111 
 
 SIANA 
 
 ILKlNSON
 
 fr*~~
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 JUatttatum 
 
 of GDlft 3L0m0iana
 
 HE JOMP OUT DE BED AN' JOMP OUT DE DO' TO GRAB 
 
 MR. WOODPECK' ' " (See page 242)
 
 _ of 
 
 Untrimana 
 
 Wilkittaon 
 
 JUiielrale& and ittiarattii 
 
 faa 
 (Charba ICtutngatnit Hull
 
 Copyright, 1914, by 
 THE PAGE COMPANY 
 
 Entered at 
 Stationers' Hall, London 
 
 Att rights reserved 
 First Impression, June, 1914 
 
 THE COLONIAL PRESS 
 C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
 
 DEDICATED TO 
 
 JILL AMERICAN BOYS AND GIRLS 
 
 WHO LOVE THE WOODS AND WILDS AND ARE IN- 
 TERESTED IN BIRDS AND ANIMALS, WHO MIGHT 
 ENJOY LISTENING TO NEGRO TALES AND HUNTERS' 
 STORIES ABOUT THEM, OR MIGHT LIKE TO CATCH 
 A GLIMPSE OF PLANTATION LIFE IN THE FAR 
 SOUTH.
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 VI. 
 
 VII. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 IX. 
 
 X. 
 
 XI. 
 
 XII. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Contents 
 
 PACB 
 
 INTRODUCING THE BIRDLAND TWINS ... 1 
 
 THE MINSTREL OP BIRDLAND 9 
 
 How MR. Fox FOOLED MADAM POSSUM . . 22 
 
 How DOCTOR PIG CURED MR. WOLF'S TOOTHACHE 37 
 
 THE CROWNING OF THE KINGBIRD . . . . 51 
 
 THE TIME THE MOON FELL 66 
 
 How MR. LYNX GOT His SPOTTED COAT . . 82 
 
 MR. JAY BROUGHT TO JUDGMENT .... 101 
 How MR. Fox FOOLED HIMSELF . . . .118 
 
 How MR. LYNX GOT His STRIPED FACE . . 134 
 
 WHO BELLED MR. BUZZARD? 150 
 
 How MR. LYNX LOST His LONG TAIL . . .166 
 
 How MR. MINK BECAME A HUNTSMAN ... 184 
 
 MY LADY'S MOTTLED BELT . . . . ,. 200 
 vfi
 
 Vlll 
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XV. THE RESURRECTION OF COCK - ROBIN AND JENNY - 
 
 WREN 217 
 
 XVI. How MR. WOODPECKER GOT His RED HEAD . 234 
 
 XVII. BROTHERS HARDSHELL AND LONGJAW . . . 245 
 
 XVIII. MR. LYNX HUNTS MORE TROUBLE .... 270 
 
 XIX. How MR. WOLF LOST His SPRING LAMB . . .284 
 
 XX. THE FINDING OF THE WHITE DOVE . . .298 
 
 XXI. THE LOST HUNTERS OF THE WHITE DOE . . 306 
 
 XXII. THE WINNING OF MIST - IN - THE - WOODS , , 322
 
 Hist of JFttU=|ia0r 
 
 " ' HE JOMP OUT DE BED AN' JOMP OUT DE DO' TO GRAB MR. 
 
 WOODPECK' ' " (See page 242) .... Frontispiece 
 
 OLD JASON ........... 6 
 
 " A SPITEFUL JAY . . . SWOOPED DOWN AFTER THE FLEEING 
 
 BEAST" ........... 19 
 
 " ' MR. FOX'S MOUF COMMENCED TO PUCKER ' " . . . 35 
 
 " ' HE TUKS HIS TAIL BETWIXT HIS LONG BEHINE - LEGS AN' 
 
