within her 
 wholesome surroundings she found much to edi- 
 fy, to help her. The nobility and upright charac- 
 ter of her quiet master; the influence of the mis- 
 tress, a woman of kind speech and gentle manner; 
 the pure atmosphere and well-ordered household; 
 a house whose God was the Lord, the Bible the 
 most honored book in the quaint old bookcase; 
 not a home of pretentious superiority, but one of 
 comfort and solid standing, of quiet, far-reach- 
 ing charity and Christian excellence — all these ele- 
 ments were unfolding within the stunted soul of the 
 slave an inherent germ of rare worth and beaut}*. 
 Her observant eyes lost nothing that could serve 
 to strengthen or uplift her. Her hungry soul was 
 feeding. 
 
 At night, within her cabin, sounds of mirth and 
 revelry reached her from the quarters, the patter 
 of time-keeping feet, the music of fiddle, banjo, 
 and ringing clevis pins. But the sound which 
 pleased her most, which reached her soul, came 
 from the cabin of Uncle Amos, which was set 
 apart from the quarters in the shadow of the 
 woods; a song whose volume of sweetness and 
 power poured its melody into every chink and 
 crevice of the crowded quarters, hushing the ruder 
 noise of viol and uproarious mirth : 
 
 "The mo' I pray the happier I am; 
 I love God, glory halleluiah!" 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 1 7 
 
 On the still night air the melody trembled, soared, 
 and reached from glory to glory : 
 
 "This religion I believe, 
 Glory, halleluiah! 
 Soon -we'll land our souls up yonder, 
 Glory, halleluiah!" 
 
 From Pisgah's top the venerable old patriarch 
 sang: 
 
 " Happy people ober yonder; 
 Happy people ober yonder; 
 Soon we'll meet dem ober yonder, 
 On de oder bright sho'." 
 
 Aunt Dice listened, and prayed. This seed, 
 sown in good ground, rapidly grew and bore fruit. 
 It was shortly afterwards, as she lay on a sick bed 
 in the early days of her invalidism, that Aunt Dice 
 found the wondrous peace and realized the power 
 of redeeming love. The prayer of Uncle Amos, 
 strong in its faith, the piled-up promises before a 
 throne of grace, the sure answer of peace, proved 
 to the purchased slave the "glorious liberty" of 
 the soul. Aunt Dice was " converted" ; to put it 
 plainly, she was born again. The old-time reli- 
 gion of Tennessee, which blazed its way with the 
 pioneer ax, that held its own through civil strife — 
 the conflict of brother with brother — that holds 
 good to-day, was ever afterwards her stay and sup- 
 port. She received her baptism from a white min- 
 ister, held her membership with a white congrega- 
 tion, and drank the wine in communion — an hon- 
 ored and trusted member. 
 
 The years passed on, and Riverside prospered. 
 2" 
 
iS aunt dice: 
 
 The negro quarters broadened and throve under 
 the humane treatment of a kind, much-loved mas- 
 ter. To say that Aunt. Dice was a valued sen-ant 
 and trusted friend but faintly expressed her worth. 
 The children were objects of her especial care. 
 To tell of her stanch 'integrity, the faithful per- 
 formance of a duty imposed upon her, it is well to 
 say that the pure morals she set forth, the homely 
 advice she gave from her great, untutored soul, 
 live yet with the children's children. 
 
 Her cabin was a rendezvous for the little ones, 
 which, as best remembered, was a log room neat- 
 ly papered, with a wide fireplace, and a loft over- 
 head. In front, below the bluff, ran the river, 
 ever the friend and companion of Aunt Dice's sol- 
 itary hours. From the back door a sunny garden 
 stretched, where it was her habit to sit and smoke 
 her pipe in summer afternoons, where she watched 
 the broad sweep of the cotton fields, and the silver 
 sheen of the river tli rough the tall sycamores that 
 fringed its winding course. The cabin was com- 
 fortably furnished. The old-fashioned " four- 
 poster " was nearly hidden beneath a huge feather 
 bed and drapery of the snowv counterpane. A 
 bureau with <jlass handles stood under a swinmno- 
 mirror. A cupboard, suggestive of tempting edi- 
 bles, occupied one corner, while a swinging shelf 
 full of quilts hung from" the ceiling. 
 
 Aunt Dice, sitting in her split-bottomed chair bv 
 the broad hearth, was a conspicuous and familiar 
 figure. She was of low stature, and, after her re- 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 19 
 
 stored health, just fleshy enough to hide the waist- 
 band of her everyday apron. In her cotton gown 
 she looked comfortable enough, but in her " Sun- 
 day " costume she was more impressive — really 
 grand-looking — wearing her black silk gown and 
 mantle, or black lace shawl, to advantage. Her 
 face is more difficult to describe — a strong, homely 
 face, which, whether severe or pleasing, seemed to 
 have " character" written in every curve and ex- 
 pression. Her forehead was expansive, her eyes 
 — not the prominent African's — were rather small, 
 and full of fire, whether twinkling in fun or in 
 those curious sidelong glances which reminded 
 one to be up and doing. Her nose was slightly 
 flattened; her broad, roomy cheeks were smooth 
 and glossy ; but her mouth — well, those great lips 
 could drop an inch or more in a seemingly sense- 
 less stupor, or twist almost to each ear in a carica- 
 ture of which the children were often unfortunate 
 victims; yet Aunt Dice was wont to draw them up 
 with such a majestic sweep, such grand curves, 
 that her face was trulv inspiring. 
 
 Beyond her faithfulness and upright qualities, 
 her next distinctive characteristic was pride, not in 
 herself alone, but in her surroundings — the fair pos- 
 session of her beloved owners, and the children, 
 with whom she spared no pains to uphold the fam- 
 ily standing. The i; grown-up children " she con- 
 sidered beyond her reach or discipline; she gave 
 them the respect due their years, kept a shin- 
 ing, spotless table, laundered their linen, criticallv 
 
20 AUNT DICE. - 
 
 inspected their toilets — and their visitors. But 
 the three youngest — two girls in long pinafores, 
 and a toddling boy — she called her very own; 
 an appropriation they were not slow to learn, 
 since it involved a tutelage peculiarly Aunt 
 Dice's. 
 
 Annie Macy, gentle and quiet, was too much her 
 mother's counterpart to often need reproof; but 
 long and many were the times that the merry, care- 
 less Katherine sat on the low stool by the cabin 
 hearth — to her, in truth, the stool of repentance. 
 Both were careful to observe their manners and 
 bearing more closely in this humble cabin than in 
 wider territory and greater freedom ; for well they 
 knew that this was Aunt Dice's vantage ground for 
 a lecture. A lecture — without words — they most 
 dreaded. If one sprawled in her chair in unfem- 
 inine nefjlicence, Aunt Dice would festoon herself 
 on every available one in the room; if one were 
 unfortunate enough to let fall a silly remark or 
 show an unwonted stupiditv in Aunt Dice's pres- 
 ence, she would literally double herself on the low 
 stool, showing a dull, expressionless face, her great 
 lips dropping, quivering, until from sheer pit}* she 
 would laugh suddenly, lay her black hand on the 
 delinquent head, and say with tender emphasis: 
 "Don't think Aunt Dice is an ole fool, chile." 
 Now when she laughed, remember, she laughed 
 all over; her whole body caught the enthusiasm of 
 those short metallic sounds — quicklv over; but oh, 
 how she enjoved it ! What a light in those small, 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 21 
 
 dark eyes ! What a glow over the dark face, 
 which was neither a yellow nor a gingerbread 
 color, but a truly black. Her tears were some- 
 thing like her laugh — a quick, convulsive sobbing, 
 short sounds of grief; then her face was its own, 
 its cheerfulness predominant. 
 
 The boy, whom she unceremoniously dubbed 
 Sam — or Sammy, as occasion required — was not 
 so easily managed; though, strange to say, she 
 loved him mqst — a love he returned with all his 
 might. From his crawling age he loved the space 
 of her broad bosom, the shelter of her arms; and 
 many a journey did he take astride her neck to the 
 cotton fields, whither she went on her quiet tours 
 of inspection. As a toddler he was ever at her 
 heels, though in her cabin he soon learned the 
 usage of the stool, and was often put sobbing in 
 the white bed after a wholesome spanking, when 
 the storm in his blue eves had burst in unusual vi- 
 olence. His awakening, however, found a solace 
 and recompense sufficient even for him: the cup- 
 board doors were as wide open as the arms of his 
 dark monitress. 
 
 " Whar do the chile git his temper?" was her 
 frequent query. " Xot from Mos William, nur 
 Miss Mary." " 
 
 Many a lesson in manners and morals did she 
 teach the children. Her natural instincts of true 
 courtesy and refinement were uniformlv correct. 
 She especially detested a giggle, and never for- 
 gave a woman she knew for a rather boisterous 
 
22 AUNT DICE: 
 
 sneeze in church. Indeed, her sharp eyes were 
 ever quick to detect a breach of etiquette or a 
 charm of personal manner. 
 
 Still, her cabin had other attractions. Aunt Dice 
 was wise. She was careful to gloss over the irk- 
 some effect of her " preaching." Though she 
 never tolerated a ghost story, being free from the 
 superstition of her race, she kept in store a number 
 of Indian tales for the appetite of the little folk, and 
 stories of wolves which howled abo^it her cabin in 
 the early days of the century. 
 
 When the girls were old enough for school, Aunt 
 Dice made them sing their "b-a ba's" to her 
 while she listened gravely, and thought them prod- 
 igies of learning. When their samplers, worked 
 in gay crewels, were brought to her, she inspected 
 them critically: 4i Yours'll do. Miss Anne; that's 
 putty well done. You mus' have one now in silk, 
 an' hang in mistis' room.'' 
 
 Over Katherine's sampler her long lip quivered 
 and dropped. 
 
 "'You don't like it, Aunt Dice! " cried the of- 
 fender, almost in tears. 
 
 " It's sorter so, Katherine — onlv sorter. Them 
 letters may do well 'nough; but I ain't neber seen 
 yit red leaves an' blue roses." 
 
 Aunt Dice ruled. The truth was plain. She had 
 probed her way into the verv hearthstone of her 
 mistress's household ; but she never repelled or 
 nauseated one by a close intimacv. Cleanly in 
 speech and person, her nature was strong and 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 23 
 
 sweet, her influence stimulating. Under her care 
 children were safe. 
 
 The master found for her a wider field of use- 
 fulness. The cabin connecting with hers by the 
 double chimney was set apart for her use, and it was 
 usually filled with motherless slaves, children whom 
 the kind master had picked up from less fortunate 
 homes; outcasts, vagrants, with little reputation to 
 lose and much to gain. The master stood often at 
 her door with a new purchase: " Dicy, take this 
 boy to your cabin. Teach him to bathe and be 
 clean. Teach him how to live." 
 
 Stimulated by her master's confidence, Aunt 
 Dice began to wield a powerful influence ; not only 
 among her orphaned charges, but throughout the 
 quarters she taught in homely language the reward 
 of virtue, the excellency of honest, upright living. 
 
CHAPTER III, 
 
 UNT DICE had her own romance, how- 
 ever; or her sorrow, as it seems more fit- 
 ting; to term a negro's tale of love. Few 
 guess the tragedy that lies buried beneath the sto- 
 ical exterior of negro life: bravely bearing their 
 domestic troubles, even cheerfully taking them up 
 as their allotted portion. 
 
 The master was somewhat surprised when Aunt 
 Dice came to him one Christmas eve, and asked his 
 consent to her marriage with Caesar, a handsome, 
 stately negro from a neighboring plantation. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear this, Dicy," he said slowly; 
 and perhaps this was the most lengthened advice 
 he had ever given her. " I hardly like the negro. 
 He is too great a beau among the women ; too 
 fond of gadding about. However, I shall do the 
 best I can for vou." 
 
 Caesar was ambitious. The beau of the colored 
 community, the gallant of every social gathering, 
 he had looked about for years for a suitable help- 
 meet — a " quality nigger," whose position would 
 insure him a promotion to a higher standing. His 
 inordinate vanity suggested Aunt Dice to him — a 
 power at Riverside, and already an aristocrat to 
 her finger-tips — as a means to this end. As her 
 husband he would acquire a preeminence among 
 (24) 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 25 
 
 his own which would place him on a higher scale 
 as a — gentleman. Riverside, too, was a fair field 
 for his ambition in a business way; that is, his pos- 
 sible purchase and position as overseer. 
 
 It was evident in a quiet way that Aunt Dice 
 " favored'' Ccesar. She approved of his spotless 
 linen, his polite address, his elegant manners. She 
 was attracted. His delicate attentions pleased her. 
 She graciously consented when he asked, with the 
 bow of a Chesterfield: "Lady, will you hab de 
 goodness to 'low me to 'scort you to chu'ch?" 
 
 Aunt Dice, sitting at the rear of the "white 
 meetinghouse," could not help but notice that 
 Ccesar led all his colored brethren in grace and 
 deportment, a steady dignity that with all his faults 
 never failed to command Aunt Dice's respect. 
 
 The master made good his promise by buying 
 Ccesar; perhaps he did not tell Aunt Dice the 
 stern talk he received from his new master, when 
 he was promised the hand of the favorite slave. 
 
 So they were married. A great feast was spread, 
 one that the darkies long remembered. Uncle 
 Jack stood on his head until his strained sinews 
 reminded him of a more convenient performance. 
 Uncle Silas forgot his aches, and •• limbered up " 
 for the occasion. The scraping of fiddles, the 
 tuning of banjos, the jingle of clevis pins, told of 
 a breakdown for the late festivities. 
 
 In the mistress's own parlor thev stood before 
 the white minister while he read the beautiful 
 formula of the marriage ceremony. Ccesar was 
 
26 aunt dice: 
 
 resplendent in a suit of broadcloth, ruffled linen, 
 and white satin waistcoat. From the top of his 
 carefully carded hair to the tip of his polished boot 
 he was immaculate. Aunt Dice, clothed in pure 
 white, and not uncomely, was quiet and thankful 
 for the many kindnesses conferred upon her by the 
 white people, and for the blessing laid upon her 
 head under the trembling hands of Uncle Amos. 
 
 Caesar proved a kind husband in many respects; 
 indeed, he always observed toward his wife a 
 courteous bearing and outward show of greatest 
 deference and respect. He executed the honors 
 of his cabin with all the elaborate manners of an 
 old-school gentleman, and the careful hospitality 
 of a southern host. He himself was treated with 
 some distinction as the husband of the princess re- 
 gent: his meals were served on a white cloth in the 
 master's kitchen, his morning drams from the fam- 
 ily sideboard. Gifted with quick intelligence and 
 business-like tact, he was trusted with yearly sales 
 of produce, and never failed his master in accu- 
 rate accounts and profitable transactions. Pro- 
 moted to overseer, he indulged his love of pomp 
 and display, and made a stately figure in the cotton 
 fields astride his master's handsome black horse, 
 or riding with conscious superiority beside the 
 great wagons as they rolled into Nashville, laden 
 with the generous harvestings. 
 
 This last purchase proved a remunerative one. 
 Coesar was a valuable slave. But the master's 
 misgivings proved too true. Ccesar was fickle. 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 27 
 
 His shallow nature found no rest beside the deep, 
 still fount of his wife's love and faithfulness. 
 Married life for him had hardly begun before he 
 donned his tall silk hat and renewed his £addin<r 
 about — a veritable flirt to the day of his death. 
 
 Aunt Dice bore her wrongs in silence. Xone 
 ever heard her complain. There was only a closer 
 application to duty; a noticeable tenderness and 
 devotion to children; an unconscious leaning to- 
 ward the gentle mistress, who answered the mute 
 appeal with unstinted sympathy. 
 
 Ccesar was still an object of grave considera- 
 tion with Aunt Dice. His wants were attended to 
 with studied care ; his silk hat and black clothes 
 always in readiness; his snowy, ruffled shirts the 
 wonder and admiration of his many dusky friends. 
 But her affections settled more surely, perhaps, 
 around her own children, a son and daughter; par- 
 ticularly her son, Charley, who was growing up to 
 manhood, and who, as the unfolding years proved, 
 brought upon her the keenest trial of her life. 
 
 Charley was a bright-skinned youth, with jetty 
 curls, and eyes that sparkled with such changeful 
 lights that no one could tell what lav beneath the 
 jjlitterinii surface. " The devil is in 'em." said 
 his plavmates. 
 
 That Charlev was " rapid and onsteadv " Aunt 
 Dice realized with sorrow. Moreover, his com- 
 panionship with Sam, the youngest born of her 
 beloved master, caused her constant uneasiness. 
 How far these bovs ventured into mischief or dan- 
 
28 aunt dice: 
 
 ger, Aunt Dice could not determine. They tamed 
 wild colts and broke the oxen ; they hunted, fished, 
 swam, played, and scuffled. Aunt Dice detested 
 this scuffling, which often ended seriously. Char- 
 ley was ever sullen and hard to control, but Sam, 
 her nursling, had lately begun to measure lances 
 with her and declare his rights as the young master 
 of Riverside. These bold declarations, however, 
 had only ended ignominiously for Sam. She found 
 them one day — Sam and Charley — in a hand-to-hand 
 encounter, rolling and scuffling on her cabin floor. 
 
 "What's the cause o' this?" she demanded in 
 a quiet, stern way, which sent Charley cowed to 
 his corner. Sam stood up straight and faced her 
 with his stormy, blue eyes. 
 
 " He told me a lie. If he lies, he'll steal. I told 
 him so." 
 
 " Don't be so sho' o' that, Sammy. Come 
 here and set down." 
 
 Again they measured lances. Sam met her keen 
 look boldly. 
 
 " Don't call me ' Sammy.' Call me 4 Mos 
 Sam ' — Aunt Dice— I — " 
 
 Aunt Dice led him by the ear with no gentle 
 hand to the stool in the opposite corner. 
 
 " Set yo'se'f down thar, twell you fin' yo' man- 
 ners. I'll call you 'Mos Sam' whenever vou 
 'sarves it, chile — whenever vou 'sarves it. O, 
 Sam," her voice dropping suddenly, " why ain't 
 you like Mos William? " 
 
 " I can't be like father! " cried Sam wrathfullv 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 29 
 
 from the stool which he was careful not to leave. 
 "I never can belike him." 
 
 " It 'pears to me, Sammy," Aunt Dice continued, 
 " that you've rode ever' calf on the place, an' lamed 
 up the colts, an' you're jist a killin' off all ole mistis' 
 geese. I th rowed a gander in the river t'other day, 
 an' a goose to-dav. Who is it, you or Charley? " 
 
 Mos Sam caught the wicked sparkle in Char- 
 ley's eyes, and was silent. Aunt Dice looked the 
 guilty culprits over. 
 
 "You've alius tried to shiel' Charley, chile, but 
 lis'en to me: keep way f'ora him; he ain't no fit 
 comp'ny fur you." 
 
 Mos Sam wriggled on his stool. Charley dug 
 his toes in the ashes on the hearth and eyed his 
 mother sullenlv. 
 
 Aunt Dice picked up her knitting. Out of doors 
 the sun shone brightly; the birds called and whis- 
 tled; the river rippled on its way and silver}* trout 
 leaped up from its blue waters, gleaming in the sun- 
 light. Farther up the bluff a crowd of negro bovs 
 plunged headlong into the cool depths of the " big 
 hole," theirlaughing whoops and "dar ve's" sound- 
 ing tantalizinglv clear to the two captives within. 
 
 Mos Sam turned his eyes from the shining stretch 
 of river and sought the calm glance of Aunt Dice 
 over her busy needles: " Mammy, I'm hungrv." 
 
 Aunt Dice opened wide her cupboard doors: 
 "Here, chile, go 'long now. Stop yo' fightin' 
 an' be a man," she said — to the flving heels which 
 disappeared around the corner of her cabin. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ORNSHUCKING! Not the New En- 
 gland " husking bee," famed in song 
 and story, when stalwart youths and rosy 
 "maidens were wont to meet and dance on rude 
 barn floors after the busy husking; when the for- 
 tunate finder of a red ear of corn tendered his 
 prize to his lady love, the one with whom he 
 "kept company." Oh no! but the noisy, mer- 
 ry cornshucking of the ante-bellum South, when 
 negroes held high carnival amid swinging ears of 
 corn and around the laden table of the harvest 
 feast; when master and mistress bowed cheerfully 
 to the grotesque rule of the merrymakers for a 
 season — the swift-winged hours of the cornshuck- 
 insr niijht. 
 
 The negro's highest ideal of enjoyment has its 
 necessary accompaniment of a feast. Second 
 onlv to the Christmas festivities at Riverside, with 
 the array of baked sweetmeats, the crammed 
 stockings of "goodies," the bowls of creamy 
 eggnog, the happy " Chris' mas gif's," was the 
 yearly cornshucking, with its merry misrule and 
 harvest cheer. Next in turn came the ho<i-killin<r 
 in frostv November, where visions of sparerib pies 
 and backbone stews were realized and enjoyed. 
 The sugar-making in February broke the torpor 
 of winter; and lastly, the wheat harvest in June 
 (30) 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 3 1 
 
 brought the busy reapers, whose sickles swung 
 amid the yellow grain to the beat and measure 
 of their harvest song, while the " Bob Whites" 
 called through the livelong da) - . Within a shadv 
 inclosure, kept cooler still by swathings of wet 
 green leaves, was the keg of whisky, no less a 
 feature of the summer harvest than the savorv 
 dishes served at the quarters, where the dinner 
 horn rang a suggestive sound that the " big pot 
 was put in the little one." 
 
 " Cornshucking, boys! " shouted to the labor- 
 ers at supper in the quarters' kitchen at Riverside 
 brought forth a slapping and beating, a whoop and 
 call, a general stampede of broganed feet under 
 the kitchen table. 
 
 " Dram, dram; oh, dat bottle! " rolled from a 
 pair of lusty lungs. 
 
 " Stop dat noise; wait twell yo' time come." 
 
 " Barbecue, barbecue: ham an" turkey! Possum 
 an' taters : chicken stew! Hustle, bovs, hustle!" 
 
 Preparations began. On the next day invita- 
 tions went flying across the countrv, up and down 
 the river, to the colored acquaintances of neigh- 
 boring plantations. On this particular occasion, 
 Cajsar, who omitted no chance to celebrate his 
 high position, found this a convenient time to il- 
 lustrate his authority and display his wisdom as a 
 general manager. Pigs, lambs, and a tender calf 
 were slaughtered, and lay roasting slowly over hot 
 coals in the trenches. The hills were scoured for 
 game, the river dragged for fish; chickens, tur- 
 
32 aunt dice: 
 
 keys, and ducks wore sacrificed, while at the quar- 
 ters negro women stirred their bowls of sweet- 
 ened dough, " whipped" their frosting, or tended 
 the ovens of rich, sweet corn lightbread. 
 
 Aunt Dice suspended her rule and smiled over 
 the merry quips and quirks of the waiting women, 
 the antics and pranks of the pickaninnies. She 
 spread the long tables with clean white linen, and 
 piled them to fullness with jellies, custards, and 
 dainty furnishings of her own handiwork — not 
 forgetting, however, to lay by a generous store for 
 the schoolboy Sam, who was taking his first les- 
 sons in life under the uncertain favor of a peda- 
 gogue's rule. His dinner bucket, Aunt Dice con- 
 sidered, was naturally his greatest consolation since 
 he had arrived at the age of pies, tarts, and flaky 
 pastry. She was wiser than she knew. The 
 schoolboy's heart beat some of its truest throbs for 
 her when he opened his well-packed dinner pail 
 after a trvin£ lesson in svntax. 
 
 But the cornshucking ! 
 
 At nightfall the steady incoming of the invited 
 guests crowded from over the hills and up the val- 
 leys, by twos and threes on horseback and mule- 
 back; by the dozen in heavy, lumbering wagons: 
 by the half dozen in swift-gliding canoes. The 
 work began. The heaps of corn, piled high in the 
 cribs, dwindled surely under the strong hands of the 
 shuckers. Ctesar, ever mindful of an opportune 
 moment to display his superior excellence, stepped 
 grandlv in his best clothes from crib to crib, or- 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 33 
 
 dering his troop of busy boys in gathering the 
 huskings,'or stowing the corn into barrels. Old 
 men passed the compliments of the day or re- 
 lated their experiences, replete with wisdom. 
 Young men "swapped" their jokes, or bantered 
 for shucking races in braggadocio-like tones. 
 A low, monotonous chanting slowly gathered 
 strength as the dark, smart faces swayed back 
 and forth under the gleaming lamplight: 
 
 "Th'ow it up, shuck it up — 
 Corn pile, corn pile! 
 Shuck it up, round it up — 
 Corn pile!" 
 
 Louder grew the singing; musical intonations, a 
 call, a beat, a whistle, touched the chorus into life: 
 
 "Th'ow it up, shuck it up — 
 
 Corn, corn, corn pile, corn! 
 Shuck it up, round it up — 
 Corn, corn pile, corn!" 
 
 The golden ears swung high, swung low. Dusky 
 forms swayed to and fro, while high above the 
 din floated the melody of the cornshucking songs, 
 rising, falling, swelling in perfect measure. 
 
 Pickaninnies reveled in the shuck piles. Pick- 
 aninnies scampered from barn to quarters' kitch- 
 en, and stared with wide-eyed wonder at the fan- 
 cifully decked tables and huge trays of smoking 
 meats. Sounds of life and bustle at the quarters 
 reached the workers in the cribs, while odors of 
 juicy meats drifted to them from the dying coals 
 in the trenches. 
 3 
 
34 AUNT dice: 
 
 Faster flew the busy hands. The yellow corn 
 swung low, swung high. The sleepy birds twit- 
 tered from the trees. The startled king of the 
 barnyard dunghill rang his clarion call at ten 
 o'clock. A hundred voices flooded the air with 
 music, widening, swelling, pouring into the homes 
 of neighbors, far and near, rocking the babies to 
 sleep; floods of music, in resonant bass and glori- 
 ous soprano; a note, a call, a whistle filling in the 
 measure harmoniously. The hearty cheer of the 
 opening lines blended well with the repeating 
 chorus : 
 
 "Work away, boys; 
 
 Heave-ho! 
 
 Sing away, boys; 
 
 Heave-ho! " 
 
 Words of their own improvising did not disturb the 
 steady rhythm : 
 
 "Gimme dat co'n year; 
 Heave-ho! 
 Th'ow me dat co'n here; 
 Heave-ho! 
 
 "Fetch up dar, nigger; 
 Heave-ho! 
 Limber up, nigger; 
 Heave-ho!" 
 
 Uncle Amos, though hardly in his element, 
 worked steadily from his corner in the great barn. 
 Duty, not inclination, called him there. He took 
 no part in the singing: those songs were not re- 
 ligious ones, therefore he failed to respond to the 
 riotous music. A song of redeeming love would 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 35 
 
 have fired his old eyes and made nimble his fin- 
 gers, which all these merry jingles had failed to 
 do. Nevertheless, he endured patiently, sure of 
 a halleluiah chorus in his honor before the carni- 
 val ended. Uncle Amos knew that throughout 
 the quarters his venerable white head was uni- 
 versally respected. One and all did him rever- 
 ence, but never more so than when in his walk 
 among them, as if treading the border land of 
 another world, they sang sometimes in smothered 
 tones, 
 
 "Ole man, ole man, yo' head's gettin' nappy," 
 followed by a burst of applause from lusty throats : 
 
 " Yes, my Lord! an' my soul's gettin' happy." 
 
 Charley was, as usual, the imp of the occasion; 
 an imp of the evil one himself, so thought many 
 who had more than once borne his overbearing 
 insolence and sly trickery. He coupled his merrv 
 buffoonery with a cunning which served him well 
 in shirking his duty.. The harvest feast was his 
 to enjoy, not his to serve. He walked the joists 
 of the barn, swung head downward, and many a 
 well-aimed ear of corn struck the woolly head of 
 a busy worker. 
 
 That Charley presumed upon his honored re- 
 lationship the men of the quarters felt deeply. 
 There were none so bold as to inform Aunt Dice 
 that with all her discipline, her moralizing and in- 
 struction, she had reared one so badlv. Their 
 well-meant sympathy and deep respect for her 
 
36 aunt dice: 
 
 kept them silent. Perhaps Aunt Dice realized her 
 failure more than they knew, though as usual her 
 mantle of proud reserve shielded her from curious 
 questions and unpleasant advice. 
 
 But little cared Charley for their liking or dis- 
 like as he swung high among the rafters, whoop- 
 ing, calling, or blowing his flute-like canes. He 
 jeered at the older and bantered the younger men, 
 and wound up his antics by stepping coolly in front 
 of the master himself, who looked in occasionally, 
 and executing a jig of fantastic figures with won- 
 derful rapidity. 
 
 " Bless dat boy! " said Uncle Jack cheerfully. 
 
 " He needs a tech o' Moses' rod," snarled Silas, 
 whose ear smarted from a recent blow. 
 
 " He sho' is a hard boy," declared Steven, whose 
 wisdom was seldom questioned. 
 
 " Dat he is!" responded a chorus of emphatic 
 voices. 
 
 " But you is got dat up wrong, Uncle Silas, 
 suh," continued Steve, who considered no meeting 
 complete without an argument. " I ain't neber 
 hear nothin' 'tall 'bout Moses' rod; but Sol'mun 
 do p'intedly sav in fust Ginisis, when he was libin' 
 at—" 
 
 "Normandy," interpolated Jack. 
 
 "At Jerushalem, dat ef you spar de rod you 
 sho' spile de boy. Ain't dat so, Uncle Amos? " 
 
 " Do your own arguin'," said Uncle Amos. 
 
 " Where is Normandy, Jack? " queried Sam, an 
 amused listener from the window. 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 37 
 
 " Now listen at young moster! " exclaimed Jack 
 busily. " I don't 'zackly 'member, suh, whar dat 
 kentry is; I suttenly see it in my trabels, some'r's 
 •'long 'bout Novy Scotia, Ontario, or de Low- 
 lands/' he concluded, with all a negro's fondness 
 for musical names. 
 
 " Now to 'elude my disc'urse," persisted Steven, 
 who could read laboriously: " f'om de 'casion o' 
 Uncle Amoses last demark, it natchelly comes to 
 min' dat to argefy we mus' hab a toler'ble knowl- 
 edge of de Bible ; dat is, to 'lustrate, ef we steal an' 
 lie — I say ef — how cum us to know de wrong, les'n 
 de Bible speshelly say so. So de kon'squence is, 
 an' de natchel impersition mus' be, dat to be saved 
 inter de kingdom come, de Bible mus' p'int de way. 
 How's dat, Uncle Amos?" 
 
 "I don' know nothin" 'bout de Bible, 'cep'n 
 what de white folks say," said Uncle Amos. 
 
 " Den, suh, de question is, how cum you know 
 you'se bawn ag'in?" 
 
 " I wunst wus blind, but now I see," said the 
 old slave simply. 
 
 "Das so, das so," said wise Steven. 
 
 The shuffling of feet in the cribs, the triumphant 
 cheering, told of the last "rounding up." The 
 tall clock in the master's dining room pealed the 
 hour of twelve. 
 
 " Dram, dram ; oh, dat bottle !" sang the workers. 
 
 Charley, from his high resting place, made a 
 monkey spring for Silas's aching back, and bound- 
 ed out the door to be first at the feast. 
 
3§ aunt dice: 
 
 Uncle Amos quietly left his corner as the last 
 heap of corn was rapidly disappearing. He found 
 his way to the quarters where the waiting tables 
 stood, and Cassar waited also to do the honors of 
 Riverside. 
 
 "Aunt Dice, tell Mos William to hide — dey's 
 nearly done.'" 
 
 On such occasions the master little relished the 
 demonstrative affection of his slaves — a ceremonial 
 ride three times around his dwelling on the hands 
 of a stalwart pair of leaders. He chose to "hide" 
 after ordering a keg of his best brandy to the feast. 
 
 " Dram, dram ; oh, dat bottle ! " On they came 
 in a column of two abreast, marching to the 
 stone steps of the back gallery; but the master's 
 significant absence and a word from Aunt Dice 
 turned the column with noisy cheering back to the 
 quarters. 
 
 And such a feast ! Barbecues, brown and juicy, 
 from a rabbit to a fat porker. Fish, broiled, 
 baked, and fried; opossum and sweet potatoes; 
 ducks, geese, and turkeys, roasted and stuffed ; 
 enormous chicken potpies ; gallons of steaming 
 coffee; mounds of frosted cakes; piles of pud- 
 dings, jellies, and elaborately trimmed pies! 
 
 The master and his household stood smiling in 
 the background. Uncle Amos lifted his hands 
 and praised the "good God fur de blessin' of de 
 harvus' feas', fur de kin' ole moster an' mistis, an' 
 de glory of His name." 
 
 The feast be^an. Neirro wit flowed freelv. 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 39 
 
 Nejrro women dressed in smart clothes served from 
 the heaped-up side tables, under the quiet orders 
 of Aunt Dice. 
 
 Two hours afterwards the scraping fiddles and 
 beating feet signaled the grand finale. The " hal- 
 leluiah " chorus, which was not forgotten, aroused 
 Uncle Amos from his morning nap. 
 
 The galloping horses churning the river, the 
 swish of canoes, the soft stroke of paddles, the 
 shouts and calls, proclaimed the hour of dawn and 
 the departure of the guests. 
 
 With the sunrise Aunt Dice stood at her post by 
 the rum barrel and kindly greeted the advancing 
 row of laborers. Cassar sat his horse like a king. 
 The cornshuckincr was over. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 HE eldest son of the house was married. 
 The master settled him on a plantation 
 several miles up the river, and Charley 
 was given to him as part of his 'marriage portion, 
 which was a relief to Aunt Dice, as he disturbed 
 the quarters with a quarrelsome, dictatorial dispo- 
 sition. 
 
 Uncle Amos, too, though old in years, followed 
 the nursling of his heart with the same devotion 
 as when, in his younger days, he Ijad followed his 
 old master, then a tender stripling, from far-off 
 Virginia. 
 
 Two years were spent in busy life. Aunt Dice 
 spared no pains to uphold the open hospitality of 
 prosperous Riverside. She spread a tasteful and 
 bounteous table. The old-fashioned sideboard 
 glittered with crystal goblets, bowls of white loaf 
 sugar, and quaint decanters of wine and brandv, 
 for the refreshing of guests and numerous callers 
 — a time-honored custom, now happily abolished. 
 
 The elder daughters, two, were married and 
 " settled in homes of their own," Aunt Dice said 
 proudly. The children, Anne and Katherine, 
 were well provided for. New lands were added 
 to Riverside, new farms bought, and Mos Sam 
 was known now as the young master. 
 (10) 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 41 
 
 Mos Sam had earned his title at last — quite de- 
 servingly, Aunt Dice thought, though she still 
 brought him to his senses occasionally, when his 
 hot, imperious temper flashed from the storm of 
 his eyes. Charley no longer urged him on. The 
 fat steers chewed their cuds in peace ; the colts 
 frisked and played in the pastures; the geese re- 
 covered their dignity and breasted the blue waves 
 of the river with their wonted calmness. 
 
 Mos Sam was wrestling with mightier questions. 
 He pored over dry books of chemistry, he conned 
 his Latin verbs, he battled with his geometry, un- 
 der the threatening rod of the Yankee school- 
 master. 
 
 " Dat Yankee school-teacher! Whar he come 
 f'om?" asked Aunt Dice suddenly, after he was 
 duly installed at Riverside as a permanent boarder. 
 
 " From Vermont," answered Sam, shortly. 
 
 "Whar's dat?" 
 
 "Away up north." 
 
 " Furriner? " 
 
 " Oh no, Aunt Dice; he's an American." 
 
 *' He talk cur'ous," she said, musingly, " an' he 
 make too free wid de niggers. Got any niggers?" 
 she asked quickly. 
 
 "Yankees don't believe in niggers; or rather, 
 they don't believe in — slavery," stumbled Sam, 
 with a southerner's reluctance for the word. 
 " They hold for equality." 
 
 "Huh! fine ekals niggers be — fur gen'l'mun 
 an ladies. Who waits on 'em?" 
 
42 aunt dice: 
 
 " The Yankees? They wait on themselves com- 
 monly, or hire white hands." 
 
 "Humph! I mistrus' him," she said, emphatic- 
 ally. " I'll sho' speak to Mos William 'bout him. 
 He furgits his learnin' when he tries to beat it into 
 you — an'' his raisin'." 
 
 " I'll whip him, Aunt Dice, some day." 
 
 Aunt Dice laid her pipe on the shelf. 
 
 "Mos Sam, outside o' his whuppin' you, can't 
 ye all see how he's a follerin' 'long o' Miss Kath- 
 'rine — totin' of her books to school, sailin' 'bout 
 in the skyft together, an' a fillin' of her han's wid 
 flowers an' sich like? Who can tell what's in dat 
 chile's head; an' what would she do widout nig- 
 gers to wait on her? " 
 
 But Mos William smiled over Aunt Dice's warn- 
 ing, and refused to part with the Yankee school- 
 master. Good schools were rare in youthful Ten- 
 nessee. 
 
 Aunt Dice was comforted somewhat. Mos 
 William was wise; he seldom made mistakes. 
 Mos Sam was certainly on the mend — but no nig- 
 gers ! What sort of folks could that Yankee have? 
 She would keep an eve upon him. 
 
 The old house echoed to the sounds of merri- 
 ment and pleasant life. The quarters flourished. 
 Swarms of negro boys fished and swam in the 
 river; swarms of pickaninnies rolled on the grass. 
 Uncle Jack, with his wiry subalterns, led out 
 from the stables his master's thoroughbreds, whose 
 sleek coats shone like burnished copper, and start- 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 43 
 
 ed for the Franklin and Triune races, sino;ino- the 
 rather stirring couplet: 
 
 "De fust time she cum roun' she open de way; 
 De nex' time she cum roun' she bid 'urn 'Good-day. 
 
 The golden harvests filled the barns. Caesar 
 rode pompously back and forth inspecting the daily 
 work of busy slaves. Aunt Dice stepped to the 
 music of wheel and loom, or quickened to the far- 
 off melody of the workers' songs: she was happy. 
 Then came a rude awakening. Rumors floated 
 down the river: " Charley was quarrelsome." 
 Aunt Dice was filled with dread. " Charley kept 
 strife in the quarters." A season of suspense, and 
 the news came, swift as the dancing waves of the 
 river: Charley was to be sold. Again the waves 
 came prattling by: " Sold to a slave dealer, to be 
 carried south!" Then it was that Aunt Dice 
 knelt at her master's feet; her proud reserve fled 
 in the hour of her agony: " Mos "William ! Mos 
 William ! save him ! " 
 
 Charlev was brought in, bound, to bid his mother 
 good-by. The master stood by and offered his 
 worth, twice, three times his value. But the 
 slave dealer was obdurate. He had bought him 
 conditionally: he was not to sell him in Tennessee. 
 Tears and entreaties were of no avail; mother 
 and son were separated. The burden of her heart 
 so proudly guarded, the dread and suspense of a 
 nameless fate for her wayward son were at last 
 revealed and realized. How she took up the 
 broken threads of life, wove into them her uni- 
 
44 aunt dice: 
 
 form cheerfulness and steady devotion to duty, 
 . none can judge. Yet it is well to say that through 
 all this stormy period she never lost her cheerful 
 demeanor toward her white people; more notice- 
 ably toward the children, where her inexhaustible 
 store of a rare, quaint humor never failed. 
 
 She passed a quiet winter. The fattened swine 
 were killed, and the great smokehouse hung full 
 of brown, cured meat. The cotton was picked, 
 spun, and woven. Barrels of homemade soap 
 were stored away in March; then — but perhaps 
 the river could tell it best — how the floods came 
 in the springtime and lifted a hoarse cry; how 
 her brown waters crept over field and swamp and 
 piled her bosom with driftwood; how" she laughed 
 again when the summer returned with its hot sun- 
 shine; how the bright blue waters danced and rip- 
 pled with a cruel mirth, or gurgled softly around 
 the gray cliffs of the cemetery, whispering of the 
 east-lying swamps and the deadly typhoid fever. 
 
 For silence reigned at Riverside. No longer 
 the wagon wheels creaked under heavy burdens ; 
 no longer the negroes* songs rang out from the 
 field in wild melody. The charcoal forge had 
 paled to ashes ; the music of wheel and loom had 
 ceased, for the silence of death was within. In 
 the quarters duskv forms lay tossing in pain and 
 wild delirium ; stiffened bodies were carried from 
 cabin doors to people the heights of Riverside 
 cemetery. 
 
 Still the river laughed and sang. The east 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 45 
 
 winds blew with the breath of a thousand flowers. 
 Deadly white fogs crept up from the valleys and 
 hung the rugged cliffs in ghostly drapery. It was 
 a bright morning in August, when the birds sang 
 aglee with life, that within the darkened home of 
 Riverside one of the master's sons lay dead. 
 
 Aunt Dice stood the battle bravely. With her 
 master by her side, she trod the rounds of her 
 mission, tiring neither by day nor night. Not that 
 the blow fell less severely on her: her only daugh- 
 ter was among the first to die, and left to her care 
 three orphan children; neither did her strength 
 fail when Caesar fainted from the bleeding process 
 then administered, and was put to bed to fight the 
 fever at this fearful disadvantage. 
 
 Uncle Jack lay down with the rest — happy- 
 hearted Uncle Jack, who never spared a kindly 
 deed nor hoarded a kindlv smile. He lay with a 
 mute appeal in his fevered eyes until Aunt Dice 
 closed them forever. 
 
 " Will this never end, Dicy ?'" the master some- 
 times said, as his tears fell on the stricken faces. 
 He had borne his own sorrow quietly, but the 
 sufferings of these helpless blacks appealed to his 
 nature in strongest sympathy. 
 
 Still the fever raged on, and Caesar went out 
 one night on the wings of its wrath. Caesar was 
 dead. Caesar, the gallant beau, the gay Lothario, 
 but ever the polite and courteous Caesar, was dead. 
 This was a blow to Aunt Dice. He was her sor- 
 row, but yet her pride. She would miss him sore- 
 
46 AUNT DICE. 
 
 ly — his delicate attentions, his unfailing courtesy, 
 his efficient help among the negroes; she would 
 miss his shrewd management. His stately figure 
 in the cotton fields she would see no more. His 
 failings she remembered, but they rested lightly 
 upon her, now that he was dead. He was laid 
 away carefully in his black clothes and snowy 
 linen, and looked in his narrow bed as if he 
 needed but the tall silk hat to take up his gay life 
 again. 
 
 The end came at last. The fever was spent. 
 There were long davs of rest at Riverside, davs 
 of calm while the summer waned, and the conva- 
 lescent negroes dozed in their cabin doors, or 
 fished lazily with hook and line under the shady 
 sycamores. With the frost came reaction. The 
 axes rang steadily and clear in the hills, and 
 from the whitened fields the harvest songs told in 
 quavering music of renewed hope and energy. 
 There was little to tell of the fearful fever save 
 the fresh-heaped mounds of earth and the tall 
 marble shafts that gleamed amid the cedars at 
 Riverside cemetery. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 UNT DICE went her quiet way. It 
 seemed as if she had taken up her mis- 
 sion understanding!} 7 — bearing her own 
 troubles quietly, and assuming the burdens of 
 others. The cabin adjoining hers was filled with 
 orphan charges; but the three children of her 
 daughter Fanny she kept in her own room with 
 a faithful nurse whom the master had provided. 
 The youngest of the three, a tiny infant taken 
 from her dead mother's bosom, required her con- 
 stant oversight. 
 
 "How is our little pet, Dicy?" was the mas- 
 ter's daily question. 
 
 The "little pet" throve wonderfully. "Pet" 
 she was called, and a pet she was, fortunately for 
 her, to the end of her short life. At her crawl- 
 ing age she developed a fondness for the " white 
 folks' house," and a veritable black crow she was 
 by nature or practice — always into mischief, or 
 into forbidden grounds, wherever her insatiable 
 curiosity led her fat little body. The mistress in- 
 dulged and petted her, and kept her often out of 
 harm's way in the cozy sitting-room corner, or 
 claimed her attendance when she, the mistress, 
 went her weekly rounds among the sick and poor. 
 
 Aunt Dice returned in full measure the kind- 
 ness heaped upon her during her late affliction. 
 