 PUTS OUT F'OM DAR DE BESTEs' HE COULD ' " 50 
 
 " * THE FLYCATCHER . . . STRUCK AND STABBED THE ROYAL 
 
 HEAD AGAIN AND AGAIN ' ' ...... 63 
 
 " ' HE DBS' TUMBLES TWO BACK SUMMERSETS, SQUEALS AN' 
 
 " SKEWREES " HIS LOUDES' ' " ...... 76 
 
 " ' WHAT DAT COMIN* THEW DE THICKET? ' " . . . . 93 
 
 " ' RAN UP AND SQUATTED ON A LIMB JUST BELOW JUDGE 
 
 BARN OWL'S PERCH ' " ........ HO 
 
 " ' OH, MR. POLECAT, WON'T YOU PLEASE LEMME HIDE IN 
 
 YO' HOUSE? '" ......... 130 
 
 " ' BUT MR. COON HE JOMP IN DE BAYOU ' " . . 148 
 " HE PASSED A FLOCK OF WILD GEESE WINGING THEIR SOUTH- 
 
 WARD FLIGHT " ......... 162 
 
 " ' SOON HE FELT A 'SPICIOUS NIBBLE ' " ..... 181 
 
 " ' JEDGE B'AR LARFED AG'IN '" ...... 195 
 
 ix
 
 List of Full-page Plates 
 
 " ' DECIDED THAT IT WAS ONLY A LOW MOUND OF DEAD 
 
 LEAVES '" 212 
 
 " ' LOOK HEAH, MR. BLACKBIRD, YOU DBS' AS WELL GO 'LONG 
 
 AN* MIND YO' OWN BUSINESS ' " 230 
 
 " ' WHERE YOU BEEN, MR. COON, TO COME HOME DIS TAM o' 
 
 NIGHT?'" 240 
 
 " * RIDICULING HIS STRONG AND FIERCE VISITOR'S FOOLISH 
 
 TERROR'" . . . 258 
 
 " * A BUCKETFUL O' MAD BEES WAS SPRINKLED ALL OVER 
 
 HIM'" 281 
 
 " ' RUNS HIS BESTES' BACK TO DE WOODS WID IT ' " . . 294 
 
 " AGAIN SETTLED IN THE FIELD NEAR THE ROADSIDE " . 301 
 
 " CARRIED HIM OFF TO SOME HIDDEN DOMAIN OF THE TEM- 
 PEST" 316 
 
 " TORE THE STINGING ARROW FROM ITS BREAST " . , 336
 
 plantation Stories of 
 Coui0iana 
 
 Kntrottttrfng t!)t 
 
 THE brother and sister who figure, mostly 
 as listeners, in the following stories were 
 twins near their teens, who lived on an old 
 sugar plantation in Louisiana within fifty miles of 
 
 New Orleans. As they object to having their real 
 
 i
 
 2 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 names in print, and are still more opposed to ap- 
 pearing under false ones, they are always men- 
 tioned as the Birdland Boy, or the Birdland Girl, 
 where they are brought into these tales of Louisi- 
 ana plantation life. 
 
 The family residence of Birdland plantation 
 was a roomy and very old Colonial house that over- 
 looked the Mississippi river from the midst of park- 
 like grounds. This mansion was built of brick cov- 
 ered with brown stucco ; at its front and back were 
 long and wide verandas, or galleries, as they are 
 there called, shaded by a shingle roof, which lapped 
 well over the tops of the tall rows of wooden col- 
 umns supporting it. 
 
 The mansion-grounds, which lay behind the pub- 
 lic road and levee near the bank of the river, were 
 enclosed on all sides by thick and thorny hedges of 
 the wild Cherokee rose. They were partly covered 
 with groves of great live-oaks, scattered about as 
 they grew in the original forest, immense mag- 
 nolias, planted by hands long ago turned into dust, 
 and tall pecans, towering above the more spread- 
 ing evergreen trees. Here and there cone-shaped
 
 Introducing the Birdland Twins 3 
 
 cedars pointed their pinnacles toward open patches 
 of sky showing between the larger trees, and nu- 
 merous crape-myrtles skirted all four inner sides 
 of the Cherokee rose hedge. 
 