 (47) 
 
48 aunt dice: 
 
 The children of her mistress — always "the chil- 
 dren " with Aunt Dice, though they were growing 
 to manhood and womanhood — were objects of her 
 unsparing devotion. Her rebukes were a little 
 more stern, perhaps; but even in this she was 
 never tiresome, always ending a lecture with a 
 quaint piece of drollery and inimitable grotesque- 
 ness that one must have known to understand.' 
 Aunt Dice was never loquacious. Her sentences 
 were short, terse, and to the point. Indeed, if an 
 expressive gesture could avail, words were not 
 used. A shrug of her shoulders was a sign of 
 disapproval; her dropped lip a ridicule and suffi- 
 cient lecture in itself; her sidelong look a ques- 
 tion that laid bare the heart; but one of her broad, 
 sunshiny smiles was a'sufficient recompense for all 
 the golden deeds ever done at Riverside. 
 
 Katherine, the eldest of "the children." was 
 thoroughly initiated into these ways ; and Kath- 
 erine now was uppermost in Aunt Dice's mind, 
 for with the blooming womanhood and brilliant 
 beauty of this " merry maiden " the question of a 
 possible marriage forced itself upon Aunt Dice's 
 mind. She looked with some dismay upon the 
 prospects of her nursling. Who was her choice? 
 Could it still be the Yankee schoolmaster, who 
 was soon to return to his northern home? Aunt 
 Dice only hoped he would depart in peace, and 
 leave the child where negroes were plentiful. Or 
 was it her Cousin Harry — handsome, good-natured 
 Mos Harry, who had strings of negroes to be sure, 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 49 
 
 but was much too fond of his wine cup and much 
 too generous to " save money " ? 
 
 Aunt Dice put the question plainly when Kath- 
 erine next visited her cabin: "Who is you goin' 
 to marry, chile?" 
 
 " Guess, Aunt Dice," said the spoiled " chile," 
 spreading out her dainty skirts and resting her 
 slippered feet on the old dog iron. 
 
 "That Yankee school-teacher?" ventured the 
 interrogator, painfully. 
 
 Katherine pulled a soft, dark curl over her 
 sparkling eyes and smiled wickedly. 
 
 "Not yo' Cousin Harry? He's shiftless, chile, 
 if he is a Macy." 
 
 A ringing laugh caused the questioner to stum- 
 ble sadly in her guessing. 
 
 "Sho'ly not that ill-mannered upstart what 
 brags on his money? I'd ruther 'twould be that 
 Yankee—" 
 
 The dark curls rested in Aunt Dice's lap. A 
 little ear showed rosy red. "Aunt Dice, you 
 dear, blind old mammy, where are your sharp 
 eyes?" 
 
 " The preacher! " said mammy suddenly, drop- 
 ping her pipe in her surprise. " Who would a 
 thought it? Well, well, chile, you'll never be rich, 
 that's sho', but you'll be kin'ly keered fur all the 
 same. You shall have some niggers to wait on 
 ye. Thar's Harriet an' Chany, Dick an' Joel — all 
 Amos's grandchildren. An' you've got a nice 
 home all waitin' fur ye." 
 4 
 
So aunt dice: 
 
 Aunt Dice had thought little of the " preacher " 
 as a possible suitor, though he was often at Riv- 
 erside, as at other plantations, preaching at the 
 quarters, visiting the sick, faithful in duty and 
 earnest in action. He pleased Aunt Dice. Ear- 
 nest endeavor always pleased her. 
 
 The wedding came off quietly, and very beauti- 
 ful Katherine looked in her white gown and flow- 
 ing veil; a new dignity on her bright young face, 
 a graver smile on her red lips, which answered to 
 the name of " wife." 
 
 With the following winter came a surprise 
 which was a joy and pain to Aunt Dice. It was 
 at the time of sugar-making in the hills, and the 
 campers-out made merry over great kettles of 
 boiling maple sirup, their songs and laughter 
 floating out on the frosty air. Aunt Dice went 
 out to the hills on her daily round of inspection; 
 but what was her surprise to see her son Charley, 
 the gayest of the gay, the central figure of the 
 group by the camp fires ! 
 
 Charley had "run off"; had found his way, 
 no one knew how, through the trackless miles of 
 forest and swamp, to " home and old moster." 
 But the master could avail nothing, though he 
 again tried to buy him when the slave dealer ap- 
 peared. Charley was not discouraged. He be- 
 stowed a parting message, full of hope: " Sho' 
 now, mammv, 'tain't no use to grieve a'ter me. 
 I'se gwine to keep on runnin' off twell moster do 
 buy me." 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 5 1 
 
 He was as good as his word. When the harvest 
 feast was spread, and the shuckers swung their 
 corn to the measure of musical rhyme, Charley 
 surprised them by a spring to the great barn floor, 
 and a rapid "pitapat," executed with wonderful 
 agility for his worn shoes and weary legs. 
 
 " Dat 'strep'rous boy'll get his 'sarts some day," 
 commented Steven. 
 
 "A rascally scound'el," said Silas, who had sur- 
 vived the fever, and lived to anathematize his 
 kind. 
 
 Charley was hardly a welcome visitor at the 
 quarters, even under this romantic guise, though 
 his ability asa " runaway nigger," and his varied 
 experiences, true or imaginary, surprised and in- 
 terested them. His stay was short. After the 
 Christmas festivities, the reappearance of the slave 
 dealer caused him to turn his face toward southern 
 Mississippi. 
 
 Again the drearv length of miles was traversed, 
 and again Charley arrived at Riverside, footsore 
 and weary; after which the exasperated owner 
 sold him — not to the master, but to a neighboring 
 planter across the river. 
 
 Soon afterwards Aunt Dice gave evidence of a 
 weakness that sorely puzzled her kind old master. 
 "This is Dicy's only slip," he was wont to say. 
 The " slip " was a second marriage, to an old 
 half-witted negro, called Joe Cris, an overseer on 
 the plantation to which Charley belonged. The 
 marriage was sudden, and seemingly without rea- 
 
52 AUNT DICE: 
 
 son. Even Charley could not understand this 
 foolish step. The master's consent had not been 
 asked ; indeed, she had been married some weeks 
 before the news reached him. 
 
 Joe Cris was a standing theme for a joke at Riv- 
 erside quarters. He was a small, dark African — 
 a Guinea negro, some called him — with an unusual 
 infliction of impediments: a halting speech ; an am- 
 bling, rolling gait; eyes that struggled painfully 
 to focus an object; and a brain which served him 
 well with its one merit — that of remaining true to 
 its one idea, which merit alone raised him to over- 
 seer. He did as he was ordered, just that and no 
 more. He lacked the ingenuity to go farther, the 
 cunning to do less ; so he served well in his place as 
 second overseer. 
 
 None ever dreamed that Aunt Dice could look 
 twice at simple Joe Cris. His Saturday night visits 
 had been barely tolerated by her, though always 
 accompanied by some humble offering — a string 
 of pepper, a hen and chickens, a jug of molasses — 
 which she accepted with a stately reserve that made 
 his humble attention more cringing'. 
 
 With " Mrs. Cris " the joke came to a sudden 
 end. Who was bold enough to laugh at Aunt Dice ? 
 So in the quarters there was a painful silence. 
 Aunt Dice went about quietly, very quietlv, al- 
 most like one dreaming, while the pickaninnies rev- 
 eled in sunshine and idle hours, disregarding her 
 low call to duty. 
 
 Perhaps it was a " slip." The master, after his 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 53 
 
 first sore surprise, kindly let the matter rest, under- 
 standing well Aunt Dice's proud reserve, and for- 
 bearing to question the motive, wise or unwise, of 
 her sudden marriage. His confidence in her was 
 not shaken. His sympathy, though unasked, was 
 tendered in various ways. Aunt Dice was still 
 the honored and trusty servant. Indeed, the bond 
 between her kind master and herself seemed more 
 closely drawn as her tender devotion upheld his 
 approaching infirmities. His dependence upon her 
 was great, greater than she knew. She watched 
 him as he sat on the back gallery, the sunlight on 
 his silvered head, an open Bible across his knees. 
 "That Bible is jes' blistered with his tears," she 
 said. She followed him with anxious interest as he 
 went his quiet way among his slaves; his tender- 
 ness and care of them she never spoke of without 
 emotion. He carried them upon his heart; their 
 welfare was his constant study. He felt deeplv 
 the responsibility of these ignorant souls upon his 
 own. He went to Aunt Dice one day with a mes- 
 sage from Uncle Amos, who was done with earth- 
 ly things. " Go to him, Dicy; see that he has a 
 clean pillow to die on." 
 
 Aunt Dice departed on her mission. On a snow- 
 white bed, the dying saint prayed his last praver 
 and sang his last halleluiah on earth. She returned 
 home with an aching heart. Mos William was 
 failing; he would soon follow. She watched him, 
 waited upon him; she tended and served him, her 
 stern composure almost upset at times bv his kindly 
 
54 AUNT dice: 
 
 smile. A long talk they had together, after which 
 Aunt Dice was never quite the same : there was a 
 greater devotion; a steadier watchfulness, if possi- 
 ble; a tenderer interest in her master's children, 
 as if she had thrown aside her own troubles as 
 worthless things, and had consecrated herself whol- 
 ly to her master's own. 
 
 Still, with the undiminished confidence and es- 
 teem of her dear master, Aunt Dice, though deeply 
 grateful, could not bring herself once to explain to 
 him the cause of her sudden marriage. Regard- 
 ing her own private burdens she was, as usual, 
 mute and noncommittal. 
 
 A year afterwards, to he? unspeakable sorrow, 
 her master sickened and died, after having at last 
 succeeded in buying Charley and restoring him to 
 his mother. This last act overcame her reserve — 
 too late, indeed, for the master's ears, but around 
 the finished grave, when the white mourners had 
 departed, and the negroes, hitherto orderly and 
 quiet, lifted a wail for the dead master, there was 
 heard a sharp note of agony, and Aunt Dice knelt 
 in passionate grief. 
 
 "O my master! my blessed master! I married 
 him to be kind to Charley; an' ye never knowed 
 it ! ye never knowed it ! " 
 
 The negroes stood with bared heads and listened. 
 In that wild regret the mystery of the second mar- 
 riage was explained. To shield the wavward 
 Charley — the insolent, overbearing Charley — she 
 had sacrificed herself. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 n 
 
 N the quiet days that followed, Aunt Dice re- 
 covered her usual flow of spirits and wonted 
 activity. The plantation throve under her 
 wise rule and industrious example. The negroes 
 respected, obeyed her. Charley was married, and 
 happier than formerly in the home of his youth. 
 
 Joe Cris no longer troubled Aunt Dice, but con- 
 siderately kept away, visiting her only once a year, 
 bringing his humble offering as an apology for his 
 presence. These visits were received with stud- 
 ied kindness, but great formality. Perhaps the sim- 
 ple old soul felt dimly that he had greatly wronged 
 Aunt Dice ; perhaps the enormity of her sacrifice 
 dawned upon him in a clearer afterthought, for he 
 held to the day of his death that " Miss Dicy " was 
 as far above him as the stars. 
 
 To the mistress Aunt Dice was a trusted friend, 
 a friend of long-tried worth and human excellence. 
 The young heir of Riverside, who had returned 
 from college, returned also — to rule? Oh no! to 
 the safe covert of Aunt Dice's ample wings and 
 to her almost idolatrous affection. Mos Sam was 
 ever afterwards the song of her heart and burden 
 of her prayers. 
 
 But her next care was now ner young mistress, 
 Anne, who was gentler than ever in her black 
 
 (55) 
 
56 aunt dice: 
 
 gown, growing more and more like her honored 
 mother, consequently more and more dear to Aunt 
 Dice. The question of her approaching marriage 
 was a responsible one, now that the master's wise 
 counsel was no more. Aunt Dice smoked many a 
 pipe over the problem; she pondered deeply, si- 
 lently, as the fragrant puffs floated up the broad- 
 throated chimney. 
 
 Would he pass — that slender, boyish - looking 
 doctor, who was so kind to Mos William in his 
 last illness — who had already won her mistress's 
 gentle respect; would he pass? She learned that 
 he had settled near a small village four miles dis- 
 tant, and had begun the practice of medicine; but 
 who was he — Mos John Trevor? Mos Sam, who 
 looked a stranger through, had received him kind- 
 ly, generously; a sure sign of approval. 
 
 The "young doctor" himself had given Aunt 
 Dice no cause for disquietude; indeed, from the 
 beginning of his friendly footing at Riverside he 
 had shown a fondness for her — an honest admira- 
 tion, which she had unconsciously returned. How 
 could she have felt otherwise when he had shown 
 from the first a respect and delicate consideration 
 for her, which she had never failed to appreci- 
 ate? To her surprise he followed at her heels, 
 talking, laughing, questioning, enthusiastic over the 
 winding river, the high cliffs, the blue hills. He 
 praised her cooking, her feathered brood of fowls, 
 her neat dairy. He even found his way to her cab- 
 in, and developed a fondness for her cupboard, 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 57 
 
 second only to Mos Sam himself. Aunt Dice soon 
 found herself appropriated. She cleaned his gun, 
 mended his fishing-net, and instructed him as to 
 the " likeliest" holes in the river for fishing. He 
 reminded her of a boy turned loose from school to 
 a long holiday. And so it was: the fresh, green 
 beauty of Riverside was a rest indeed from the 
 long lecture room at the Nashville Medical College, 
 which he had quitted, however, with no small hon- 
 or, it was said. 
 
 But this " boy," hardly turning twenty-one, was 
 to wed sweet Anne Macy, one of the children of 
 Aunt Dice's heart. The stern experience of her 
 own sad life admonished her. Would the boy 
 make the man in this case? When trials came — 
 as they surely visited all — would he pass, would 
 he hold true? She resorted to the usual formula 
 — a trying ordeal of questions. 
 
 " Whar his folks live, Miss Anne?" 
 
 " In Nashville, Aunt Dice," answered Anne 
 painfully. 
 
 "Humph! city folks ! Ain't thev bought a place 
 roun' here some'r's? " 
 
 "The plantation, Beechwood, near West Alton." 
 
 " I know where 'tis — a likelv place, though 
 West Afton might be called ' Mud River,' fur its 
 color. Is they got many niggers at Beechwood ? " _ 
 she asked carelessly. 
 
 " I suppose so, Aunt Dice." 
 
 " I likes the bov, Miss Anne," Aunt Dice con- 
 cluded, noticing Anne's flushed face; "but he's 
 
58 aunt dice: 
 
 too young — too young. Seems ef he can't git 
 'nough fishin' an' huntin' 'Ions o' Mos Sam. He 
 ain't took life in earnest yit, but he'll have to learn 
 by'mby — then will he stan' by ye faithful? " 
 
 " Brother Sam speaks well of him, Aunt Dice," 
 said patient Anne; "he says he is a man of fine 
 morals and upright character — " 
 
 " Oh, he's been well raised, that I knows; he's 
 well-behavin' an' p'lite, an' none too heavy-handed 
 at the sideboard, I notice. I never 'spect to see 
 anuther Mos William, but he may do well 'nough. 
 I wish ye well, chile ; I wish ye well. You'll have 
 my own gran'chilluns to wait on ye; they're 
 young, but I'll look a'ter ye." 
 
 John Trevor and sweet Anne Macy were mar- 
 ried. Riverside looked beautiful that soft October 
 night. The rooms shone brightlv. From dining 
 room to guest chamber, all was complete under 
 the finishing touch of Aunt Dice's faithful fingers. 
 The mistress, clad in a black satin gown which 
 hung in straight lustrous folds about her, her soft 
 muslin kerchief folded neatly over her bosom, 
 her dark hair parted smoothly over madonna-like 
 brows, looked even* inch her real self — a sweet, 
 old-fashioned southern woman. 
 
 John Trevor arrived from Nashville with his 
 mother and sisters — women Aunt Dice knew at a 
 glance to be gracious and womanlv. She stood 
 on the lawn in her best black silk as the carriage, 
 with its stately-stepping horses, drew up through 
 the double gate. 
 
1 THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 59 
 
 " I'm glad the chile was well fixed fur clo'es," 
 Aunt Dice said afterwards, by way of a cheerful 
 remark to the lonely mistress. " Thar was her 
 white dress in co'se fur the weddin' ; then her 
 lavender-sprigged mull will do well 'nough over 
 lavender silk fur secon' mo'nin' ; then thar's her 
 bomb'zine, an' black silk, an' bonnits to match, 
 an' all them putty chintzes made the new blouse 
 waist. Mos John's folks is nice people. I par- 
 tic'lar favored one o' them gals." 
 
 "Which one, Aunt Dice?" asked the young 
 master, flashing a keen look upon her. 
 
 " The one that wus tall an' fair, with the sweet, 
 proud look — Miss Helen, they calls her." 
 
 Mos Sam whistled softly, looking far out at the 
 silver-flashing river, through the sunlit sycamores. 
 Perhaps he " favored " her too — the tall, fair girl, 
 with the " sweet, proud look." 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 OCTOR TREVOR and his young wife 
 were often at Riverside; a swift horse to 
 a light buggy soon covered the flve-miie 
 distance. He was always sure of a welcome. 
 The mistress smiled upon him. The young 
 master greeted him cordially. Aunt Dice minis- 
 tered to him, gradually unbending from her dig- 
 nified demeanor and favoring him occasionally 
 with her grotesque figures, grimaces, and carica- 
 tures, all of which conveyed a moral easily inter- 
 preted by the wise observer. Notwithstanding, 
 she watched him closely. John Trevor was still 
 boyish and full of fun. He climbed the hills, 
 hunted in the Barrens, and fished for hours bv the 
 deep blue " hole " under the bluff. When called 
 professionally, as he was now the family physi- 
 cian, his first £reetin£r from the double jrate was: 
 " Quick, Aunt Dice — my pole and reel ! I'll have 
 time for an hour's fisjiing." Aunt Dice began to 
 wonder if life would ever prove an earnest thing to 
 the pleasure-loving young physician. 
 
 True to her word, she rode over to Beechwood 
 at stated intervals on her mistress's ridinjj horse, to 
 look after Anne and her household. These visits 
 John Trevor usually appropriated. To him Aunt 
 Dice was an unfailing source of amusement. He 
 never tired of her droll ways and quaint remarks. 
 (60) 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 6 1 
 
 He followed her from kitchen to garden; he chat- 
 ted with her, questioned her, smoked with her, 
 ever on the alert for a new gesture or original say- 
 ino\ To him she was a study. He delighted in 
 
 o JO 
 
 reading to her short, simple stories, content to 
 watch her grave, puzzled face. He ransacked the 
 library for a suitable story, one within the range 
 of her understanding. Ah ! he had it — a simple 
 thinji, ffivinjr in connection with a domestic scene 
 a detailed account of choice eatables, cooked to a 
 turn. 
 
 Aunt Dice listened. For once she was on a lev- 
 el with the story. The savor of imaginary viands 
 on an imaginary table smote her nostrils. She 
 interrupted him: " Stop, Mos John ! stop! I'm a 
 perishin' fur a piece o' co'nbread — I'm so hungry." 
 Mos John laughed delightedly and — lunched with 
 her. 
 
 Aunt Dice's intense pride, her grand air, the 
 majestic sweep of her broad lips, interested as 
 well as amused John Trevor. She never wore 
 gaud}- colors, nor used a head handkerchief — a 
 style too significant of the common African tvpe 
 to suit her patrician fancy. Despite her color, 
 she never termed herself a negro. She had pon- 
 dered long over the problem of her lineage, con- 
 tenting herself at last with the concession that she 
 sprang from the bluest " blue blood " of far-away 
 Africa. When suggested to her by John Trevor 
 — by reason of gout in her great toe — that she 
 mav have descended from a long race of kings, 
 
62 AUNT dice: 
 
 for centuries used to high living and princely diet 
 (cannibalism was omitted), she listened gravely, 
 and must have believed herself a princess in cot- 
 ton, for ever afterwards this particular toe received 
 her tenderest consideration. In spite of her pre- 
 cautions, Aunt Dice found within her heart a 
 growing fondness for Mos John. " He ain't been 
 tried yit," she argued; but she carried home a 
 cheerful report to the mistress. " Mos John's 
 a good purvider — a leetle too free-handed with 
 monev, but Miss Anne's well keered fur." 
 
 Aunt Dice's services were often in demand at 
 Beechwood. One day in the following spring 
 Anne Trevor read in some dismay a note which 
 her husband had laid in her hand. It ran thus: 
 
 April 15, 1S5-. 
 My Boy: I shall drive out next Thursday with a 
 party of friends to spend the day with you. 
 Have us a good dinner. 
 
 Affectionately, John Trevor, Sr, 
 
 "What shall we do?" asked Anne, helplessly. 
 " Too early for vegetables — Eliza so inexperi- 
 enced — " 
 
 " Send for Aunt Dice," advised John, promptly. 
 
 Aunt Dice was sent for. 
 
 "Got many aigs?" she asked, after due ex- 
 planations. 
 
 " Yes, several dozen." 
 
 "Then I'll make out. Kill me a sucking pig, 
 Mos John," she said, rising busily; " make the 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 6$ 
 
 niggers seine fur fish. Tell 'em I want a sof- 
 shell turtle, sho', fur soup. Gimme one o' your 
 fattes' hens, Miss Anne, an' that'll do fur meat. 
 Git out your bes' table kiver, your gol' ban' 
 chany, ole mistis giv' you, an' see ef your silver 
 needs a shine." 
 
 Thus strengthened, the work progressed. Aunt 
 Dice flitted hither and thither, retarded only by 
 the persistent attendance of John Trevor, who en- 
 joyed the pleasant bustle. " He's the wust sp'iled 
 boy I knows of," she said cheerfully. "You'll 
 have to humor him all your days, Miss Anne." 
 
 Thursday came, and with it the guests. Aunt 
 Dice surveyed the table with some pride. The 
 sucking pig lay roasted whole, with a rosy apple 
 in his mouth; the fat hen, garnished with parsley 
 and boiled eggs, was brown and juicy; the turtle 
 soup, excellent; the salads, fish, and potatoes, 
 perfect. Crimson jellies and amber wine gleamed 
 rich and warm with the burnished silver and sweet 
 spring flowers. Strong black coffee, served in tiny 
 cups, was sent to the pleasant drawing-room. 
 
 John Trevor, Sr., recognized a good dinner. 
 Before his departure he sought Aunt Dice, bent 
 on the usual " tipping," a custom of the times. 
 "Aunt Dice," he said kindly, tendering her a 
 shining coin, " you gave us a good dinner, a 
 good dinner, ma'am. You are an excellent cook, 
 I see." 
 