 In the abundant shrubbery of the place were 
 glistening camellias and sweet olives, bushes and 
 trellised vines of roses, arbors of honeysuckle, cape 
 jasmines, and overgrown hedges of box bordering 
 and hiding winding walks. Level spaces of green 
 lawn lay wherever the full sunlight could reach the 
 ground. 
 
 The family residence and the numerous out- 
 houses behind it appeared faded and weather- 
 stained, but without the least loss of respectability 
 from their lack of freshness. From its ample size 
 and its venerable looks the old coach-house showed, 
 most of all, that it had belonged to a more pros- 
 perous, or pretentious era. In its dusty gloom, 
 behind lighter and cheaper modern vehicles, dozed 
 an ancient family chariot with its plating dimmed 
 and its rotting silken curtains fringed by ragged 
 spider-webs. That ancient coach seemed to be sor- 
 rowfully musing over the good old times that were
 
 4 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 gone. Its heavy wheels had not turned for a gen- 
 eration; but, during those long, long years of its 
 dreamy rest, its rusting springs had often been 
 made to rock and creak by the merry joggling of 
 fanciful children in imaginary rounds of fashion- 
 able visits. 
 
 Anything very modern about that old home 
 would have appeared out of keeping w r ith the 
 place. Even the two latest children of the house 
 had an old-timey manner, and an old-fashioned 
 courtesy, as if it might have come to them as a 
 legacy from the long-forgotten past. 
 
 Several hundred yards distant from the resi- 
 dence, in the midst of the cane-fields, stood a large 
 sugar factory, which was flanked by workshops for 
 metal and wood; and, further away, was quite a 
 populous village of houses forming the " Negro 
 Quarters." In three rows those homes bordered 
 two wide, live-oak-shaded avenues, where numbers 
 of little negro children ran noisily about, playing 
 from morn until night, while their watching 
 mothers worked on their sewing and washing, or 
 nodded, or gossiped between meals.
 
 Introducing the Birdland Twins 5 
 
 Behind the negro village, in their separate en- 
 closures, were the big corn-barn, with its high- 
 peaked hayloft and belfry above it, the long mule 
 stable, and low cowsheds, within convenient reach 
 of that extensive storehouse for the live-stock. 
 
 The Birdland Boy attended a private school near 
 home, while his sister was taught at home by a 
 young Creole governess, who was called Made- 
 moiselle by everybody in the house except the 
 negro servants, who shortened that title to " Mam- 
 zel." 
 
 The Birdland Twins were truly happy young 
 people, although they were deprived of pleasures 
 and amusements which could be found only in city 
 life. But the loss of such diversions made them 
 more fond of reading and listening to stories than 
 most boys and girls of their age; and, taking a 
 keen interest in the world about them, they found 
 country-life extremely enjoyable. Now and then 
 their parents took them to New Orleans ; and they 
 never missed going there for the Carnival week to 
 see the glittering night-processions and the gor- 
 geous day and night parades of Mardi Gras. At
 
 6 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 home they had their ponies to ride and a pony-cart 
 to drive, and numerous young friends of the neigh- 
 borhood to visit or entertain. 
 
 Among their grown-up visitors was one friend 
 valued by the Birdland Boy above all others. This 
 was a young Doctor, who lived two miles distant 
 down the river road. That young physician was 
 very fond of hunting, and he fascinated the boy 
 with his true stories and fictitious tales about the 
 birds and the beasts of the forest, and the reptiles 
 of the marshes and the bayous he had found in his 
 jaunts and journeys through the woods and wilds. 
 
 The most devoted friend of b@th the brother and 
 sister was a grey-headed negro, named Jason, who 
 worked about the mansion grounds and lived in the 
 Quarters. Old Jason, who had been brought from 
 Virginia in his youth, and had grown to full man- 
 hood in their grandfather's time, had been a 
 favorite hunting companion of their father, and a 
 keeper of the hounds and deer-driver for the 
 young gentlemen of his generation. Now, long 
 after the ending of the old-time popular sports of 
 the local gentry, he was as fond of the woods as
 
 OLD JASOX.
 
 Introducing the Birdland Twins 7 
 
 ever, and most of his spare time was spent in trap- 
 ping and coon-hunting. But, as much as he loved 
 the woods, the old man loved the family of Bird- 
 land better, and in his declining years he still dwelt 
 with and served it, although he well knew that 
 there he would be fed, clothed and cared for during 
 the rest of his days whether he worked or remained 
 idle. 
 
 The only daughter of the house dearly loved 
 Mademoiselle, the pretty governess, who was her 
 friend and companion as well as her teacher, and 
 who fully deserved all of her charge's affection. 
 Next in her heart the Birdland Girl held the young 
 Doctor, who was very fond of her, and, perhaps, 
 of her charming teacher also ; but that latter prob- 
 able affection has very little to do with these sub- 
 sequent tales. 
 
 The Birdland Twins were much attached to 
 their old " Black Mammy," their faithful nurse 
 and devoted attendant since the days of their earli- 
 est infancy, whom they regarded as a member of 
 the family. Like Jason, the ancient grey woods- 
 man, that venerable negro woman had lived with
 
 8 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 three generations of the Birdland family, and, 
 once having been owned as a slave, she had owned, 
 ruled, served and loved the children of two of those 
 generations, as she did these last twin scions of the 
 family.
 
 II 
 JHinsttel of 
 
 PLEASANT as was the Birdland home for 
 its young people, it was a perfect paradise 
 for bird-kind. No shooting for market or 
 bird-trapping was permitted on the plantation. 
 Hundreds of the numerous species of song-birds 
 that love to live near human homes dwelt there 
 
 through the spring and summer. Even a few of 
 9
 
 10 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 the timid families of thrushes that are rarely seen 
 outside the tangled thickets of the wildwoods, de- 
 serted their natural homes in the wilderness to 
 dwell in the dense shrubbery of the spacious 
 grounds surrounding the mansion. Hence the 
 groves, bushes and wild Cherokee hedges re- 
 sounded with a melodious cantata from morning 
 until night. While many of these feathered song- 
 sters remained through the year, most of them 
 departed in the autumn. Then their places were 
 soon filled by flocks of more silent visitors, who had 
 finished their summer singing with their nesting 
 in the far North, such as song-sparrows, bluebirds, 
 robins, and migrating birds of several other fam- 
 ilies. 
 
 There the happy home-birds, and the equally 
 happy Birdland Twins, lived, together as it were, 
 the whole year around, and while the brother and 
 sister played and learned and grew larger, the 
 birds played and sang, and also studied and 
 worked in their wonderful bird way. As the Twins 
 were out of doors among the birds so much they 
 came to understand much of their bird-talk in
 
 The Minstrel of Birdland 11 
 
 time, and the birds seemed to learn the meaning 
 of their human words and gestures. 
 
 The favorite of the Twins and their father and 
 mother was a fearless old male mocking-bird, that, 
 of all his kind, lived nearest the house summer and * 
 winter, as a feathered lord of his limited domain. 
 He had grown up when the Twins were toddling 
 babies, and, in a few years, he had learned to sing 
 so very finely, the children's mother had given him 
 the well-won name, the Minstrel of Birdland. 
 
 In the middle of February that feathered min- 
 strel, after having remained mute for three months, 
 commenced his music again near St. Valentine's 
 Day. His grey garb, which had grown dusty and 
 ruffled in the midwinter, became cleaner, smoother 
 and more glossy, and its neglected trimmings 
 showed again their dainty white. He moved with a 
 lighter grace on wing and feet, and laid aside, also, 
 his moody manners of the midwinter, and merrily 
 danced over the lawn, or flitted joyfully about 
 through the trees and the lower shrubbery, while 
 he vaulted and soared in circling flights in the air. 
 