 " Thanky, suh," said Aunt Dice, drawing up her 
 lips; " but I never 'ceive money, suh, fur duty." 
 
64 aunt dice: 
 
 "Take your money, madam! " roared the as- 
 tonished visitor, tossing the coin on the floor and 
 retiring somewhat discomfited. "Zounds! Mv 
 son, it seems you have an aristocrat in your 
 kitchen." 
 
 "An aristocrat indeed, father!" laughed John 
 Trevor. "A true blue-blooded patrician." 
 
 It was ever a rule with Aunt Dice to make or earn 
 her own living: she kept her fowls and received a 
 steady income for her fancy cookery at the coun- 
 try stores. Beyond the many presents bestowed 
 upon her, which she accepted with a grateful 
 pride, her whole life was spent for others, " with- 
 out money and without price." 
 
 During the next fall Aunt Dice was sent for 
 on quite a different errand — to the bedside of a 
 sick slave. Charity, the laundress of the family, 
 was ill — stout, able-bodied Charity, who laughed 
 and sang over her tubs and ironing table, but 
 who never found time to consider the possible 
 failure of strength or the ending of life. She 
 was sick unto death, Aunt Dice knew from the 
 first. She watched the young master keenlv. 
 He was attentive, skillful as a physician; but 
 would he nurse a sick slave as tenderly as her 
 kind old master had done? One night she went 
 quietly to his room, where he sat reading: " Mos 
 John, Charity's dyin', an' she's — afeard. Can't 
 you send to Miss Kath'rine's fur the preacher?" 
 
 " He is not at home, Aunt Dice," he said, rising; 
 " I will do what I can." 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. -65 
 
 "You?" She eyed him doubtfully as he took 
 up a Bible from the table. 
 
 " Come on." 
 
 "Turn them niggers out, Mos John," she said 
 as they entered the cabin. 
 
 John Trevor sternly ordered out a crowd of ne- 
 gro women, who for hours had been chanting and 
 moaning- over the wages of sin and the eternal 
 damnation of the sinner. 
 
 Charity lay, with wild, fear-stricken eyes, tossing, 
 turning, muttering over and over the pleading cry, 
 " I'se 'feard to die, Mos John ! I'se 'feard to die !" 
 
 John Trevor sat by her bedside, and talked to 
 her quietly of the Saviour's love, his plenteous re- 
 demption and free grace; he knelt beside her, and 
 poured out an earnest prayer for peace, for the 
 seal of divine forgiveness. But the wild eyes gazed 
 on him hopelessly; the restless head tossed over 
 the pillow. The horror of death enveloped her. 
 The master opened the Bible and read to her, 
 words of life, of wonderful promises, and of sure 
 fulfillment. He sang to her, in rich, full tones, 
 songs of redeeming love. Still the dving negress 
 moaned and prayed in despair. Again the master 
 knelt, pleading, struggling, persevering, holding 
 up the promises on which he had built his faith. 
 
 Aunt Dice, sitting quietly by the hearth, looked 
 at him inquiringly. "Will you give it up?" the 
 mute glance said. 
 
 "Until morning light, Aunt Dice," the master 
 answered, turning to the bed with a firm resolve 
 5 
 
66 aunt dice: 
 
 on his boyish face, as if he had said, as Jacob did, 
 " I will not let thee go, except thou bless me." 
 
 Aunt Dice listened reverently, though not with- 
 out an amazed surprise, as the young master held 
 up before the dying slave a crucified Redeemer — 
 his boundless love and mercy, his wonderful power. 
 Could this be the gay, fun-loving young physician 
 into whose care she had almost feared to trust the 
 child of her rearing? Could this earnest watcher 
 by the bedside be the boy of a short year ago, 
 whom she had questioned so seriously? A beauti- 
 ful light was shining in his eyes, grown suddenly 
 so dear to her. Words fell from his lips in strange 
 eloquence. Aunt Dice had a higher conception 
 of the Wonderful One that night than she had ever 
 had before. She listened surprisedly, and with 
 quickened pulses, as he told of living waters — of 
 springs in the wilderness and streams in the desert. 
 
 Through the long hours of the night the master 
 pleaded, prayed, sang, battling against death itself 
 for a purchased soul. The negress lay at last with 
 her eyes upon his face, listening, feeding upon the 
 words of life. The restless tossing ceased. The 
 master sang, in clear, full tones — tones that since 
 have soothed many a dying pillow: 
 
 "Are not thy mercies large and free? 
 May not a sinner trust in thee?" 
 
 A look of peace stole over the dying face. He 
 sang again, softly: 
 
 "Jesus can make a dying bed 
 
 Feel soft as downy pillows are." 
 
THE STORY CF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 6"J 
 
 There was a flash of light, a cry of joy: " Free, 
 Mos John ! I'm free — free ! ' ' 
 
 The sunlight touched the chimney tops at Beech- 
 wood, gilded the cabin walls of the quarters, as the 
 soul of the slave, in a transport of joy, sped out on 
 the wings of the morning. 
 
 Aunt Dice laid her rough, dark hand on the 
 master's head: " Thar— thar — Mos John; you've 
 done 'nough. Come up to the house, an' rest." 
 
 She entered the room where the young wife lay, 
 listening. 
 
 " Git up f'om thar, Miss Anne ! " she said sharp- 
 ly. "Why ain't you had Mos John a cup o' hot 
 coffee? O, chile! " she cried, breaking into con- 
 vulsive sobbing, as she noticed the tear-wet pil- 
 low, "he'll do — Mos John'll do — ye needn't never 
 be afeard." 
 
 Mos John had " passed " with her that night. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 HE old conservative South had many virtues 
 to call her own. Not the least of these was 
 the purity of her religion. Her old aris- 
 tocracy, her highborn dames and courtly men, 
 thought it no concession to honor the world's Re- 
 deemer. In this respect the South may still be 
 called conservative. While she fills her homes with 
 products of northern thrift and invention, while she 
 brightens her firesides with periodicals of north- 
 ern literary* excellence, her libraries, which still 
 honor the well-worn volumes of Bacon, Shakes- 
 peare, Bunyan, and Sir Walter Scott, are subser- 
 vient to and ever as things apart from the Bible, 
 whose living truths are accepted from cover to 
 cover. 
 
 Aunt Dice was comforted. " Mos John'll al- 
 ius be faithful," she said. She felt that her young 
 mistress was safe in his care. Her own £rand- 
 children, the motherless ones, would still look 
 up to a kind master. These three grandchildren, 
 who were part of Anne Trevor's marriage por- 
 tion, were contented and happy at Beech wood. 
 Eliza, the eldest, was quiet and true, much like her 
 honored grandmother ; Julia was tall, strong, and 
 willing; while Pet — still a spoiled pet — was very 
 fat and saucy, very good-natured, and very de- 
 linquent in her dutv sometimes. 
 (68) 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 69 
 
 The years passed on. The "children" pros- 
 pered. The olive branches grew. Aunt Dice 
 shared with her mistress the honors of grand- 
 mother, and visited back and forth, always a dis- 
 tinguished guest, and always a welcome home- 
 comer. The mistress, who now seldom left River- 
 side, leaned upon her trusted servant. The young 
 master was still the darling of Aunt Dice's heart. 
 The negroes were happy in the quarters. Char- 
 ley's children played about her; Aunt Dice was at 
 peace. 
 
 With her advancing years a season of rest was 
 a grateful respite to faithful Aunt Dice. But the 
 serenity of her old age was again to be broken by 
 a rumor whose portentous meaning she little under- 
 stood. A civil war was threatened, and the gloom 
 that settled over the country spoke in prophecy of 
 a darker future. 
 
 Aunt Dice had thought but little of political 
 questions. She had lived through the days of ar- 
 dent Whigism, but had failed to respond to the 
 enthusiasm of the " hard-cider campaign,'' or anv 
 other campaign of political meaning. She had 
 heard of wars, certainly. She had a childish mem- 
 ory of 1S12, a dim report that had reached her of 
 Indian warfare and troublous times, but the mis- 
 fortunes of war she had never realized. She had 
 seen some of her neighbors drill in cumbersome 
 fashion for the Mexican war, and start out on the 
 long journey westward with much military- pomp 
 and display. She had seen a remnant return 
 
70 aunt dice: 
 
 from its questionable glory, wasted by disease or 
 toughened in experience. Mexico was a dim, 
 distant land to Aunt Dice — too far away to hold 
 her sympathy. Her little world she counted with- 
 in the boundary of her blue Tennessee hills, or 
 the twenty-mile length of the sparkling, winding 
 river, her loved South Afton. 
 
 A civil war, she was told, meant much. She 
 pondered long over the question. She studied 
 with a new interest the portrait of General Winfield 
 Scott which hung over the dining-room mantel at 
 Riverside. Would Mos Sam ever be a stern-faced 
 soldier like this? Her hot-blooded, imperious 
 master, she was sure, would be among the first to 
 take up arms; he who had known no use of arms 
 save his unerring rifle when he followed the bay- 
 ing of his hounds in his famous deer hunting in 
 the Barrens. How could she live without Mos 
 Sam, the light of Riverside? 
 
 "We niggers is g'wine ter be free," was the 
 whispered thought at the quarters. Aunt Dice 
 received such comments with a sharp reprimand 
 and a sidelong look which invited no further ar- 
 gument. But even her strong will could not quell 
 the rising spirit of freedom among the slaves. The 
 meaning of the war, so often spoken of in sub- 
 dued accents throughout the quarters, dawned 
 slowly upon her. It meant, to her at least, the ruin 
 of Riverside ! 
 
 The day came when the master, answering the 
 call to arms, prepared to depart; a sad day to 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 7 1 
 
 Aunt Dice, who summoned all her stern compo- 
 sure for this strange parting. He knocked at her 
 cabin door that night, as she expected. 
 
 " Come in, Mos Sam; tak' a cheer." Her pipe 
 trembled slightly in her hand. 
 
 The master drew up his chair to the hearth, 
 where a small fire of "chunks" was kept smol- 
 'dering the summer through. He gave her direc- 
 tions concerning the negroes, the growing cotton 
 and wheat, and other details of plantation affairs. 
 
 "I un'erstan', Mos Sam," she answered. 
 
 He moved his chair restlessly. A shadow, 
 which of late had dimmed the luster of his smile, 
 rested sadly or his brow. Aunt Dice smoked in 
 silence. 
 
 " Miss Mary ain't what she wus sence Mos Wil- 
 liam died." 
 
 "No?" sadly. 
 
 " This war'll go hard with her." 
 
 He turned with a quick, restless motion : "Watch 
 after her, Aunt Dice; take care of her." 
 
 He drew a folded paper from his pocket, looked 
 over it slowly, and handed it to Aunt Dice. 
 
 "Aunt Dice, this gives you your freedom, if vou 
 should need it. My mother's name is signed, and 
 my own. You can use it as you choose." 
 
 Aunt Dice took the paper gingerlv, between fin- 
 ger and thumb, and laid it promptlv on the coals. 
 
 " You don't know what may happen, Aunt Dice. 
 You are never to be sold again." 
 
 "I'll hold my own; you needn't be afeard. I 
 
72 AUNT DICE: 
 
 knows my business; Mos William tole me that 
 afore he died. I b'longs to ole mistis as long as 
 she live — then I'm yourn, 'ceptin' I'm to look after 
 the chillun when they's sick, or when they needs 
 help. You needn't bother 'bout me. The wust 
 trubble is all these nigger fam'lies you've bought 
 in at the sale." 
 
 "You knew my father's request, Aunt Dice — 
 they were not to be sold or divided unwillingly." 
 
 "That's so. You wus to buy in all who wus 
 onwillin' to be 'vided out, an' more'n plenty wus 
 onwillin' enuff to make a putty big debt — what 
 ain't paidjyzV." 
 
 " Riverside will soon cancel it, Aunt Dice." 
 
 "But stop, Mos Sam. Mos William didn't 
 know 'bout this war a-comin' on. You'd sho' be 
 ruined if the ni^rrers wus sot free." 
 
 "Aunt Dice," flashed the young master, "do 
 you mean to say the South will be whipped?" 
 
 " I jes' mean — I don' know," said Aunt Dice, 
 sorrowfully. She "leaned over the coals, her head 
 showing silvery in the faint light. There was a 
 pathetic droop about her shoulders, an old look in 
 her bent form. 
 
 " Cheer up, Granny Vic," said the master, turn- 
 ing upon her the warmth of his sunny smile. 
 " This war will soon be over; then for a merry 
 wedding at Riverside ! You shall rule master, 
 mistress, niggers, and all." 
 
 "Who is it, Mos Sam?" she asked, com- 
 posedly. 
 
THE STOHY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 73 
 
 " The little girl who minces when she walks, 
 who fidgets in church, and giggles incessantly." 
 
 Aunt Dice's long lip quivered, swung back and 
 forth, and dropped with the senseless stupor of a 
 slobbering horse, finishing with a smirk, a giggle, 
 so successfully imitating the " little girl" in ques- 
 tion that the cabin rang with the master's laugh- 
 ter. 
 
 " Oh well, Aunt Dice, the one-hundred-and-fifty- 
 pounder, who rides neck-to-neck with Fleetfoot, 
 and is always ' in at the death ' in a fox chase." 
 
 " Too bold an' for'ard, Mos Sam — too bold an' 
 for'ard, fur Mos William's son," she said, stern- 
 ly. There was silence. Aunt Dice resumed her 
 smoking. 
 
 " Why not some o' your neighbor gals — they're 
 all likely." 
 
 " Indeed they are — and worthy," said the mas- 
 ter. 
 
 Aunt Dice looked stolidly at the fire. Her calm 
 indifference betrayed no hint of curiosity. 
 
 '•Aunt Dice, what about the girl with the sweet, 
 proud look? " 
 
 "Thar! I knowed it was a-comin' ; I knowed 
 it. She's a good 'oman, Mos Sam — a fine 'oman. 
 I've seen her time an' ag'in at Beechwood. She'll 
 make a likely mistis fur Riverside — one you'll be 
 proud of." 
 
 Mos Sam whistled softly, a shadow chasing away 
 the sunshine of his smile. After all, Riverside 
 may never know the woman of his choice as its 
 
74 aunt dice: 
 
 fair mistress. His own life may be offered up on 
 a battlefield, his body uncoffined, his very name 
 unknown in a strange land. " Good-night, Aunt 
 Dice," he said, at length, turning to the door. 
 
 " Mos Sam?" Aunt Dice considered that she 
 had always found a cheerful word to lighten a 
 heavy heart. Her boy should not leave her door 
 without the memory of a smile. " I've alius been 
 ag'in your fightin' as a boy," she continued, " but 
 ef you sees that Yankee school-teacher, you may 
 whup him — wunst." 
 
 "All right, Granny Vic!" laughed the master. 
 " I'll thrash him for your sake." 
 
 Next morning the master stood on the lawn with 
 his faithful servant, ready for his departure ; a 
 bright June morning, when Riverside looked her 
 fairest: the old home smiling from her cool gal- 
 leries and shady maples ; her pastures dotted with 
 sheep and cattle, and tinkling with sounds of peace ; 
 her gardens abloom with roses, and the river shim- 
 mering and dreaming at her feet ! The group of 
 negroes in the background did not detract from 
 the picture, though their wails mingled with the 
 deep-mouthed baying of the master's hounds, who 
 were soon to forget the music of his hunting horn. 
 
 But the master, whose keen eye had taken in 
 his surroundings at a glance, now lingered under 
 the maples with a restless tread, the strained pres- 
 sure of his lips revealing only a hard white line 
 about his mouth. He little heeded the glorious 
 beauty of Riverside. His hounds fawned upon 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 
 
 75 
 
 him, unnoticed. The group of friends, the grief- 
 stricken faces of his sisters — Anne and Katherine 
 — the kindly sympathy in John Trevor's eyes, he 
 did not see; he only saw a delicate figure gowned 
 in gray standing on the gallery, whose hair shone 
 with faint gleams of silver through the soft muslin 
 cap. 
 
 In this supreme moment the questions of state 
 or country seemed strangely small beside the little 
 mother who stood before him, mighty in her love; 
 the little mother within whose arms all his child- 
 ish griefs and pains had been rocked to sleep. 
 Friend and foe were alike to him for the while — 
 unworthy of a touch of her garments. Not even 
 the memory of a fair, proud face intruded upon 
 this sacred parting which tried the souls of mother 
 and son; a parting which she mercifully short- 
 ened by turning quietly into her room without 
 even a mother's caress, lest the action prove too 
 strong a test of her fortitude, or weaken the cour- 
 age of her soldier boy. The quick splashing of 
 horses' feet crossing the river cut the air with a 
 sickening sense of grief and loss. 
 
 Aunt Dice was left the central figure of the 
 thronging group of slaves, her tears on her dusky 
 cheeks, the sunlight on her gray head, and a new 
 care in her heart, for the master had said at part- 
 ing, "Aunt Dice, I leave to you my mother and 
 my home." 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 YEAR passed slowly. The mistress, 
 who had so bravely hung up her blue 
 chintz gowns and donned the colors of 
 ler son, seemed to falter through the long silence 
 which brought no news of him. She followed 
 Aunt Dice about like a shadow, which often sent 
 the faithful watcher to her cabin in hot haste for 
 a troubled smoke and a struggle for fortitude. 
 
 "Aunt Dice, can you bring your knitting and 
 sit with me awhile at night? " 
 
 "To be sho' I kin. What's to hender me?" 
 Aunt Dice never knew how she smiled or 
 brought herself to gossip, and tell her "silly 
 nothings," as they sat together at night, knitting 
 socks for " rebel" soldiers; she never knew how 
 she changed from a decisive, short-spoken woman 
 to a loquacious, ceaseless talker; she only knew 
 that she had gained her end when rewarded by a 
 patient smile. She discussed the weather, the 
 flight of wild geese, the soap-making, the spinning 
 and weaving, the young calves, the spring lambs; 
 she talked of old, old times, of far-away memo- 
 ries — anything and everything but the children, 
 lest the thought bring up the absent boy, whose 
 name was never mentioned. She searched the 
 place for an atom of news. '* Ole Topknot's in 
 (76) 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 77 
 
 fur anuther settin' spell. Sousin' in the river 
 don' do no good, so I sot her on goose aigs; 
 she'll git settin' 'nough now fur a spell, I reck'n. 
 Topknots ain't noted fur sense. The mockin' 
 birds is splittin' they throats ; they's feelin' the 
 springtime" — she would say, to tempt her mis- 
 tress out into the soft April sunshine; or, "The 
 dogwood's blossomin' an' the redbud in the hills 
 •— 'tain't long afore spring." Still the frail, tired 
 body faded slowly. 
 
 " Remember my poor, Aunt Dice," the mis- 
 tress said one day; and then the faithful watcher 
 knew that, with all her care, her multiplied words 
 and cheerful encouragement had been in vain. 
 John Trevor was her help and comfort; he gave 
 to Riverside all the time that his growing practice 
 and growing family would admit. But all the 
 tenderness of faithful friends could not avail. 
 Before the close of spring the gentle soul of the 
 mistress went out, to know no sad to-morrow of 
 that gloomv time. Aunt Dice stood alone— ter- 
 ribly alone ! Shocked, amazed at the magnitude 
 of her duty, but one thought spurred her on — the 
 thought of her master. 
 
 "Mos Sam is ruined," Aunt Dice said, as 
 she closed the doors of Riverside, after the 
 sad funeral. The negroes no longer made a 
 show of submission. Riverside was burdened 
 with debt and crowded with rebellious slaves; 
 a turbulent spirit had risen among them, which 
 Aunt Dice found impossible to quell. She man- 
 
78 aunt dice: 
 
 aged with difficulty to till the hind and gather 
 the crop. A new suspicion filled her with dread. 
 Charley, her own son, whose purchase money 
 had swelled the debt of Riverside, was dictatorial, 
 rebellious, a disturbing element in the quarters. 
 She upbraided him sternly; she commanded, im- 
 plored, entreated, but an angry, sullen look was 
 the only response. She pointed to a tall marble 
 shaft which shone solemnly from the cemetery: 
 " Fur Mos William's sake, Charley, don' leave 
 Mos Sam." 
 
 " G'way f'om here, mammy ; lemme 'lone. I'm 
 g'wine to Nashvul, / is, an' be a free genTmun. 
 I'll tote fur no man f'om dis here on." 
 
 Her pleading was vain. Charley's cabin was 
 empty one morning. Aunt Dice was bereft. 
 
 Thus her lonjr watch bejran. She saw the ne- 
 groes depart, slaves no longer, swelling day after 
 dav the number of them who had "run off to the 
 Yankees." But the glory of Riverside had also de- 
 parted. She saw the old home shorn of its beauty; 
 the fences were burned, the barns emptied, the cat- 
 tle, horses, and sheep driven off or slaughtered ; the 
 home of her beloved mistress desecrated and pil- 
 laged under the cruel ravages of war. Even the 
 tall clock in the dining-room corner, which had 
 ticked in and out the happy years of Riverside's 
 prosperity, stood with a white, dismayed face, its 
 glass doors shattered, its pendulum crushed and 
 broken, its faithful hands ruthlessly torn from their 
 place of duty; the old clock, which had rung in 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 79 
 
 the births, chimed at the weddings, and tolled out 
 the deaths at Riverside, stared now from its corner 
 like a human thing bereft of a soul ! 
 
 Aunt Dice heard nothing of the master; still her 
 lonely watch went on, and she said to herself some- 
 times as a sad refrain: " Mos Sam, 3-ou're ruined 
 — you're ruined ! " The long winters passed; the 
 dull "wash-wash" of the river sounded on her 
 listening ears. The summers came and went; the 
 whippoorwills called from the cemetery, the mock- 
 ing birds trilled in the maples, the river murmured 
 like a friend at her feet — still the master came not. 
 News of him floated to her at last between the si- 
 lences: Mos Sam was a brave soldier — was cap- 
 tain of a company — was wounded — in prison ; then 
 she heard no more. 
 
 Once only did her heart fail. A squad of Con- 
 federate soldiers passing by one day saw a pathetic 
 fiirure standing 1 over the bluff, beckoning to them. 
 
 il Whar is Mos Sam?" she quavered, thinking 
 in her innocent soul that all the world should know 
 "Mos Sam." 
 
 "Dead!" "killed!" "shot!" came back to 
 her in a rude, laughing chorus. 
 