 In the bright sunny mornings, which were balmy
 
 12 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 with the breath of spring in that land, he would 
 suddenly break into rapturous songs of his own 
 making, which fittingly gave voice to the joy of 
 living in a world so beautiful. Then he would vary 
 the performance, and, as if, prompted by the spirit 
 of mischief or of ridicule, borrow the tunes of other 
 birds and sing them better than they. He would 
 whistle the blithe love-strains and the shrill war- 
 notes of the flaming Cardinal, and have that hot- 
 tempered redcoat flashing out of the evergreen 
 shrubbery to find and fight the rival who dared to 
 invade his petty realm. He would gush out the 
 noisy love-song of the Wren ; and all of the court- 
 ing Wrens in his vicinity would pop out of holes 
 and corners, and, with rasping angry warnings, go 
 jerking and bobbing around through hedges and 
 bushes searching for that uninvited gallant of 
 Wren society that they might drive him away. 
 Then, from the amused Minstrel's perch would 
 sound the premature pipe of the partridge, the 
 mew of the catbird, and the flute-like note of the 
 upland plover, whose voices he had not then heard 
 since the preceding summer, but remembered them
 
 The Minstrel of Birdland 13 
 
 as well as if he had heard them only a moment be- 
 fore he so closely mimicked them. 
 
 When March, the month of roses in that region, 
 came, the Minstrel more than ever poured forth his 
 liquid songs from early morn, through most of the 
 day, and, at intervals, through the milder moon- 
 light nights. From the tops of the tallest trees, 
 the pointed summits of the cedars, the roof -cap of 
 the mansion, or poised lightly floating in the air, 
 he sang as if all of bird-life were but the sing- 
 ing. 
 
 But, as he selected his numerous stands or 
 perches in giving full vent to his vocal talents, he 
 always avoided a thick, trellis-trailed bush or tree 
 of the Marechal Neil rose, which had grown to be 
 as large and lofty as the living-room of the man- 
 sion. It was an ideal place for his singing, with 
 long tempting sprays convenient for his rest, as 
 those slender rose-limbs, bearing opening buds and 
 full-blown flowers of pale gold, swung slowly back 
 and forth in the breeze just as most singing mock- 
 ing-birds like their perches to swing. 
 
 Although that rose-tree, which had long ceased
 
 14 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 to be a mere climbing vine, was near the mansion 
 the Minstrel knew that there he had nothing to 
 fear from his human friends and admirers. Guided 
 by the limited wisdom of bird-kind he avoided that 
 particular rose-tree just because he wished to pro- 
 duce the idea that it was not of the least interest 
 to him. Yet, in short intervals between his songs, 
 when he fancied himself unseen by any other eyes 
 than those of his silent, secretive and very busy 
 mate, he would hastily snatch up a dead twig or a 
 pliant straw and furtively fly to the heart of the 
 huge bush. 
 
 There Lady Mocking-bird and he were building 
 a nice nest, which was very rough and ugly outside, 
 but neatly lined with hay and horse-hair within. 
 
 No cunning house-cat nor cruel night-owl had 
 seen or suspected anything of the building of that 
 snug bird-home when it was finished before the first 
 of April. The Twins had known all about it from 
 the day that the birds had carried the first twig 
 into the rose-tree. But the mocking-birds never 
 knew that the Twins knew; and they were hap- 
 pier in such ignorance, for in that most sacred
 
 The Minstrel of Birdland 15 
 
 secret they dared trust even no one they might love 
 and trust in everything else. 
 
 Before Easter Madam Mocking-bird was sitting 
 on four speckled eggs in the hidden nest; and, 
 somewhat silenced by his anxiety, the Minstrel 
 sang fewer songs, and those were in softer strains, 
 and more distant ever from the place they had 
 chosen for the family roof -tree. Very often he 
 would secretly and silently slip home bearing a fat 
 bug, a juicy worm, or a fine big grasshopper to his 
 patient and hungry mate. 
 
 But their home affairs were not destined to go 
 on with undisturbed smoothness. One day, when 
 the Birdland Boy was not far from the rose-tree, 
 he was startled by loud, terrified bird-screams com- 
 ing from its heart. 
 
 " Chooray! Chooray! Chooray!" continually or 
 repeatedly cried the frightened birds: "Chooray! 
 Chooray ! Chooray ! " 
 
 Knowing that this was the alarm cry of mock- 
 ing-birds when their nest was in desperate danger 
 from some foe that they could not resist, and that 
 the screams meant in their language: " Go away!
 
 16 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 Go away! Go away!," the Boy quickly rushed to 
 the rescue of his frightened feathered friends. 
 
 Several birds of other kinds had reached the 
 scene of trouble when he arrived; and they were 
 all circling the rose-tree with twitters of fear or 
 cries of anger, convinced that their common foe, 
 the fierce barn-owl was again abroad in the day, 
 as he sometimes though very rarely happens to be, 
 and that he was hidden there in that very rose-tree 
 on robbery or murder bent, 
 
 Looking closely into the tangled center of the 
 great bush, the Birdland Boy beheld a long dark- 
 brown snake, which very much resembled the twist- 
 ing trunk-stems up which it had climbed to the 
 outer edge of the nest, where it was getting ready 
 to finish its raid by swallowing the eggs. Re- 
 stricted by their close quarters the birds were fight- 
 ing this hideous nest-robber with beating wings 
 and plunging beaks and repeating their despairing 
 cries for help. The Boy, recognizing the snake 
 as the " horserunner," and knowing that it was 
 harmless to human beings, quickly procured a 
 handy fishing pole, punched the serpent to the
 
 The Minstrel of Birdiand 17 
 
 ground in time to save the endangered eggs, and 
 killed it with a few blows of the butt of the slender 
 bamboo rod. 
 
 Later, just on the eve of their hatching, there 
 must have been another like attempt to steal the 
 eggs; for the Twins found a brilliant little coral 
 snake lying dead on the ground beneath the nest. 
 Getting it out for nearer inspection of that gaudy 
 serpent, with its bands and rings of red, gold and 
 black, they discovered that it had been very re- 
 cently killed, as its body was still supple and a tiny 
 red drop oozed freshly from the back of its small 
 and venomous head. Evidently, as it climbed near 
 the nest, it had been easily slain by the birds, with- 
 out any necessity of calling for outside help. 
 
 Then, when the first feeble cry of " chee " told 
 of new bird-life in the heart of the rose-tree, an- 
 other deadly enemy assailed that little home. A 
 lazy old cat, lying asleep in the noontime in the 
 shade of a bush near, was awakened by that help- 
 less cry. Lifting his head, and raising his ears to 
 hear from whence came that hungry wail of a 
 baby-bird he found out, when it was repeated,
 
 18 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 despite the hushing chirp of the anxious mother. 
 That big cat then rose to his feet, stretched him- 
 self, shook each taloned paw in turn, licked his 
 whiskered lips, and stealthily crept to the rose- 
 tree, heedless of the closely circling flight and the 
 angry cries of both the parent birds at his ap- 
 proach. Finding that he could not reach the nest 
 from directly beneath it he tried to climb up the 
 outer surface of the giant rose-bush to rob the bird- 
 cradle of its babies. 
 
 Against this third attack the Minstrel and his 
 mate neither wailed in terror nor screamed for 
 help. With wrathful war-cries of " Churr! 
 Churr! Churr!" they assailed the murderous 
 Tom-cat with buffeting wing and thrusting beaks, 
 selecting his round head and yellow eyes for such 
 beating and spearing. 
 