 " I jes' whooped an' hollered all night," she said 
 to a kind neighbor, who reassured her. 
 
 Her fidelity did not go unquestioned. Her own 
 color eyed her askance as a friend to the " reb- 
 els." Among her white neighbors some looked 
 on her with suspicion, as possiblv harboring Fed- 
 erals; she was accordingly visited by a companv 
 
8o aunt dice: 
 
 of blue-coated soldiers, who threatened her with 
 fire, steel, and ugly army pistols if she did not dis- 
 close to them the hiding place of some " rebels "in 
 the vicinity. But her stern old eyes did not quaih 
 She knew not the meaning of " martyr " ; she had 
 never heard of a "noble Roman"; but her one 
 lesson of faithfulness she had learned well. The 
 soldiers passed over the river with a rousing cheer 
 for Aunt Dice; then she realized sadly that she 
 had been under trial. 
 
 Still she sowed her scanty seed and reaped her 
 shattered harvests. The little worn path over the 
 bluff by the river told of her weekly visits to the 
 nearest store, where she sold her chickens and. 
 eggs; told also of as many visits to the cemetery, 
 where, on these errands, it was her habit to sit and 
 rest, alone with her dead. Years before she had 
 planted in an oblong circle about Csesar's grave 
 those early harbingers of spring — golden candle- 
 sticks — which, when aflame in early March, lit up 
 the somber cedars, and made a glorious altarpiece 
 of the simple headstone. Here she rested on her 
 weekly -journeys. 
 
 Aunt Dice realized at last that the end of the 
 great civil war was near — a disastrous ending for 
 the South, but peace was none the less welcome. 
 The golden candlesticks had bloomed again around 
 Caesars grave when the blessed news came — the 
 long war was over. 
 
 Where was Mos Sam? How she scraped and 
 saved and hoarded ! How she watched and waited 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. Si 
 
 in the silence ! How she hoped and feared and 
 prayed in the solitude of her lonely cabin ! 
 
 But the master rode in quietly one night in the 
 light of the young moon, stabled his Yankee mare, 
 climbed the rickety fence by the deserted quarters, 
 and looked over his desolate home. The river 
 murmuring below, the lazy " swish-swish " of her 
 waters against the rocks, were the only sounds that 
 greeted him. At length a familiar figure came 
 slowly down the path, with bowed head, and hands 
 folded behind her. "Aunt Dice! " he called soft- 
 ly. She looked up quickly, knowing well the 
 square shoulders outlined against the twilight sky; 
 then running to him swiftly, she fell on her knees 
 at his feet, taking up the old refrain: " Mos Sam, 
 you're ruined — you're ruined! " 
 
 Her strength gave way at last; her strained 
 nerves relaxed. She had bravely dared those 
 four long years alone. Her trust was fulfilled. 
 She continued sobbing at his feet. 
 
 "Don't grieve, Aunt Dice," the master said, 
 ! sadlv. " Your boy has come back to you, and he 
 is half starved." 
 
 Aunt Dice listened. She had heard complaints 
 of a half-starved boy before, though never so sad- 
 ly as this. She dried her tears suddenly. She 
 hoarded her sweet surprise. " Nuthin' in the 
 house fitten' fur you to eat, Mos Sam — nuthin' but 
 a piece o' co'n bread." 
 
 " Give me one of your good, brown corn pones, 
 Aunt Dice," said the master, cheerfully. 
 G 
 
82 aunt dice: 
 
 She followed him to the house, unlocked the 
 doors, brought him cool water from the great 
 spring under the bluff; and while he looked over 
 the silent rooms — so strangely silent, without a 
 mother's welcome — Aunt Dice prepared her sur- 
 prise, for which she had lived on husks ! She had 
 lonjj waited for this hour. With deft hands and 
 springing step she flitted back and forth, from 
 kitchen to dining room, grown young again in her 
 great joy. Her dear old eyes, dim with watching, 
 shone bright through happy tears. 
 
 And such a repast ! Corn pones, brown enough ; 
 but such flaky biscuits, such fragrant coffee; and 
 chicken, fried a delicate brown ! She did not stop 
 to consider or even conjecture what stint and fru- 
 gality, under the prevailing prices, brought forth 
 these treasures of coffee, lard, and flour. She 
 poured the coffee, waiting upon her master, watch- 
 ing him, who ate as if all those pent-up years of 
 hunger and starvation were requited in that one 
 meal ! 
 
 Nor was this all. After she had built a fire in 
 the late mistress's room, where the little armchair 
 beckoned silently from its corner — which room 
 was to be from henceforth Mos Sam's own, with 
 all its sacred memories — Aunt Dice laid out be- 
 fore the master various articles of dress, sorelv 
 needed by him, saying, with characteristic brevity: 
 " The chillun holped me. Miss Kath'rine made 
 the clo'es, Miss Anne the shurts. Mos John giv' 
 you the boots — they cos' fifty dollars." 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 8$ 
 
 "Why, Aunt Dice, what a fortune!" the mas- 
 ter said, delightedly. " I shall be a gentleman 
 again — not a poor 'Johnny Reb'" — stroking his 
 ragged, gray sleeve — " poor 'Johnny Reb ! ' 
 
 Aunt Dice looked at her master with some as- 
 perity. She had fed many a tramp who looked 
 more decent. " I've sot your bath tub at the 
 door," she said, in the old tone of command. 
 " Th'ow them rags in the fire, Mos Sam. I never 
 thought Mos William's son'd a looked like that." 
 She turned to bid him good-night. 
 
 "Aunt Dice," said the master, looking far into 
 the flaming coals, "I saw your Yankee school- 
 master." 
 
 "Did you whup him?" she asked, quickly. 
 Her added knowledge of the Yankee had rather 
 stimulated her desire for this particular whipping. 
 
 " No," he answered slowly; " I must say your 
 Yankee friend whipped me." 
 
 Aunt Dice looked at her master in amazed in- 
 quiry. He met her glance thoughtfully. " I was 
 in prison, and he visited me." 
 
 "Thar now!" said Aunt Dice. "Well, I'm 
 glad I washed an' orned his clo'es, an' domed all 
 his socks. I alius thought he had a hankerin' 
 a'ter Miss Kath'rine! " 
 
 "I think he liked her," said the master, mus- 
 incrlv. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 HROUGHOUT the year the table was sup- 
 plied, the master knew not how; not poor- 
 ly or sparingly kept, but almost with the 
 generous excellency of former days. The master 
 little dreamed of the struggle as, weak from recent 
 wounds, he built fences, or plowed his Yankee 
 mare beside a venerable riding-horse which was 
 once his mother's. Too proud to acknowledge 
 that she lived by her wits, Aunt Dice smuggled to 
 the country store her chickens, eggs, and butter, 
 her fancy cookies and gingerbread, so that her 
 slender purse held out as did the proverbial meal 
 barrel. 
 
 Yet the year was a happy one. It was her pleas- 
 ure to labor with unceasing thrift to provide these 
 luxuries; her pride to lend a helping hand to the 
 upbuilding of her master's broken fortunes. It 
 was a happy year, notwithstanding the new burden 
 of debt which lay heavily upon the master. He 
 was forced to borrow a sufficient sum to build up 
 the waste places, to buy grain and stock, and for 
 the additional expense of hire — a new experience 
 for the impoverished southerner. His impatient 
 soul chafed under the fretting weight. "What 
 shall I do, Aunt Dice? " he asked one day, in an 
 extremity of doubt and distress. 
 
 Aunt Dice glanced at him quickly and started 
 (84) 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. S5 
 
 in a swift trot for her cabin. A new problem this 
 for her sixty-sixth year ! She smoked her faithful 
 pipe while she studied. What was to be done? 
 Sell Riverside? Oh no! She pondered, ques- 
 tioned, considered. After all there was but one 
 way, she concluded, as she laid her pipe on the 
 shelf. She went back cheerfully. " Shoulder 
 your debts, Mos Sam; you can't shift 'em. Go 
 'long now to work. Go 'long, les'n you don't 
 want no br'iled chicken an'' waffles fur supper." 
 
 Mos Sam was comforted, somehow. 
 
 At this time a message from Joe Cris, who was 
 earning a precarious living by basket-making near 
 Nashville, startled Aunt Dice into remembrance 
 of her painful past. He sent her his humble re- 
 gards; also an invitation to share with him his 
 home and small living. Aunt Dice spurned the 
 offer with contempt, and returned a sharp an- 
 swer, with the significant question, " Is you a fool?" 
 For this Aunt Dice mav have been censured. In- 
 deed, it was evident that she, who had ever been 
 so responsive to the slightest call of duty, was 
 strangely delinquent in the obligations of her sec- 
 ond marriage. But her conscience in this respect 
 was a matter of education. Tutored in her one 
 school of faithfulness — that of allegiance to her 
 white people — she scorned all persuasion, advan- 
 tageous or otherwise, to leave her beloved River- 
 side. Perhaps, too, she felt that she had been 
 unfairlv bought. Toe Cris had no creat claim 
 upon her. Moreover, in the davs following their 
 
86 aunt dice: 
 
 freedom, many of the negroes were uncertain 
 breadwinners. Improvident in summer; ragged, 
 shivering, or homeless in winter; they too often 
 made a pitiable spectacle of gaunt hunger and 
 wretchedness. The question of bread, clothing, 
 and shelter had a broader meaning than they 
 had realized. The dependent slaves found in 
 their freedom such cares and responsibilities that 
 robbed the word of much of its sweetness and 
 flavor. Many, chary of their wings, remained 
 within the securitv of their former homes ; some 
 stayed through pure devotion to their masters, while 
 a large number, trained to divers trades, earned a 
 comfortable living. Aunt Dice had small confi- 
 dence in the abilitv of the negro, much less would 
 she trust herself in the keeping of one. Neverthe- 
 less, she made it her duty to send Joe Cris gifts of 
 clothing and money as long as he lived. Mos Sam 
 needed her; she would not leave him. 
 
 With the next vear's increase Riverside besran 
 to assume an ante-bellum look : not with the old 
 prosperity, for loans and mortgages were the 
 questions of the day, but the long deserted cabins 
 were peopled with dusky forms, some of whom 
 were former slaves. 
 
 Aunt Dice began again her imperious rule and 
 discipline. The old fields crept into life. The 
 rolling uplands were covered in billowv wheat. 
 The tinkling of sheep bells sounded a call of peace, 
 while the river sang in her old happy way, for the 
 master was to bring;- home a bride in the late fall — 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 87 
 
 the woman with the "sweet, proud look," whose 
 love had bidden him hope through five dark years. 
 Fortunately for Aunt Dice, the soon-to-be mis- 
 tress held a high place in her esteem. As the 
 time approached, she began preparations for the 
 wedding. 
 
 The day dawned cold and snowy. " Fix up 
 things, Aunt Dice," said the master, as he de- 
 parted for his twenty-mile ride to Nashville. She 
 needed no further order. When the wedding 
 party returned she met them on the lawn in state- 
 ly fashion, her master's hounds having about her. 
 The old home smiled with the warmth of old- 
 fashioned southern hospitality. The hickory fires 
 roared up the chimneys in generous welcome. 
 The long table in the dining room gleamed and 
 glittered with the evidences that Aunt Dice's 
 faithful hands had not lost their cunning. 
 
 There were eight long years of quiet for River- 
 side; years that were golden with hope and rich 
 with its promises; years of peace and rest after 
 the turbulent season of war. Children played 
 again under the maples. Childish laughter rang 
 through the cool galleries. The new mistress 
 reigned with a queenlv grace and charm of man- 
 ner that held captive the esteem of all South Al- 
 ton. Indeed, the country folk soon learned to 
 love the strange woman in their midst, who was 
 so wondrous kind and sweet. 
 
 Aunt Dice never criticised her. She never 
 made her mistress a subject of her trying mini- 
 
88 AUNT DICE. 
 
 icry, but invariably held her up to the numerous 
 grandchildren as a model of gracious dignity and 
 charming womanhood. But Mos Sam was still 
 the darling of Aunt Dice's heart. To him she 
 filled the office of mother in more ways than one. 
 The responsibilities of this relation she did not 
 shirk. If she thought he needed reproof, she was 
 quick and stern in giving it. "Git up f'om thar, 
 Mos Sam, complainin' of your woun's, an' wishin' 
 ye had a millyun. Go to work. Money won't 
 walk to ye." Such rebukes were wholesome, 
 and never out of place in the days when the debt 
 problem was an unanswered one and a grievous 
 burden to the southern landowner. 
 
 Aunt Dice may have saved her master from a 
 fatal despondency in his straitened circumstances 
 by her kindly words of cheer, or a caustic rebuke 
 which she covered adroitly with a quaint remark, 
 sure to bring a smile; but much more did she 
 prefer to honor him with all the doting fondness 
 of a mother. 
 
 "Anything in your cupboard forme, Aunt Dice?*' 
 was the frequent question. 
 
 "Dunno, Mos Sam," she would answer, almost 
 ignoring the question; " ye'd better look." 
 
 He was sure to find a generous store — whitest 
 bread and honey, cold chicken, her famous pies and 
 cookies, which were noted for their excellence. 
 
 These were her happy hours. He was all her own 
 when he sat with her in her cabin and talked with 
 her of the old times, the days of her kind old master. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 ME subject of the war was a sore one to 
 Aunt Dice. She looked upon it as a per- 
 sonal matter, deploring the thought that 
 tier own people had caused the ruin of Riverside — 
 had impoverished her dear young master. She 
 tried to bury this sorrow quietly as she had bur- 
 ied her other griefs, but she could not order the 
 thoughts of her master nor bid his bitter memories 
 be gone. She knew that the war spirit controlled 
 him when she saw his restless pacing back and 
 forth ; the nervous twitch of his fingers, as if they 
 longed to draw a sword; the quick flash of his 
 eyes, as if the vision of a hard-fought battle rose 
 up before him, or the roar of cannon and musket- 
 ry lingered in his ears. 
 
 " Debt ain't all he's a studyin' over," Aunt Dice 
 said. She watched him as he sat on the gallery, 
 gazing with far-seeing eyes across the dimpling, 
 smiling river. 
 
 "Aunt Dice, I would gladlv fiirht through four 
 years more — go hungry, ragged ; sleep in snow- 
 drifts, by the wayside, anywhere — just to trv the 
 whole thing over." 
 
 " Mos Sam, let the war go. "What good do it 
 do to set an' study over it? It's all pas' an' gone 
 now; make the best of it." 
 
 (89) 
 
go aunt dice: 
 
 But the blood of his comrades, so sadly spilled 
 in vain, called to him pleadingly. The negroes he 
 did not care to have, and would not own again. 
 It was the stupendous failure of a stupendous un- 
 dertaking that chafed and nettled his imperious 
 nature. He felt whipped. The reflection was 
 anything but consoling. In these sad hours he 
 felt that he had offered upon the altar of his coun- 
 try all that was truest and best within him. Only 
 a soldier of fortune was left, warped and frayed 
 as the clothes he wore home. He turned to his 
 wife in the bitterness of his soul, and held her 
 close in his arms. " What can I promise my Hel- 
 en, the wife of a poor rebel soldier?" 
 
 " This 'poor rebel soldier' is my brave knight," 
 she answered, smiling. 
 
 These seasons of unrest were happily transient. 
 Life was still before him. His winning smile and 
 genial manner still earned for him the honored 
 title of the "Light of Riverside." The hired 
 " work hands " in the cabins were under the just 
 and temperate rule of a kind "boss," a conven- 
 ient substitute for the word master. 
 
 Aunt Dice's three granddaughters, after varied 
 experiences, were married and established at Riv- 
 erside, where their husbands worked " on shares," 
 or for wages, for their necessary food and cloth- 
 ing. But Charlev belonged to the numberless 
 horde of swarthy citizens who termed themselves 
 the " new niters." He had shaken the dust of 
 Riverside forever from his feet, save for an occa- 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 9 1 
 
 sional visit to his mother, whither he went some- 
 times in a hired buggy, with jaunty horse and 
 trappings; sometimes, however, riding a gaunt, 
 bony mule; but more often afoot, ragged, un- 
 kempt, and hungry. After such visits Aunt Dice's 
 purse was left in a collapsed state. 
 
 But the "new niggers!" "Ho, for Nash- 
 ville!" seemed to be the watchword and cry of 
 liberated thousands — a greater problem by far 
 than all the debts and mortgages that covered the 
 sunny lands of Tennessee. Into Nashville they 
 poured, a living stream of life, fearfully free. 
 They swarmed the streets, crowded the corners, 
 obstructed the sidewalks, while dainty ladies 
 stepped aside, and white men muttered nameless 
 maledictions through their closed teeth. Whether 
 in vehicles or shining " turnouts," or shaky rattle- 
 traps, the new negroes kept the center of the road, 
 to see the " white man pass round," without the 
 customary greeting or doffing of hat or cap. In 
 the depths of the countrv the fields and woods 
 were strangely silent. There was a dearth of old- 
 time melodies, of feasting and revelrv. The mu- 
 sical calls and sound of the sweet cane flutes gave 
 place to a new song, if song it could be called, re- 
 plete with a significant triumph: 
 
 " Possum up a gum stump, coon up a holler, 
 I met dat ■white man, an' he owed me a dollar." 
 
 The word " master," too, had fallen into disuse, 
 and " Mr. and Mrs." Brown were substituted, 
 and rolled under tonirues too thick to conceal a 
 
92 aunt dice: 
 
 malicious pleasure, which stung the southerner 
 ofttimes to quick resentment. 
 
 Aunt Dice knew at a glance the fortunate ones 
 who applied at Riverside for situations. The 
 master, who still, as he gave them to understand, 
 was lord of his own domain, kindly received the 
 applicant who stood before him with bared head 
 and called him "Mos Sam" in the old-time way. 
 Not that he commanded or required this humble 
 obeisance; but knowing the negro well, he knew 
 the conservative ones to be the most worthy, and 
 as such were apt to be for a generation or more 
 to follow. 
 
 When Archibald, a stalwart youth of twenty- 
 one — a former slave who had been " onwillin" to 
 be 'vided out" at the sale — appeared at River- 
 side for a comfortable dinner and a possible job, 
 Aunt Dice looked him over dubiously. His dash- 
 ing appearance, his display of brass jewelry, his 
 stylishlv carded hair, betokened little favor from 
 the master. When about to pay his " 'spects to de 
 boss," Aunt Dice -called out warningly: " Min' 
 your manners, Arch, I tell you; min' your man- 
 ners." 
 
 But Archibald, brimful of freedom and the im- 
 portance of his twenty-one years, stepped jaun- 
 tily to the master's front door. " Howdy, Mr. 
 Macy. How's Mrs. Macy, yo' lady?" Archi- 
 bald felt a grip of steel within his collar for an- 
 swer, and a kick which caused him to measure 
 his length under the maples. 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE 93 
 
 "You might as well go now, Arch," said Aunt 
 Dice, quietly observant from the kitchen. " Man- 
 ners is cheap, an' might}- handy sometimes." 
 
 Aunt Dice, under the new order of things, was 
 extremely exclusive in her social life. Few col- 
 ored people she tolerated, fewer still she visited; 
 on such occasions her "grand air" was most 
 noticeable. She still held her membership with 
 her white people's church, and condescended 
 once a year to attend a colored congregation near 
 by, where their wild gestures and noisy worship 
 disgusted and annoyed her. Still she was not 
 without a certain interest in her own race. She 
 deplored their failings, encouraged every honest 
 effort, and lent a helping hand to every worthy 
 applicant. She might have been what is termed 
 a "white folks' ni^irer," one who is cordiallv hat- 
 ed and distrusted bv his own people, especially 
 as he prospers by his white " liking." But cer- 
 tain it was that Aunt Dice, bravely as she dared 
 their suspicion, commanded the respect, if she did 
 not gain the love, of her colored acquaintances. 
 Born a slave, this unreconstructed soul never ac- 
 knowledged her freedom, and scorned the offer 
 of wages at the close of the war. Feeling that 
 she belonged to her white people, and almost one 
 of them, no national proclamation of freedom 
 swerved her allegiance to them for an instant. 
 Among her white neighbors she was ever treated 
 with distinguished regard. On her usual church 
 goings, or weekly visits to the store, she never 
 
94 aunt dice: 
 
 lacked attention and courtesy due a lady. In- 
 deed, so honest was she in all her dealings, so 
 well grounded in truth and purity of character, 
 that no instance was ever known when her self- 
 respect went begging. 
 
 The new mistress was not slow to learn the 
 value of Aunt Dice as friend and adviser; nor 
 did she hesitate to accept her companionship as a 
 boon at lonely Riverside. Aunt Dice's afternoon 
 nap was an unvarying rule of the house — an hour 
 which the mistress found to be irksome waiting, 
 as she was usually favored with an afternoon call, 
 now that the spinning wheels were silent, and lei- 
 sure hours numerous. The sight of Aunt Dice's 
 homely, squat figure, as she sat on the low door- 
 step with her fragrant pipe, was a pleasant one to 
 the mistress, who began to look forward to these 
 daily visits. Aunt Dice, coming up the path from 
 her cabin, often saw the stately figure of her mis- 
 tress pacing the length of the gallery, and heard 
 her clear, rich tones greeting her: "Aunt Dice, 
 how long your naps are ! I have been waiting an 
 hour or more for you." 
 
 "Well, you wus in a hurry," Aunt Dice would 
 say composedly, seating herself on the step, and 
 watching the mistress's delicate hands flash in and 
 out with her dainty lace-making. Perhaps the 
 lovely lady of Riverside was lonely at times when 
 the master was absent; perhaps she felt a tender 
 longing for her bright Nashville home — a home 
 of unusual affection and charming personalities. 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 95 
 
 Aunt Dice was considerate. She understood the 
 tender look across the river and up the long lane 
 that stretched its way toward Nashville. She 
 interested her mistress in household affairs, in- 
 structed her in the secrets of the dairy, the rais- 
 ing of fowls, and other minor duties of the coun- 
 try housekeeper. Helen Macy was a happy wom- 
 an with her husband and children about her, and 
 frequent glimpses of her beloved brother, John 
 Trevor. Riverside was still a pleasant home, and 
 not without its comforts, though groaning still un- 
 der the burden of debt, and too poor by far to 
 afford her the luxury of a piano, or even her fa- 
 vorite books. But she loved the smiling river — 
 blue, dimpling South Afton ; she never tired of 
 the rugged bluffs, the dizzy cliffs, clothed and 
 crowned with verdure; she loved the breezy up- 
 lands, the distant hills sleeping in yellow sun- 
 shine ; she was fond of the old house with its 
 quaint architecture, its cool, wide rooms: she 
 was happy at Riverside. " I am really think- 
 ing, Sam. of wearing print gowns," she said one 
 day. And print gowns she wore, even to the crit- 
 ical eyes of her husband, as a queen "her purple 
 robe.'"' 
 