 Their merciless foe could not fight to advantage 
 on such a shaky and thorny battleground; for, at 
 every savage blow he struck, his own paws were 
 pierced and painfully wounded by sharp thorns. 
 Half way up the surface of the bush he was forced 
 to halt. There he hung on a little while defence-
 
 "A SPITEFUL JAY . . . SWOOPED DOWN AFTER THE FLEEING BEAST."'
 
 The Minstrel of Birdland 19 
 
 less against those furious defenders of their home. 
 Then, to save his eyes from destruction, he leaped 
 to the ground and fled fast to the old coach-house 
 for shelter, being pursued most of the way there 
 by the valiant feathered victors. 
 
 As the beaten cat was about to enter the door- 
 way of that welcome refuge a spiteful jay, who 
 had watched that warm combat with mingled won- 
 der, joy and envy from a limb near its scene, 
 swooped down after the fleeing beast, struck his 
 distended tail an insulting slap with one of his 
 lusty wings and screeched a scornful jeer at him, 
 which scared the fugitive back into the gloomy 
 depths of the coach-house and up on to the top of 
 the ancient family chariot. 
 
 After those fortunate escapes the Minstrel and 
 his Lady Bird depended less on concealment and 
 more on their own valor for the protection of their 
 children. They feared no bird-foes, for none 
 dared meddle with them. They had learned how 
 to conquer climbing cats and found that they 
 might fully trust their human friends even in their 
 private family affairs. Of birds it might have
 
 20 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 also been written that " the bravest are the tender- 
 est," for the mocking-bird, fearless as the kingbird 
 of hawk or vulture, is remarkably faithful to his 
 mate and affectionate to his young. 
 
 The singing father grew silent and remained 
 mute when his naked, wide-mouthed babies came 
 into the world. In the days of their short feathers 
 and long-quills those infant prodigies had a pro- 
 digious appetite, and ate at least twenty-four 
 meals a day, all four of them. So, at that time, 
 although he might sing them to sleep at night with 
 a cradle-song, he was too weary from the hard 
 work of feeding the family to sit up after reason- 
 ably early bedtime to amuse himself warbling 
 moonlight sonatas as he had done in the love 
 season. 
 
 In due time those young birds, all having es- 
 caped the dangers of their early life, learned to 
 fly almost as well as the wise parents who had so 
 safely reared them. Then the Minstrel-father be- 
 came less anxious about them and more tuneful 
 with his tongue. Again daily and nightly his 
 music floated on the passing midsummer hours;
 
 The Minstrel of Birdland 21 
 
 and when the grown-up children at last left the 
 old birdfolks at home to win their own way in the 
 wide world he sang them his sweetest and saddest 
 farewell song. 
 
 For two months more the Minstrel sang in 
 strains softened with memorial sorrow for the 
 flowers that were fading, the leaves that were fall- 
 ing and the happiest days of all the year that were 
 fast fleeting away. 
 
 At last, when November touched his land with 
 its white fingers of frost, the Minstrel became 
 mute again ; and he and his demure mate appeared 
 to become but humble and silent thrushes. And, 
 as such, they seemed happy to remain until the 
 coming of another spring, with its warm soft 
 winds, its budding trees and its blooming flowers.
 
 Ill 
 
 Jttr* jpov #0011* 
 jjossuw 
 
 f I AHE Birdland Boy hurried through his 
 breakfast before the melting of the frost 
 on the lawn one morning late in Novem- 
 ber. Old Jason, the grey-headed woodsman, who 
 was a servant of all work about the house and 
 
 grounds, had promised, the previous evening, to 
 22
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Madam Possum 23 
 
 take him out to the woods immediately after the 
 early morning meal. Hence he rushed through 
 that repast as can only a healthy boy with a big 
 event in view; and, when he had finished it, he ran 
 out through the back gate of the grounds to the 
 first, or main field road, which was there joined by 
 another road leading back to the forest behind the 
 plantation. 
 