 "Sing. Helen," the master sometimes said as 
 thev sat together on the moonlit gallerv: and Hel- 
 en sang. 
 
 The negroes crowded to their cabin doors. 
 " Hush! Miss Helen's sinsnnV 
 
 Aunt Dice listened from her pleasant back gar- 
 
96 aunt dice: 
 
 den. The river lapped softly, while the sweet, 
 rich voice of the mistress trembled and soared 
 with the song of a river hardly more romantic in 
 scene than the lovely one at her feet: "Flow 
 gently, sweet Afton." The old, old songs rang 
 full and clear: the music of "Convent Bells"; 
 the lover's old son£, " When the stars are in the 
 quiet sky " ; and " Kathleen Mavourneen." The 
 master, whose eyes grew stormy under " Mary- 
 land, my Maryland," were quiet and tender when 
 he listened to a glad " Gloria," or " Come, ye dis- 
 consolate." 
 
 The new mistress found in Aunt Dice an effi- 
 cient help in dispensing hospitalities. With her 
 conservative ways she was a pleasant feature of so- 
 cial gatherings at Riverside. The old sideboard, 
 with its array of decanters and sparkling crystal, 
 was a thing of the past, but her ingenuity proved 
 more than equal to its loss. It was her pleasure 
 to plan surprises for guests or afternoon callers — 
 to spread a table under the maples, or improvise a 
 dainty lunch on a tray covered in spotless linen, 
 for those only whom she favored. If she felt that 
 Riverside was honored, she " opened her heart"; 
 otherwise, she was significantly silent. Yet she 
 made a pathetic picture, bearing in her trembling 
 hands these offerings of old-fashioned hospitality, 
 these testimonials of her "family pride." The 
 house, too, was brightened occasionally with fami- 
 ly gatherings, and often filled to overflowing with 
 the children — Aunt Dice's "gran'chillun," as she 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 97 
 
 called them. They played on the lawn, waded in 
 the shallows of the river; gathered mussel shells 
 and periwinkles on the sand bar; "kept house," 
 and played "ladies," on the great rocks by the 
 "Branch." They swarmed on the galleries, up 
 the quaint stairways, and peeped fearfully into 
 the depths of the dark " scuttle hole." A visit to 
 Aunt Dice's cabin was a ceremonial not to be 
 overlooked ; there they were treated to the same 
 discipline, the same grimaces, contortions, and hu- 
 miliating caricatures that their mothers were of 
 old, to say nothing of the open cupboard doors as 
 an aftermath. Valuable lessons, too, they learned 
 in that humble cabin; one of which, at least, was 
 never forgotten — to "speed the parting guest," 
 a maxim which finds an echo in many a hostess's 
 heart. " I must go, Granny," said often and re- 
 luctantly, brought forth from her the wholesome 
 advice: "When ye say 'go,' go. Don't palaver 
 'bout it." A form of good-by which certainly 
 speeded the " parting guest." 
 
 The visits of these grandchildren Aunt Dice de- 
 manded. She exacted a certain amount of defer- 
 ence due her. She required them to pay their re- 
 spects to her at stated intervals, a duty which they 
 were not loath to do; but " 'nought of a thing 
 wus 'nough," she said. "Time you chillun wus 
 gittin' 'long home now," she would command, 
 after a protracted stay. When they pleaded for 
 one day more, Aunt Dice was firm. In spite of 
 the protestations of the mistress, though much to 
 7 
 
9S aunt dice: 
 
 the amusement of the master, who knew the hold 
 she kept upon his purse strings in those straitened 
 times, Aunt Dice ruled. "Go 'long, chillun" — 
 be it whispered once, and forever relegated to the 
 shades in the interests of southern hospitality ; "go 
 'long — Mos Sam's flour barrel's a gittin' low." 
 
. CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 EECHWOOD was a memory only. A 
 cluster of tall chimneys told where the 
 pleasant mansion had stood, while grass 
 and weeds grew about the deserted cabins. The 
 lands, no longer a family possession, were divid- 
 ed into several farms under enterprising owners. 
 Doctor Trevor, who had removed to the village of 
 
 P , close by, owned a small farm within its 
 
 limits, the cottage and office fronting the village 
 street or pike. "Vine Cottage" it was called, 
 from the riotous growth of vines — rose, clematis, 
 and wild honeysuckle — over the trees, porches, 
 and fences. In front ran a brooklet, falling across 
 a bend in the pike, forming a miniature cataract, 
 which the children called "Niagara Falls" — in 
 the winter only; the summer found its dry bed a 
 rich field for a playground. 
 
 The farm, beyond a few acres in cultivation, 
 rounded into hills, bristled into thickets, or gaped 
 into gullies — -another convenient plavground for 
 the children, provided they were regardless of 
 clean frocks and constitutionally fond of clay pies ; 
 a farm which conveyed less than half the mean- 
 ing of the word, and left a rich overplus in woody 
 depths and dewy dingles ; in thickets musical with 
 birds and fragrant with wild flowers: in orchards 
 where bees hung drowsilv over seas of pink and 
 
 (99) 
 
IOO aunt dice: 
 
 white bloom, where the fruit was the rosiest 
 and most luscious; in gardens where big red 
 roses ran riot over squashes and melons, of the 
 sweetest and best. Morning-glories gloried in 
 the corn, and flung their purple banners from 
 the topmost tasseling; raspberries ripened along 
 the hillsides and narrow paths; dewberry vines 
 scrambled over gullies and ran helter-skelter 
 through the best bottom field, bearing their lus- 
 cious fruit. The old beeches, crowning the hill 
 pasture, were the shadiest in the whole country 
 round; while the willows, fringing the stream- 
 let at its base, listened to a musical rhyme never 
 dreamed of by the farmer's boy who plowed 
 his weary way on the opposite hillsides. Rural 
 beauty held here a peaceful reign ; rural sights 
 and sounds were undisturbed by the hurrying 
 bustle of busy life. Hawks sailed lazily overhead ; 
 owls brooded in hollow trees ; the blue heron 
 dreamed in the swamp ; while the crows cawed 
 from the treetops through the livelong davs. 
 The spirits of the woods — the birds, the flowers — 
 driven from the carefully husbanded soil of the 
 neighboring hills, gathered here for a continual 
 jubilee, and sang and grew and sported within 
 their wonted haunts — the leafv coverts of Vine 
 Cottage farm. 
 
 John Trevor, though he had suffered reverses 
 during the trving times of war, and was struggling 
 with others to master the question of debt, pos- 
 sessed still a characteristic buoyancy and hopeful- 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. IOI 
 
 ness of disposition. Busy with a heavy practice, 
 and his wife and children depending solely upon 
 him, he was still a "good purvider," as Aunt 
 Dice had said. She never had cause to retract 
 her decision of his faithfulness and worth. Stone 
 by stone he had built an honored name in the 
 place of his adoption. Older heads than his 
 looked up to him, and steady farmers of long ex- 
 perience and varied wisdom looked kindly upon 
 him and trusted him. 
 
 In his busy life he had little time for his wonted 
 sports and pleasures. Through the more leisure 
 month of May, a few hours spent on the banks of 
 his beloved South Afton with rod and line was 
 the only recreation permitted him from year's end 
 to year's end. There, while the soft swish of the 
 waters against the rocks, the smiling sky over- 
 head, the calling of birds from the fields, rested 
 and refreshed him, he lived a different life for the 
 time — something apart from the pill-making, pre- 
 scription-writing duties of workyday hours. 
 
 " Mos John'll never grow ole," Aunt Dice 
 said; "he keep his heart young." All that she 
 saw lovely and beautiful in nature she called his. 
 The blue skies and sailing white clouds, the way- 
 side flowers, all that the country physician saw 
 and noted through the long lanes, bv the hill 
 ridge roads or the dusty pikes; even the squir- 
 rels that chattered from the trees or sported along 
 rock walls and rail fences — all were his. " Mos 
 John's martins is come," she would say in the 
 
102 AUNT DICE: 
 
 spring; or, "I hear Mos John's little flute bird," 
 of the sweet-throated thrush. The cooing spring 
 doves, the whistling summer partridges, all were 
 Mos John's. "The birds is singin' fur Mos 
 John," she was wont to sav, as if she thought 
 that nature knew and loved her own, cr that the 
 skies smiled more sweetly over the daily walk of 
 one beneath who was so earnest and true. She 
 began to watch jealously the solitary fisherman by 
 the bluff spring in the spare hours of the May- 
 time seasons. " You'se get a call, Mos John; I 
 hates to tell ye," she said sometimes, showing her 
 silvered head over the bluff. " 'Pears like ye 
 might have a leetle res'." 
 
 "Never mind, Aunt Dice," answered the coun- 
 try phvsician, cheerfully. " I shall take a trip to 
 the mountains some time in the near future, and 
 for two whole weeks I shall rest and farget all the 
 world of aches and pains." 
 
 "To be sho' ye might," she said. The far-off 
 mountains had grown suddenlv interesting to her, 
 since they held in reserve a rest and solace for the 
 tired physician. 
 
 From the first year of his career John Trevor 
 had resolved upon this little recreation — two long 
 weeks to spend upon the mountains, among 
 the mountain brooks and speckled trout. It was 
 a picture framed in his mind which cheered him 
 often by the lonely wayside. But the pleasant 
 vision flitted before him like a mirage of the 
 desert. The earnestness of his profession had 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. IO3 
 
 developed through sober experience. Resolutions 
 formed within him under the kindly admonitions 
 of college lecturers had grown to a steady pur- 
 pose. The years of his youth, it was true, had 
 been spent mainly in the upbuilding of his prac- 
 tice, in overcoming prejudices against his inexpe- 
 rience, and perhaps more than all his outcrop- 
 ping progressive ideas. None the less, too, did he 
 know that he had run the gauntlet through the 
 length and breadth of his practice in matters of 
 religion, morals, and politics; in which he was 
 fairly successful, he was pleased to remember. 
 His modest little debt, though only the sum of a 
 few hundreds, had assumed a proportion to his 
 income which caused him to waken occasionally 
 at night and stare blindly into darkness, trying to 
 conjecture the best possible mode of payment; a 
 problem he needed not to have considered, were 
 all those unpaid accounts which accumulated in 
 his office desk forthcoming. Nevertheless, in 
 the prime of his manhood he contemplated with 
 some pleasure the wide bounds of his substantial 
 practice. He had won. He had paid his debt 
 also, laboriously it was true, dollar by dollar, but 
 freedom was all the more grateful. Still the 
 vision of mountain brooks and speckled trout was 
 yet unrealized. He had never found time to take 
 his recreation of two long, whole weeks, when he 
 was to forget disease and all its unlovely aspects. 
 New duties crowded upon him, new calls upon 
 his time and purse. His growing family, his 
 
104 aunt dice: 
 
 church, his people, filled up the measure of his 
 busy life. Naturally, there were divers kinds to 
 please among his people, as he chose to call 
 them: some who were shrewd and calculating, 
 weighing carefully the issues of life and death 
 in the balance with the doctor's bill; peremptory 
 ones, who excused no time or circumstance; and 
 others, though few in number, who were quick 
 to censure and slow to acknowledge a kindly 
 deed. But the friends who loved and trusted 
 him, these were they whose homes were his rest- 
 ing places along the way; within whose homes, 
 too, he remembered, he had done his most val- 
 iant battling with the terror, death. Many a palm 
 had he borne aloft, when patient and nurse fell 
 into line with him against the foe. 
 
 So the seasons rolled away year after year, and 
 he learned with their changes the coldest sweep 
 of the windy hillsides, the longest lanes of the hot 
 summer's sun. Night had grown as familiar to 
 him as the broad light of day; he knew its sights 
 and sounds — the shadowy woods and cry of night- 
 birds, the pale, cold moonlight, the solemn stars. 
 The elements kept him familiar company — the 
 whistling winds, the shrouding snow, the down- 
 pouring rain. 
 
 Many a night had he lifted the latch of the little 
 gate, tired, cold, and hungry; but never too tired 
 or cold or hungry to neglect his patient horse, the 
 companion of his journeyings. As was natural to 
 his profession, he was a careful man, and conscien- 
 
THE STORY CF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 105 
 
 tious in the smallest detail of everyday life. The 
 little gate was carefully latched, the stable door as 
 carefully fastened, the doors and windows of his 
 home tested, the kitchen fire inspected, and the 
 andirons turned in a methodical way, before the 
 weary physician sought his couch — to rest? Per- 
 haps, did not a melancholy " halloo " arouse him 
 to the cold fact of another night ride. 
 
 Even the river used him ill at times — his be- 
 loved South Afton — when she wrapped him in her 
 chilly mists and enveloped him in her fogs; she 
 dealt him treacherously when with her changeful 
 fords she ingulfed him in her chill, brown waters 
 and gurgled cruelly about him. But this country 
 doctor had grown inured to hardships, to buffet- 
 ing wind and weather. He was a happy man, 
 notwithstanding. The little joys of life had kept 
 his nature as sweet as charity. 
 
 He loved his home. No ride was so cold or 
 dark that he did not see in perspective a lamplit 
 table crowded with books, a waiting chair, and a 
 welcome as warm as the light that streamed from 
 its windows. A steaming supper, with many a 
 dainty tidbit, rewarded his tardy home-comings. 
 
 Man and beast never went hungry at Vine Cot- 
 tage, it was said. " He's de bes' hoss-moster in 
 dis whole kentry," said an old darky, referring 
 to his fat horses. Not only so, but there was 
 never a motherless chicken, a dethroned king of 
 the barnyard, or a lamed dog, within the pre- 
 cincts of John Trevor's home but knew him for 
 
106 aunt dice: 
 
 their friend. Even the white Maltese cat that 
 yearly reared her young in his corncrib received 
 his tenderest care. It was no small duty to feed 
 and tend this interesting family each year — to turn 
 the anxious mother in and out; no matter how 
 tired, to house them for the night; but this he 
 did carefully, almost with painful exactness. So 
 when the prudent housewife disposed of Patsy 
 and her kittens, she discovered surprisedly that 
 her husband had sustained a loss which amounted 
 almost to an affliction. 
 
 With John Trevor's natural love of humor it is 
 not surprising that he kept in store many a coined 
 and polished phrase for the benefit of the local 
 wits who visited the village store front. Many a 
 challenge he received when he bared his head to 
 the cool shade of the locust trees in front, many a 
 sharp retort did he send to the comfortable group 
 on the store porch — replies so quick and ready 
 that the villagers changed their quids in haste for 
 a fresh onslaught, ere the steady steps of the doc- 
 tor's horse sounded far up the dusty pike. 
 
 But there came a time when this country physi- 
 cian felt a weariness in his limbs, a throbbing in 
 his temples, that he could not account for. A 
 little malaria from the creek bottoms, he argued; 
 a little cold from continuous night riding — surely 
 that was all. He bought warmer flannels for win- 
 ter, prepared his quinine tonic for summer; but 
 suddenly, despite his will, and verv reluctantly at 
 last, this tired physician had his vacation: not on 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. IO7 
 
 the breezy mountain heights, or under the quiet 
 stretch of dim pine forests; not beside the cool, 
 green depths of mountain brooks; but tossing on 
 a sick bed in weariness and pain, with restless 
 hands and fevered tongue, he babbled of crys- 
 tal waters, he spun his reel and swung aloft his 
 speckled trout ! 
 
 " The doctor is sick," the neighbors said. The 
 news traveled quickly from plain to hillside, from 
 hamlet to mansion house. Wine, fruits, and flow- 
 ers crowded the modest home of the sick physi- 
 cian; carriages and buggies rolled up to the little 
 front entrance; horses and braying mules were 
 hitched to outstanding posts. The poor came 
 toiling over the hills to the shadowed home, where 
 they listened through closed doors to the uncon- 
 scious babbling of their family doctor. Day by 
 da}' they gathered and turned away without a sight 
 of his familiar face ; day by day they crowded the 
 gallery, the adjoining room, the front lawn. When 
 the first uncertain news of a better change reached 
 them, they stood determinedly before his door. 
 
 "The doctor — we must sec him.'' 
 
 "He is too sick, too sick,'" the watchers said. 
 But when a thin, weak voice bade them enter, they 
 stole in quietlv, solemnly; content to grasp his 
 hand, to look in his face, and pass on. 
 
 " The doctor is getting well," they said. Then 
 it was that they vied with one another in kindly 
 ministry, and with strangely tender hands. The 
 doctor's life was precious in their sight. 
 
IOS AUNT DICE. 
 
 John Trevor arose from his sick bed to a newer 
 life; and though he responded to a peremptory 
 call with weak-kneed haste, he felt that there was 
 a bond between him and his people that he could 
 not forget. The old dream of mountain brooks 
 was fast slipping from him. Theories, too, had 
 vanished from his mind. Living facts he dealt 
 with. Even the " steady purpose " which strength- 
 ened his youth had long given place to daily 
 deeds and busy action. The souls of the people 
 were dear to him. It was not always of ills of the 
 body that he talked in his office, but of spirit- 
 ual needs and possibilities. Though the long lanes 
 grew hotter in summer, the hillsides more bleak 
 in winter, and his tired body more susceptible 
 even to the steady jogging of his horse, when 
 urged to remove to Nashville by a brother physi- 
 cian of precious memory, John Trevor was reso- 
 lute: "I am attached to my people; I cannot 
 leave them." 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 UNT DICE'S visits to Vine Cottage were 
 frequent in the days of peace following 
 the war. To John Trevor her companion- 
 ship was as wholesome as in earlier days ; always 
 to him a subject of fresh interest and an object 
 of honest affection. In truth, Aunt Dice exerted 
 herself to be agreeable to him, in which she suc- 
 ceeded admirably, being wise enough to know 
 when to be silent and when to be amusing. John 
 Trevor looked forward to the sight of her silvered 
 head over the little front gate, where she awaited 
 his return from a hot, dusty ride. Her unobtru- 
 sive ministry — her offering of cool water dripping 
 from the spring, a palm-leaf fan put quietly within 
 his hand, his slippers laid beside him — he noted 
 gratefully. With what a delicate perception she 
 said: "Don't chillun ! don't tell your pa he's 
 got a call no sooner' n he comes in; let him 
 res' fust." All of which the overworked physi- 
 cian thoroughly appreciated. In her heart she 
 loved Mos John next to her own dear master, 
 while her fondness for the child of her rearing — 
 sweet, patient Anne Trevor — grew stronger and 
 dearer as the years slipped by. 
 
 These visits were ever seasons of rejoicing to 
 the children, though Aunt Dice often came on a 
 tour of inspection. It was no common occurrence 
 
 (109) 
 
no AUNT dice: 
 
 to see her pick up a handful of weeds or a bit of 
 paper, on her way from the side gate to the back 
 entrance at Vine Cottage: "It looks onsightly in 
 de yard," her first greeting. 
 
 " Gethered any berries, Miss Anne? " she asked 
 once, in blackberry time. 
 
 Anne Trevor's negative reply called forth a 
 happy chorus from the little ones: "Let us go 
 with you, Granny! " 
 
 " Git your buckets," ordered Granny, shortly, 
 knocking the ashes from her pipe. 
 
 The walk to the thicket was pleasant enough, 
 wading through fresh air and sunshine. Mo^- 
 over, Granny's drolleries were unusually enter- 
 taining; but picking berries was quite another 
 thing. Granny turned a stern face to the little 
 flock crowding after her. " I don't want no close 
 neighbors. Folks can't talk an' work too. Git 
 yo' patch, an'^/c/-." 
 
 That long, hot afternoon was not soon forgot- 
 ten. Not a word was spoken until the tin pails 
 were filled. The slanting sunbeams fell on tired, 
 flushed faces when the task-mistress called out 
 cheerily: " Come on, chillun ; le's go home." 
 
 John Trevor renewed his old habit of reading 
 aloud to Aunt Dice, and laughinglv declared that 
 she had developed into quite a literary 7 woman. 
 Though ofttimes puzzled — which caused Anne 
 Trevor to smile pityingly at her dark, bewildered 
 face — it interested John Trevor to note that the 
 elegant, flowing stvle of Irving charmed her; that 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. Ill 
 
 Dickens excited her to a quick laugh over his life- 
 like protrayals of men and things familiar to her; 
 that poetry soothed her. But it must be acknowl- 
 edged that John Trevor liked best to read to her 
 some short, stirring romance, and over the book 
 watch her distressed face when the hero and 
 heroine were toiling through the mazes of the 
 plot, or to listen for her relieved "Thar now!" 
 when all ended well and blissfullv. Aunt Dice, 
 too, might have noticed a suspicious shaking of 
 the book and a certain vibration in John Trevor's 
 voice which hinted of his fun-loving propensities. 
 But her comments were worth remembering. Of 
 fiction she understood nothing; they were real 
 living beings in those books, men and women who 
 sinned and suffered or lived nobly. " He mus' 
 a been a likely man," she would say, respectfully, 
 of some character who had patiently suffered and 
 borne his burden. A life of self-sacrifice, a deed 
 of charity, a duty faithfully done, caught her quick 
 sympathy. 
 
 "What is your opinion, Aunt Dice?" asked 
 John Trevor, as he finished a well-known book 
 from a well-known author. 
 
 "Too much whisky, Mos John," she said de- 
 cisively. "It's a drink here, and a drink thar. 
 More'n I ever heerd tell of in ole moster's days, 
 'pears to me. Wine an' brandv'll git the best o' 
 men, if they tech it too often." The cleaner pages 
 of the present day would have pleased her. The 
 punch bowl, the mugs of ale and beer, so pleas- 
 
112 AUNT DICE: 
 
 ingly described, were odious things to her. "Whis- 
 ky ruins a man," she said. Even in the days of 
 free distilleries, Aunt Dice tasted alcohol, as a 
 medicine, sparingly; but as a beverage, never. 
 
 Notwithstanding her objections, Aunt Dice's re- 
 spect for books was great. She looked upon the 
 knowledge contained in them almost with awe — a 
 wonderland to her that she never hoped to explore 
 — but she was decided in her opinion that they 
 were " not fur niggers." " Book larnin' spiles 
 a nigger," she ar<nied. She mifjht have thought 
 
 &© ' © © © 
 
 differently had she lived to this day, but she scored 
 a triumph once. Uncle Billy Barnes, a neighbor- 
 ing " cullud gen'l'mun " of some property, was 
 quite a leader among his own, and talked educa- 
 tion in every lane and byway, when not engrossed 
 in earning a penny or turning over a dime. On 
 an occasion, when Aunt Dice was enjoying one of 
 her visits, Uncle Billy appeared at Vine Cottage, 
 his favorite market place — for, as he said, " the 
 doctor gives livin' prices " — trundling a wheeibar- 
 rowful of turnips. Aunt Dice received him with 
 some deference, smoothing out her apron in a dig- 
 nified way. Standing by the fire, turning his huge 
 feet to its warmth, Uncle Billy discoursed upon 
 his favorite theme in broad, Tennessee-negro dia- 
 lect: "Now, who'd a thought thar wus so much 
 in books? My gals kin stump me enny nite outen 
 dem books. My darter, Sally — you knows her — 
 axes me t'other nite, ' Pa, what make it col' in 
 winter, an' hot in summer?' Now, you knows 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 1 1 3 
 
 I ain't no fool, but dat wus de fus' time I uver 
 thought of sich a thing. I answers, 'I dunno; 
 what you know 'bout it?' So she sez, * De 
 teacher tol' me — 'cause de sun is furder off in 
 winter, an' closter in summer.' Well, dat soun' 
 reas'n'ble to me, but I never would a knowed it ef 
 it hadn't ben fur books." Uncle Billy pocketed 
 his fifty cents, took up his worn hat, and departed. 
 " Mos John, is that so? " asked Aunt Dice sud- 
 denly. 
 
 John Trevor smiled: " Hardly, Aunt Dice." 
 " Thar ! I tol' you a nigger couldn't larn." 
 Nevertheless, Uncle Billy's daughter Sally earns 
 a handsome living now teaching school, for she 
 learned more thoroughly at Fisk University. 
 
 Among the Trevor children Aunt Dice particu- 
 larly " favored" the eldest — a growing, winsome 
 lassie, with riotous, dark curls, delicate scarlet 
 lips, and clear gray eyes much like John Trevor's 
 own, and much like him in"a sunny, hopeful dis- 
 position, a love for all human kind which charac- 
 terized her, and a tender regard for all dumb 
 brutes. " You are like your father, chile — jes' as 
 faithful," Aunt Dice would say, when some un- 
 selfish action brought to mind the much beloved 
 physician. 
 
 Like her father, Evelyn was fond of Aunt Dice, 
 and spent with her many a well-remembered, hap- 
 py hour. That Evelyn was a studious schoolgirl, 
 Aunt Dice was pleased to notice ; and many an ex- 
 tra task she served rather than disturb those hours 
 
114 aunt dice: 
 
 of study. '* Let the chile alone," she would say, 
 when Evelyn was called upon for some household 
 duty. " Let her alone; she's got a book." When 
 Evelyn had arrived at the age of hero worship, 
 she tried with painful earnestness to persuade her 
 dusky colaborer to comprehend with her the vir- 
 tues of her heroes. In this she was not so suc- 
 cessful. Aunt Dice did not call those valorous 
 heroes great. She had her own ideas of true valor 
 and worth. Evelyn's histories puzzled her. She 
 could not understand the ceaseless battling for 
 power and earthly renown — the thirst for conquest, 
 the crime and intrigue that stained the centuries in 
 blood. War, to her, was a horrible butchery. She 
 recognized no law of life but the mighty one of 
 peace and good will — the law of forgiveness and 
 loving-kindness. " Heavenly wisdom, chile, is bet- 
 ter'n all that," she said. "Sol'mon tol' 'bout it 
 often 'nough in the Bible, but 'pears like the world 
 ain't learnt it yit." 
 
 Still Aunt Dice was interested; anything within 
 the lids of a book interested her, however much 
 or little she understood, or affected to ignore. 
 " Git your book, Ev'lyn, an' read," she said fre- 
 quently. 
 
 On an occasion during an hour with her pipe, 
 Aunt Dice's most contemplative mood, Evelyn 
 with a Life of Napoleon in her lap, read to her 
 eagerly, excitedly, portions of the life of the Cor- 
 sican boy, the soldier, the general, the first con- 
 sul, the emperor and conqueror, and the great 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. II5 
 
 prisoner at St. Helena. Aunt Dice smoked her 
 pipe in stolid indifference. 
 
 "Now let me show you, Granny," said Eve- 
 lyn, reaching for her geography and pointing to 
 pink and yellow patches on the map. " See how 
 many countries — kingdoms — he conquered." 
 
 " What'd he want wid so many? " asked Gran- 
 ny, shortly. 
 
 "Why," said Evelyn, hesitatingly, "I suppose 
 he wished to make a greater conquest than Charle- 
 magne or Caesar or Alexander, or any of those 
 great men I read you about." 
 
 " He'd a better let well 'nough alone, then he 
 might not er ended in jail." 
 
 Evelyn insisted: " But say he was great, Gran- 
 ny. Do you not think he was a great man? " 
 
 Aunt Dice would make no such concession. 
 She turned to her pipe with the crushing answer: 
 "What fur?" 
 
 John Trevor, an amused listener, took up from 
 the table a small Bible. " Stop, Evelyn. You 
 do not understand Aunt Dice. This is her Book 
 of books, and this is her Hero of heroes," he 
 said, turning to the twenty-fourth Psalm, and 
 reading in clear tones: " 'Lift up your heads, O 
 ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; 
 and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this 
 King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King 
 of glory.'^ 
 
 Aunt Dice sat erect, her smoking pipe forgotten 
 in her hand. There was a flash in her old eves, a 
 
Il6 aunt dice: 
 
 quiver about her lips as if they struggled for utter- 
 ance. But the power of language she could not 
 grasp. A silver tongue was not hers. Perhaps 
 ere this the crippled speech of the grand old slave 
 has found a voice for eloquent praise before her 
 King of glory. 
 
 John Trevor was not mistaken. The world's 
 Redeemer was her Hero, her King of glory. All 
 others beside him were poor and blind and 
 wretched. All the worship, the adulation within 
 her heart she laid at his feet. Perhaps the love 
 of the wonderful, so inherent in her race, found 
 vent in the enthusiasm of her imagination, which 
 vested in this one grand character all the at- 
 tributes that power and beauty could suggest. 
 To him nothing was impossible. He was the 
 Mighty One of all the ages, everlasting, omnipo- 
 tent, supreme. Lord of earth and sky, Con- 
 queror of death and life, he rode the storm, he 
 soared upon the wings of the wind, he healed the 
 sick, he raised the dead. In him was centered all 
 that loveliness could but dream. He published 
 the doctrine of peace and forgiveness. He loved 
 the poor, the blind, the weak. He was a refuge 
 for the wear}-, the heavy-laden. He gave his life 
 a ransom for the world. He died for her — for her. 
 He was " altogether lovely," this Lily of the val- 
 ley, this bright and morning Star, the " chiefest 
 among ten thousand," this beautiful One; he was 
 her Hero. The Bible truly was her Book of 
 books. Of her Christian character, her great and 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. II 7 
 
 simple faith was the prominent trait. She, who 
 scorned an exaggeration, accepted the Bible liter- 
 ally. She rejected none of its mysterious figures, 
 whose sublime conceptions she little understood. 
 "The mountains skipped like rams, and the little 
 hills like lambs," she commented upon with a 
 childlike faith, beautiful to behold: " If the Bible 
 say so, it inns' be so." 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 VELYN TREVOR, always a favorite with 
 Aunt Dice, spent many a pleasant hour at 
 Riverside. It was often her privilege to 
 visit the old homestead, and it was ever a time of 
 joyous expectancy, when the blue hills of South 
 Afton came into view, and the venerable old 
 beech by the ford trailed its branches in the river 
 with a gurgling welcome. Then the venturesome 
 plunge into the clear freestone waters, the grat- 
 ing of wheels on the graveled drive, the rush and 
 baying of the hounds at the great double gate, 
 and the welcome figure of Aunt Dice coming 
 across the lawn, her hands folded behind her, her 
 bare head silvery in the sunlight, all were happy 
 experiences not to be forgotten. 
 
 The charming mistress, the master, whose smile 
 always gladdened the hearts of John Trevor's 
 children, received her with affectionate regard. 
 The old home, with the familiar surroundings cf 
 Anne Macy's childhood, had for Evelyn a pecul- 
 iar interest. The bright, changeful river alwavs 
 charmed her. The slow-waving cedars of the 
 cemetery impressed her solemnly. The house 
 held its attractions: the cunning little rooms back 
 of the galleries, painted in pure white; the pale- 
 yellow walls of the dining room, hung still with the 
 (118) 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. IIO, 
 
 portraits of Winfield Scott and Zachary Taylor; 
 the ample fireplace and brass-knobbed andirons; 
 the antique sideboard, which now did duty of a 
 more substantial kind. 
 
 Evelyn spent hours by the quaint old book- 
 case, which contained volumes of history, heavy 
 works of astronomy and chemistry, Latin gram- 
 mars and books of mathematics, religious works, 
 prayer books, poetry, and curious fiction. Evelyn 
 handled them tenderly, reading on the fly leaves 
 faintly legible but familiar family names. The 
 old-fashioned paper on the parlor walls, an indis- 
 tinct pattern of grayish, wavy lines and trailing 
 roses; the great four-posted bedstead which stood 
 in state in the best bedchamber, with its imposing 
 canopy, a marvel of mahogany, silk, and lace, Ev- 
 elvn felt could belong to no other so charmin<jlv 
 as to the pleasant old mansion at Riverside. 
 
 The dark "scuttle hole," too, had a curious 
 interest to her: within its gloomy recesses Aunt 
 Dice had hidden the bedding and family valua- 
 bles during the war. Now the old clock, which 
 had been removed from the dining room, stood 
 here, staring still, with a white, dismaved face, as 
 when its tones had been rudely hushed under hos- 
 tile hands. 
 
 War-time memories were growing indistinct to 
 Evelyn ; already the days of slavery seemed far 
 away and dim. Her remembrances were those of 
 a little child, but its saddest chapters she now re- 
 called as an unpleasant dream : not onlv the dav 
 
120 AUNT DICE: 
 
 when her mother, brave Anne Trevor, coolly gath- 
 ered her eggs under guard and pointed bayonet 
 of a blue -coated negro soldier; the dark days 
 when her father lay in Franklin jail, a prisoner 
 of war; the sad farewells when all the slaves, 
 weeping and wailing, departed forever; but the 
 dull suspense of the gloomy time, the days of 
 want and privation — the musty meal and sugarless 
 parched rye coffee. 
 
 Other things Evelyn remembered not so un- 
 pleasantly. There were merry gatherings around 
 the table, and merry comments on the uncertain 
 flavor of uncertain dishes — the results of her 
 mother's ludicrous attempts at cooking. There 
 were exciting incidents of Yankee raids and reb- 
 el feasts at Vine Cottage. On one occasion she 
 stood on the lawn with her mother and Julia, the 
 nurse, watching with interest a squad of flving 
 rebel horsemen and a dozen or more Yankees in 
 full pursuit. 
 
 Anne Trevor's blue eyes flashed. Verily she 
 had about her just then a look of Mos Sam him- 
 self. 
 
 " Open the gate, Julia; let them come in." 
 
 Julia flew to open the gate. The rebels passed 
 through with a yell of triumph. 
 
 "Leave the gate open!" shouted the leading 
 Yankee. 
 
 "Shut it, Julia!" 
 
 "Leave it open!" he commanded, with raised 
 pistol. 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 121 
 
 "Shut it, Julia! " cried brave Anne Trevor. 
 
 Julia shut the gate quickly, amid the threaten- 
 ing oaths of the bafTled leader, and thereby consid- 
 ered herself a martyr to principle, and heroine of 
 the war. 
 
 But Evelyn could never forget when she, a lit- 
 tle child, sat upon the knee of a Federal officer, 
 and wondered that one in the objectionable blue 
 uniform could look so kindly upon her, and stroke 
 her hair with such tender hands, as he said, sad- 
 ly: "You are very like my own little daughter." 
 Evelyn still hoped that he lived to see his " own 
 little daughter" again; and she regretted sorrow- 
 fully that wiser heads than hers had not settled 
 the questions of the war peaceably, so that all 
 this bloodshed mi^ht have been avoided. 
 
 Her mother's former slaves — Eliza, Julia, and 
 Pet — now occupied part of the old quarters at 
 Riverside. Eliza was much the same, quiet and 
 earnest, almost as faithful as Aunt Dice; Julia 
 was still strong and comely, full of fun and spir- 
 its; but Pet — still a very spoiled pet — was a " fine 
 lady," a development of her short stay in Nash- 
 ville and her late freedom. Her husband, a val- 
 uable farm hand, worked early and late to pro- 
 vide her with all possible comforts and to keep 
 her in idleness. 
 
 Evelyn went out to the quarters one sunny morn- 
 ing to find Pet reclining her ample figure in a 
 chair by the cabin hearth, and sipping her nine 
 o'clock coffee. 
 
122 AUNT DICE.* 
 
 "Why, Pet, we have breakfasted hours ago," 
 said Evelyn, amused at the "fashionably late" 
 breakfast. 
 
 " Yo' see, Miss Evelyn," Pet said, complacent- 
 ly, "Joe don't want me to git up early. I has a 
 smoth'rin' in my breas' uver mornin', an' I don't 
 have to wuk hard nohow. Joe takes his meals at 
 de hous', an' I gits de chillun a little some'n to eat, 
 no sooner'n I'm rested, an' has my coffee ready. 
 I ain't 'bleeged to wuk, yo' know. Joe gits fifteen 
 dollars a mont'." 
 
 " I am glad you are doing well, Pet," said Eve- 
 lyn, kindly. From her earliest remembrance she 
 had ever had an unreasonable fondness for saucy, 
 good-natured Pet. 
 
 " Yessum, Miss Ev'lyn, Joe g'wine to be rich 
 fo' long, an' he say I shan't wuk no mo' 'tall. Dat 
 ain't all nuther. He g'wine to buy me a sewin' 
 m'chine. an' a red silk dress, an' shoes wid gol' 
 heels to 'um." 
 
 Evelyn's clear eyes wandered from the unkempt 
 bed to the ash-strewn hearth, where two small 
 boys sopped their bread and molasses from tin 
 plates, their bacon and gravy from an iron skillet, 
 back to the worn cotton gown whicli Pet spread 
 grandly about her. 
 
 " You will be a fine lady, Pet," smiled Evelvn. 
 
 " Oh, yessum; Joe say I got ter be. He'll buv 
 me a car'idge some day, an' de red silk dress, an' 
 de gol'-heel shoes — " 
 
 "Bronze-heeled shoes, do you mean?" asked 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 123 
 
 Evelyn, puzzled. She remembered a childish ad- 
 miration of hers for her mother's negro women, 
 when dressed in their smart Sunday gowns — 
 silks, muslins, merinos — gowns of a season's wear- 
 ing, bestowed indulgently upon them. She glanced 
 again at Pet's soiled cotton gown. 
 
 " How can you have those things at Riverside, 
 Pet?" 
 
 "Lor' bless you, Miss Ev'lyn!" exclaimed lo- 
 quacious Pet, " we ain't g'wine terstav here. We's 
 g'wine ter Nashvul. Country don't 'gree wid me. 
 'Sides, money can't keep me here," she contin- 
 ued, whimperingly; " dis place is sho'ly ha'nted. 
 Somebody g'wine to die here soon. De screech 
 owels is hollerin' in de grabeyard, an' dat mak' 
 me knows it. Dey screeches an' screeches up 
 dar; den dey lights on de hous', an' somebody 
 got ter go." 
 
 Evelyn listened dreamilv. Riverside was haunt- 
 ed, the negroes said. Strange sounds were heard 
 on the stairways of the "white folks' house"; 
 familiar faces looked forth from its windows. 
 The tall clock tolled from the jrarret, and iihost- 
 ly figures trod the long galleries. At night the 
 scraping of fiddles, the ringing of clevis pins, ac- 
 companied by the measured beat of heavy feet, 
 sounded from the old quarters' kitchen. Uncle 
 Amos sang from his cabin, while the little negro 
 boy who was drowned in the river sported with 
 his dog on its waters. Riverside was haunted; 
 the negroes were " boun' ter go." 
 
124 aunt dice: 
 
 "Don't lis'n to her, Ev'lyn. Pet talks like a 
 fool," said Aunt Dice suddenly from the door- 
 way. 
 
 Evelyn followed Aunt Dice to the old loom 
 house, where she tended a brood of chickens, and 
 looked curiously over the relics of slavery days: 
 a spinning machine, turned with a crank and roll- 
 ers; spinning wheels, reels, and cards; a cunning 
 little flax wheel, and the ponderous loom which 
 stood with silent shuttles in a corner. Aunt Dice 
 answered Evelyn's questions patiently. 
 
 As said before, Aunt Dice was a woman of 
 few words. Her sentences were short and deci- 
 sive. An intelligent question she answered plain- 
 ly, concisely; a bright remark she received with a 
 pleased " Thar now," which kept one on the hunt 
 for brighter ones; but one of her keen, searching 
 looks was the only answer vouchsafed a silly ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "What is this, Granny?" asked Evelyn, lift- 
 ing a corner of a large fishing net, spread over the 
 loom to dry. 
 
 "A seine, chile; a seine." 
 
 Evelyn, reared in her dry little village, knew 
 nothing of fishing- tackle or the technicalities of 
 the art. 
 ' "Why, how can one man manage all this?" 
 
 " One man don't manage it. Some gits on one 
 side o' the river, some on t'other—" 
 
 " But, Granny, I don't understand." 
 
 Granny glanced at Evelyn sharply, and started 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 1 25 
 
 in a steady trot for her cabin. Evelyn followed. 
 Though conscious of a greatly deplored ignorance, 
 she determined to try Aunt Dice's patience to the 
 uttermost: "Granny, do explain," she ventured 
 boldly. 
 
 Granny turned suddenly: " I putty — near. — de- 
 spise ye!" 
 
 Then they stood together in the pleasant morn- 
 ing sunlight, looking into each other's eyes, and 
 laughing in perfect good humor. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 UNT DICE was crowing old. This she 
 did not show in looks. Her eyes still 
 held their fire, and her face had few 
 wrinkles. There was no querulousness in tone or 
 manner, no childishness in speech or action. The 
 broad sweep of her brow was still smooth and 
 placid, for she was never wont to corrugate her 
 forehead in useless frowns. Her carefully brushed 
 hair still had its silvery sheen, but her strength was 
 perceptibly fading. Her low figure seemed a 
 little more squat and short. Her rough hands 
 trembled ; her massive chin quivered and ap- 
 peared to hang slightly, which gave the effect of 
 a double chin; " a sign of age," Aunt Dice said. 
 She had little to do ; came and went as she pleased, 
 and spent much of her time visiting the sick and 
 poor, with whom her name was a household word. 
 At Riverside she was content. Her social visits 
 were noticeably shorter, as if she would fain have 
 hurried back to the cool quiet of her beloved 
 home. " 'Pears like I can't stay nowhar," she 
 would apologize. " I'm gittin' a fool 'bout home." 
 The children of her dear master she caressed and 
 dandled upon her knees, or treated them occa- 
 sionally to the wholesome discipline of their fa- 
 ther before them, though with greater leniencv, 
 natural to her age. The eldest she would admon- 
 12G) 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 1 27 
 
 ish frequently: " You've got Mos William's name, 
 son; min' how you han'le it." 
 
 John Trevor, the second, whose clear-cut face 
 had the same proud, sweet look of his mother, 
 Aunt Dice had sometimes to uphold when the 
 imperious William proved too domineering. But 
 the youngest, a tender, delicate girl, white and 
 pure as a star-e} T ed daisy, Aunt Dice held upon 
 her bosom with an anxious care, as if she feared 
 that the angels had loved this one too well. 
 
 The days passed by, days that were blessed. 
 Aunt Dice was reaping the fruits of her well-spent 
 years. Among all her acquaintances she bore an 
 honored name, and by her white friends was treat- 
 ed with distinguished courtesy. Wherever known 
 she was never forgotten. Strangers remembered 
 her. A missionary in far-off Brazil, who had spent 
 a short week at Vine Cottage, wrote to John 
 Trevor: " Remember me to Aunt Dice; I do not 
 forget her." It is needless to add that among all 
 her " children" and "grandchildren" she was very 
 highly honored and beloved. 
 
 In all her long life Aunt Dice had but one glimpse 
 of the world and its way — an unfavorable one truly, 
 within the walls of Nashville's courthouse. Sum- 
 moned as a witness in a trial for murder — a strange, 
 new duty for her seventy-four years — she prepared 
 to answer the call, after many instructions from the 
 master. She donned her best bonnet and srown. 
 
 "Don't get confused, i\unt Dice," cautioned 
 the mistress. 
 
128 AUNT dice: 
 
 " I ain't never done nothin' to be 'shamed of 
 that I knows on," she replied bravely. 
 
 Though it required some courage to meet this 
 demand, Aunt Dice proved equal to the occasion. 
 It was learned that she caused jnany a smile in 
 the court room by her droll expressions, her caus- 
 tic wit, and commanded the gentle respect of the 
 judge himself when she bared her white head to 
 the defendant's lawyer: " Do ye see my gray 
 head? Do you think I'd tell a lie f " ■ After this 
 there was no more "cross-questioning." 
 
 When her duty was done the judge spoke to her: 
 "Aunt Dice, with whom do you stay? " 
 
 "I b'longs to Cap'n Macy, suh— Mos Sam," 
 she answered quickly. 
 
 "Jfos Sam?" he questioned, smiling. " Would 
 you. feel free enough to come to Nashville, if I of- 
 fered you good wages and a comfortable home?" 
 " Thanky, suh," she rejoined proudly. " I don't 
 'ceive wages, an' I wouldn't leave Mos Sam for 
 all the comf'ble homes in Tennessee." 
 
 As might be expected, Aunt Dice came home 
 from Nashville brimful of news. Her trip to the 
 courthouse was an amusing theme for many a day 
 after. She interested her friends by her original 
 sketches of strange sights and the grotesque mim- 
 icry of the characters she met, in which the de- 
 fendant's lawyer was least flattered. Of the judge 
 she spoke respectfully, a sign of her high regard. 
 "He wus a well-mannered man, a p'lite genT- 
 mun," she'said. " I made him my bes' curt'sy." 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 120, 
 
 Her " curt'sy " was a low bow, which brings a 
 smile to remember. The downward sweep of the 
 body, the outspread palms, the backward step, 
 were ungracefully executed; but the effect of her 
 earnestness and pride was stimulating, if nothing 
 more. 
 
 In summing up the qualities of Aunt Dice, the * 
 superiority of her character above the average ne- 
 gro is apparent. She was an exception, in many 
 respects, even from the talkative, superstitious, but 
 time-honored "black mammy," who has earned 
 her place in the hearts of the southern people. 
 Aunt Dice had few equals among her kind. Her 
 faults she had, doubtless, but they do not live to 
 reproach her memory. With her progressive 
 mind, her broad intellect, her intelligence and 
 wonderful accuracy of judgment, it is impossible 
 to say what she might have been had she lived at 
 the present time. The progress of the world in 
 peace and good will, in Christian philanthropy 
 and excellence, would have pleased her much, 
 though it is interesting to imagine what her opinion 
 would have been of the bloomer-costumed, strong- 
 minded woman. She would perhaps have turned 
 rather to the straisht-han<rin£ skirts and soft mus- 
 lin kerchief of the old-time woman, who did not 
 ape the manners and dress of the stronger sex. 
 Aunt Dice would have been pleased to see also, in 
 many instances, the upbuilding and outgrowing of 
 mind, capability, and worth in her own race and 
 people. But she served well her day and genera- 
 9 
 
130 aunt dice: 
 
 tion. Many under more promising circumstances 
 have done less. 
 
 Much more could be told of her deeds and say- 
 ings during her seventy-five years of toil and ear- 
 nest endeavor. Perhaps the numerous "grand- 
 children," everyone of whom looked first into her 
 dusky face, could each tell a story of her love and 
 faithfulness. 
 
 It had been a special wish of Aunt Dice's to see 
 born to John Trevor a son; but it was only after 
 long years of waiting that her wish was gratified. 
 Daughter after daughter had she taken from the 
 mother's side and laid in his arms — all of whom 
 he gathered tenderly to his heart; but when, in 
 her seventieth year, she placed in his lap a real 
 kicking boy, with a pleased "Thar now, Mos 
 John," the father's smile was not prouder than her 
 own. "John Willlian " she named him — a homely 
 name enough, but one that meant much to her. 
 
 It was four years later, during one of her last 
 social visits to Vine Cottage — a visit grown sacred 
 now with the memory of it — she sat with this rosy- 
 cheeked boy in her lap. A pretty picture it was: 
 the boy of four vears playing with his white terrier, 
 Roy, at his feet: the gray-haired nurse, with one 
 toil-worn hand on his knee — pleasant, dignified, 
 not one whit childish or peevish in her old age. 
 
 "John," asked his father suddenly, with a twinkle 
 in his eye — " mind you think well, my son — which 
 one do you love best, Aunt Dice or Roy? " 
 
 John lifted a pair of earnest eyes to Aunt Dice's 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 131 
 
 homely face, looked down at the dog who wagged 
 his tail knowingly, and answered, " Roy." 
 
 "That's right, chile; tell the truth," said Aunt 
 Dice, in no wise ruffled. 
 
 But the visits of this faithful nurse, the sight of 
 her well-known figure, her dear companionship, 
 were soon to be no more at Vine Cottage. The 
 days crept by — days that were golden. The sea- 
 sons waned slowly, as if loath to leave the quiet 
 landscapes. The sun rose and set, kissing the 
 river in a myriad dimples, slanting in long golden 
 bars through the maples, silvering the whitened 
 harvest fields at Riverside and gilding the hazy 
 November woods. The eight long, bright years 
 closed in darkness, nevermore to be lifted. 
 
 The mistress, lovely in her life, lay down in death 
 after a short week's illness, and Riverside was des- 
 olate ! Nay, more ; all South Afton mourned for 
 one who had lived among them so jjraciouslv, 
 whose memory yet lingers amid the sunlit hills 
 and quiet vales as the perfume of a flower crushed 
 in its bloom. Aunt Dice went about with a still 
 face, trving to be as brave in her old age as in the 
 davs of her strength. 
 
 When the family friends arrived from Nashville 
 they found the house in quiet keeping, as in the 
 presence of death. The severe plainness of the 
 table where coffee and bread were served, the 
 noiseless tread of servants, the solemn stillness, 
 betokened the faithful management of Aunt Dice, 
 who knew what was befitting and seemlv. 
 
132 aunt dice: 
 
 After the lovely mistress was laid away among 
 the myrtles of the cemetery, Aunt Dice's health 
 visibly declined. For a year she bore up bravely 
 against a malignant disease, striving to be house- 
 keeper and mother to the children, striving with 
 all her might to bring back the force of her young- 
 er days, the steady step of her prime. Not a sor- 
 rowful fight this seemed, but a cheerful struggle, 
 even with occasional glimpses of her old, gro- 
 tesque humor, which was the chief charm of her 
 youth. Above all, there was a sublime faith in an 
 all-wise Creator, who was able both to make and 
 unmake, to give and to take. 
 
 On her last solemn visit to Anne Trevor, with 
 the shadow of death upon her, it was her daily 
 habit to take.up the family Bible, lay it reverently 
 in the lap of some one to read aloud, while she lis- 
 tened gravely, a peaceful look in her dear old eves, 
 so soon to see in his beauty the One she had fol- 
 lowed so humbly. 
 
 It was John Trevor's duty to tell her of her in- 
 curable illness. She received the news quietlv, 
 saving with cheerful emphasis: "Well, I can't 
 'spect to live alius. Death is a sho' thing." She 
 sat in silence for awhile; then, as if the dawning 
 of a new day had broken in upon her soul, she 
 said slowlv: " I'll soon see — Mos William." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ITH all her indomitable will, and the sad 
 fact that Mos Sam needed her sorely, 
 the end of the year found Aunt Dice 
 bedridden; but withal the year's end found her 
 determined. She was to spend her last days with 
 Charley — " Mos Sam had trubble ernuff." 
 
 This was perhaps the second and last mistake 
 of her life ; but what fortitude and self-sacrifice 
 this decision called for, none can judge. In spite 
 of her long years of active service, Aunt Dice 
 could not reconcile herself to be ministered unto 
 by her white people. The sight of her master 
 standing over her at night troubled her. 
 
 "What can I do for you, Aunt Dice?" he 
 would ask, when the thought of her kept him 
 awake . 
 
 "A little water, Mos Sam; then go to bed." 
 
 That long, cold winter was a sad experience. 
 The stricken master, with the care of his mother- 
 less ones, often sought her cabin at midnight hours 
 to find her deserted by her hired nurse, keeping 
 her uncomplaining watch alone. He built her 
 fires, administered her medicine, brought her cool 
 water from the great bluff spring — no longer the 
 willful, imperious master, but the strangely gentle, 
 patient nurse. 
 
 (133) 
 
134 aunt dice: 
 
 Evelyn Trevor, who rode over often during the 
 Christmas holidays, looked in one day upon a 
 touching scene. The old servant lay tossing on a 
 bed of pain, talking wildly, deliriously, the result 
 of a neuralgic affection of the brain — a reflex 
 action of the deadly tumor. " The cotton fiel's 
 white; stir 'em up, Caesar; don' let Mos William 
 fin' 'em 'sleep. Be lively, boys; daylight's burn- 
 in' !" cried the sufferer, in the old imperious tone, 
 followed by a moaning, " Mos Sam, you're ruined, 
 you're ruined!" or quieting suddenly, "Hush! 
 Miss Helen's sing-in'." 
 
 The master leaned over the hearth, warming 
 a bran poultice. Evelyn's heart ached as she 
 watched his bowed figure, the big salt tears that 
 rolled from his careworn face dropping silently 
 on the unconscious brow of the sufferer. 
 
 Under Dr. Trevor's prompt treatment Aunt Dice 
 was relieved, her reason restored, and she gained 
 strength so rapidly that she bade Evelyn a cheer- 
 ful good-bv from the cabin door when the holi- 
 days were ended. 
 
 The long winter passed. Aunt Dice made ar- 
 rangements for her final departure. All the lov- 
 ing service and tender care of a grateful family 
 were offered her; still Aunt Dice was resolute. 
 Not even the protestations and entreaties of her 
 beloved master availed. To Charley she would 
 go, leaving one request — to be buried near Caesar, 
 at Riverside ; a sunny slope of the cemetery over- 
 looking' the river, which her kind old master 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 1 35 
 
 himself had chosen as her last resting place, 
 where the golden candlesticks she had planted 
 bloomed and burned in the early spring. One 
 should prefer to order the ending of this story as 
 in fiction, to frame the picture fittingly. But Char- 
 ley came for his mother one bleak day in March 
 — quarrelsome, dictatorial Charley, who was more 
 careful, it was said, of her numerous bedquilts and 
 the wonderful bureau with glass handles than of 
 her precious sick body. 
 
 *' Good-by, Mos Sam; take keer yo'se'f " ; and 
 a black, trembling hand reached forth from the 
 covered "express." 
 
 The last link was gone that bound the strick- 
 en master to Riverside. Her empty cabin stood 
 desolate. No homely advice, no cheering word 
 or caustic rebuke, no sound of her steady step! 
 Her work was done. The master was alone — 
 the happy home no more. The lonely call of the 
 river tortured him. Never again would the flash 
 and smile of her dimpling waters soothe or charm 
 him! Never for him the full, free breath of the 
 rolling uplands, the billowy sweep of gold ! With 
 the light of his home and the hopes of his youth, 
 the glorious beauty of Riverside had departed, to 
 return nevermore. The tender green of spring, the 
 wanton beauty of the summer, though the mock- 
 ing bird in the maple poured out his heart in 
 melody for the love of it, were never for him 
 ajjain. Riverside was but the ""rave of his buried 
 hopes. Restless and unhappy, he sold his inherit- 
 
I36 AUNT DICE. 
 
 ance and wanaered abroad, with the moaning cry 
 of the river still lingering in his ears. 
 
 In Nashville the whereabouts of Aunt Dice soon 
 ceased to be known. The ne^ro habit of flitting 
 hither and thither in the hurrying quest for bread 
 and shelter soon left her friends no trace of her. 
 Rumors drifted occasionally in an uncertain way 
 from the noise of the city: Aunt Dice was better, 
 was walking about, was in bed again ; but only 
 once a message, more like a despairing cry: " Tell 
 Mos Sam I'd die happy fur one mo' sight of his 
 face." Perhaps it was well that she did not 
 know that her master was away and her beloved 
 Riverside in the hands of strangers. In her self- 
 banishment, one could but imagine the change for 
 the proud old negress. For years accustomed to 
 cleanly and wholesome surroundings, she was vet 
 in her old age to realize the filth and squalor, the 
 uncertain maintenance of real negro life. Then 
 the busy, bustling city; the ceaseless passing back 
 and forth, the strange sounds breaking in upon the 
 weary exile, whose ears had been for fortv years 
 tuned to the soft lapping of her loved South Afton ! 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 VELYN TREVOR sat within her pleas- 
 ant room at a boarding house in Nashville, 
 holding in her hands a letter with a well- 
 known signature, a sweet conceit: "Your dear 
 father, John Trevor." 
 
 Through the open window the February winds, 
 drifting from the sunny uplands of Riverside, from 
 the hillside playground of Vine Cottage farm, lift- 
 ed the curls from her brow and stirred the ruffling 
 of her dainty gown, whispering of the spring's 
 glad coming. Her books lay unopened at her 
 side. Nine o'clock would find her on her way to 
 Nashville's Seminary for Young Ladies; still she 
 sat looking far away over the western hills, think- 
 ing — thinking over the letter she held in her 
 hands. The classic shades of Locust Grove Acad- 
 emy, the school of her earlier days, were to her 
 now only dear memories. The free or public 
 schools had crowded out this modest hall of 
 learning, where the schoolmistress and principal 
 moved with queenly grace among her satellites — 
 assistant and music teachers. 
 
 Evelyn could not remember whenever this wise, 
 firm mistress had failed in look or word to encour- 
 age her inquiring mind, or to smooth a difficult 
 step. She could not remember during those four 
 
 (137) 
 
I^S AUNT dice: 
 
 o 
 
 long terms a neglectful breach of courtesy from 
 preceptress, or a failure to reward the smallest 
 favor by a bow and smile or gentle thanks. Yet 
 what a steely grip in those delicate hands ! A 
 look was a command; a slight tremor of her chin, 
 an ominous warning; but her smile, lighting up 
 the compass of her strong, intellectual face, was 
 worth many an hour of laborious effort. Evelyn 
 felt sometimes that she could have reached any 
 height whither this smile might have led. 
 
 Not without danger of " cramming," she peeped 
 into science, pored over history; she read, com- 
 posed, and copied; she transposed and analyzed 
 sentences, reaching to Milton's intricate verse; 
 but, sad to sa}*, she stumbled continuously over 
 the dull problems of her arithmetic. Neverthe- 
 less, duty was pleasant here. There were " ser- 
 mons in stones"; flowers were ruthlessly pulled 
 apart and dissected; the use of globes made her 
 geography an easy studv; and she learned that the 
 stars were not mere golden things, studdincr the 
 sky for glory and beauty. 
 
 To please her fancy more, the surrounding 
 groves and lanes of the academy were peopled 
 with airy forms from her own mvthology. Flora 
 smiled from the garden; Pomona showed her rosv 
 face from the depths of the orchard ; dolphins 
 sported in the miniature lake ; while farther down 
 a charming bit of landscape, where the streamlet 
 gurgled over rocks and eddied into pools, there 
 was — ah ves ! — Sevlla and Charvbdis. Over the 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. 1 39 
 
 brow of the hill the great god Pan himself, not 
 dead — oh no ! — played his pipe where the wild 
 grapes grew. 
 
 But this February morning Evelyn was not 
 dreaming of the well-remembered haunts of Lo- 
 cust Grove Academy, nor was she longing for the 
 dewy dells of her country home; but her thoughts 
 were far beyond the western horizon, where the 
 rippling waters of dear South Afton caressed the 
 rugged bluffs at Riverside. In a cabin door she 
 saw a short, squat figure; a homely face, with kind 
 old eyes that looked a sad good-by at parting. 
 
 " Now, 'member, chile," Aunt Dice had said, 
 "tain't all to larn in schoolin' an' books. Ef yo' 
 is a lad}-, yo'll^'o with ladies, an" 1 genTmuns." 
 
 These words were useful to Evelyn. She had 
 not forgotten. She read her father's letter, her 
 eyes growing dim over the words, " Look for Aunt 
 Dice, and bring her home; we think she is in dis- 
 tress." 
 
 All day at school the babbling of sweet South 
 Afton sounded in Evelyn's ears; all day a dark, 
 homely face smiled from the pages of her book. 
 At her earliest hour she started on her quest, only 
 to return at nightfall weary and disappointed. 
 
 Of Aunt Dice's granddaughters, all of whom 
 had some years before removed to Nashville, Eliza 
 was the only one living. Pet — poor spoiled Pet — 
 had indulged her love of finery to her heart's con- 
 tent at the "second-hand" stores, but died all 
 too soon for the "car'idge an' hosses," and the 
 
140 aunt dice: 
 
 "shoes wid gol' heels." Evelyn had seen Julia 
 once only. When passing down the street with a 
 friend she heard a frantic voice calling behind her, 
 " Miss Ev'lyn, O Miss Ev'lyn!" Evelyn turned 
 in surprise to see Julia — no longer the comelv 
 Julia — kneeling at her feet, gathering up the skirt 
 of her gown and kissing it passionately. Julia, 
 too, was soon laid away in the colored burying 
 ground at Mt. Ararat. Eliza was still in Nash- 
 ville; but where, Evelyn could not tell, owing to 
 the varying life of the colored poor. 
 
 Next day after school hours Evelyn resumed 
 her search from street to street, tracing painfully 
 the whereabouts of the changeful, flitting Char- 
 ley. He had gone " furder up town " — on "t'oth- 
 er side o' the riber" ; and lastly, "He ain't here; 
 he's moved som'r's 'long o' Front street." 
 
 On the third day's search Evelyn passed down 
 an ill -smelling allev, and knocked at the ffrimv 
 door of a basement room. Entering, she noticed 
 a group of noisy, dirty children ; recognized slow- 
 ly the wrinkled remnant of Charlev's wife, Maria; 
 then her quick eyes saw in the opposite corner a 
 narrow iron bedstead, which she knew to be Aunt 
 Dice's — on which the honored servant of River- 
 side had been wont to take her afternoon naps. 
 Passing quicklv to the dark corner, she knelt bv 
 the bedside, where lay a shrunken figure, who 
 passed one withered arm around Evelyn's neck, 
 while the bed shook with her silent grief. 
 
 " Dear Grannv! " Words were weak. Evelvn 
 
THE STORY OF A FAITHFUL SLAVE. I4I 
 
 could only hold the rough, fevered hand, or pass 
 her cool fingers over the throbbing temples. 
 
 Aunt Dice grew quiet at length: " How's Mos 
 Sam?" 
 
 " He was well when we heard from him last — " 
 
 " Mos John an' Miss Anne?" 
 
 "All well, dear Granny; we only want you." 
 
 Aunt Dice lay silent for awhile. Evelyn stroked 
 her hand, which twitched nervously. 
 
 " Ev'lyn, tell Mos Sam — not to sen' me — any 
 mo' money." 
 
 Evelvn hesitated. She understood the old re- 
 serve. Aunt Dice's private griefs had always 
 been respected, but surely in her helpless old age 
 she might share her griefs for once. " Tell me 
 why, Granny. Tell me why." 
 
 "I never .see — de money." 
 
 " Grannv, never mind the monev. I have come 
 for vou. You shall go home with me at the close 
 of the week. That is day after to-morrow. They 
 are waiting for you at home. You will come?" 
 pleaded Evelyn. 
 
 Aunt Dice lifted her face with a new interest. 
 She raised herself on her elbow. " It mus' be 
 lookin' fresh an' cool at Mos John's. Yes, I'll 
 Co — ef I kin." She looked toward the dark door- 
 way. "Ain't the grass comin' out? " 
 
 " Yes, Grannv; spring is waiting for you at 
 home, at dear Vine Cottage." 
 
 " Yes, chile." Eternal spring was waiting for 
 her. Evelyn sank, sobbing, by her bed. Aunt 
 
142 aunt dice: 
 
 Dice put out her thin, wrinkled hand. " Don't, 
 Ev'ryn, don't take on so. Yo' Granny is nuther 
 afeard ter die nur ter live. I'm mo' comf'ble than 
 ye knows of," she continued. " Riah does de 
 bes' she knows how, an' Liza brings me things 
 ter eat, an' keeps my bed clean." 
 
 "But you will go with me, Granny?" asked 
 Evelyn, opening her basket and piling her fruit, 
 rolls, and coffee about the bed. 
 
 Aunt Dice turned restlessly, and passed one 
 hand wearily over her face. " Mebbe so, Ev'lyn 
 — -ef nuthin 5 don't happen." 
 
 "What can happen?" asked Evelyn, cheerful- 
 ly. "You will get well at Vine Cottage, with 
 dear mother and the girls to nurse you." After 
 a fond good -by, she closed the door and hastened 
 homeward. 
 
 Next day at school it was not the babbling of the 
 river in her ears; not the vision of a stout, low 
 figure in a cabin door; but a dark, shrunken form 
 in a dark corner beckoned to her sadly. 
 
 On the following Saturday Evelyn stood again 
 at the basement door, staring blankly at the de- 
 serted room. Charley had flown again, no one 
 knew whither. Evelyn turned away in sore dis- 
 appointment. What was the meaning of Aunt 
 Dice's reticence about the "money," her hesi- 
 tating acceptance of a home at Vine Cottage? 
 Could it be — oh no, surely it could not be — that 
 Charlev used her monthly pittance, and smug- 
 gled her sick body back and forth across the city, 
 
THE STORY OF. A FAITHFUL SLAVE. I43 
 
 that no communication pass between her and her 
 friends I 
 
 Another search was instituted. There was a 
 season of suspense, an unavoidable delay of sev- 
 eral weeks, when John Trevor found Eliza, and 
 learned that Aunt Dice had passed away at Eli- 
 za's home, and not with Charley, for whom she 
 had borne so much. 
 
 Just here, while the pen may be ready to 
 censure, the heart prompts a feeling of lenien- 
 cy for the wayward, mistaken Charley. That he 
 was Aunt Dice's son precludes a hasty judgment. 
 Were she here to plead for him, she would per- 
 haps find some trait of character worthy of her 
 son; some charm of manner or person, some re- 
 deeming quality that others know not of. That 
 he loved her, she did not doubt. He was her 
 own, her son. Let Charley's failings be forgot- 
 ten, now that he sleeps quietly at last by his 
 mother's side, after the " fitful fever" of his err- 
 ing but unfortunate life. 
 
 Aunt Dice was tended with care and devotion 
 b}- faithful Eliza, who secured the privilege bv re- 
 nouncing all claim to her grandmother's posses- 
 sions. Aunt Dice died in peace. She was laid 
 away in her plain coffin, robed in her black silk 
 gown, with the lace shawl pinned about her; and 
 in the early spring, when the golden candlesticks 
 were aflame around Caesar's grave, when the 
 laughing waters of her native river danced and 
 rippled in the spring sunshine, Aunt Dice, the 
 
144 AUNT DICE. 
 
 faithful slave, the beloved servant, was lowered 
 into her grave on a bleak slope of Mt. Ararat, 
 within sound of the city's roar and tumult. 
 
 It was also learned that Aunt Dice was very pa- 
 tient through all the dreary days of her illness, 
 very quiet and " peaceful-like," waiting in simple 
 faith the time of her departure; for the reunion 
 with those who had gone before, whom she had 
 loved and served so faithfully. But a fairer One 
 she saw, perhaps, than any of earth she had 
 known, when in her dying moments she lifted a 
 radiant face and said, " Glory — glo-r-y! " 
 
rjg| Bridgeport National 
 ^^ Bindery, Inc. 
 
 SEPT. 2000