 According to promise, his old black friend was 
 patiently waiting for the Boy at the junction of 
 the field and forest roads. The old man was 
 seated on the plank platform of a primitive kind 
 of cart called a " woodrack," close behind an 
 ancient grey mule harnessed between the shafts 
 of that rude vehicle. The venerable driver's legs 
 were dangling down over the front edge of that 
 cart close before the right wheel of its single pair, 
 and his right hand was idly toying with the home- 
 made rawhide whip, which was necessary to move 
 the mule to the proper or desired pace. 
 
 " Good mawnin', Little Mahster. De sun's 
 gittin' moughty high, an* we's got to be back home 
 wid dat load o' firewood befo' dinner-time. Jump
 
 24 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 in, let's be movin' along," cried old Jason, as the 
 panting boy came running to the roadside. 
 
 Of course the Birdland Boy jumped in as 
 quickly as he could. Taking the rope-reins from 
 the old driver's ready left hand, and, also, borrow- 
 ing the long supple whip, he stood up on the flat 
 sideless floor of the woodcart, started off Old Abe, 
 as Jason's mule was affectionately called, and 
 tried to drive that cart just as the ancient Romans 
 drove their war-chariots, and just as the expert 
 negro teamsters of the Louisiana sugar planta- 
 tions drive their great rushing and rumbling four- 
 mule cane wagons into and out of the canefields 
 in the busy grinding season of the factories. In 
 copying that ancient and modern style of driving 
 standing he leant back on his reins, met the jolts 
 and tilts of his cart with the usual limp body and 
 leg bends of the expert black teamsters, and tried 
 to talk their kind of noisy mule-talk to move his 
 reluctant old steed to a speedy gait; but that 
 steady and stubborn animal refused to rush his 
 chariot faster than four miles an hour. 
 
 When they reached the forest, the young
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Madam Possum 25 
 
 charioteer, guided by the distant sound of chop- 
 ping axes, took the right direction to find a squad 
 of negro woodcutters; and they arrived at their 
 journey's end within an hour of its starting. 
 
 There old Jason dropped his calling of cart- 
 man for a little while to take up that of a trapper. 
 He left his woodrack to be loaded by the more ac- 
 tive woodchoppers with its half-cord of ash, while 
 he guided his young white companion on the round 
 of several rough " varmint-traps " he had set in 
 the surrounding woods. 
 
 They had not walked more than a fourth of a 
 mile from the limited clearing made by the wood- 
 cutters when they reached a " rabbit-gum " that 
 had recently been sprung by game. This rabbit 
 trap was made of a short section of a small hollow 
 log, which was closed at each end with a sliding 
 gate, both gates being held up by one trigger let 
 down through an auger-hole in the top of the log 
 in its middle, or the same distance from each gate, 
 so that this baited trigger might catch a rabbit 
 either coming or going. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha! Ole Molly Hyar, what you doin'
 
 26 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 dar? You ain't settin' in yo' corner smokin' yo' 
 seegar!" joyfully chuckled old Jason as he be- 
 held his closed trap. 
 
 Stepping briskly up to his rabbit-gum, he lifted 
 one end of it, heard the sound of scratching inside, 
 carefully hefted its extra weight to judge of the 
 possible size of the prize it contained, and happily 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " He sho'ly is a lurge one ! " 
 
 Then he laid down the end of the log-trap, cau- 
 tiously lifted the gate near him just high enough 
 to let in his forearm, and slipped his wrinkled 
 hand and wrist in the hollow to feel for his game. 
 Then, suddenly jerking back his forearm, he 
 gazed with a look of great astonishment at the 
 pink print of nipping teeth on his tough black 
 knuckles, and sharply cried: 
 
 " Good Lawsy! dat ain't no rabbit! what I 
 doin' pokin' my fingers in a hole sich a fool way 
 widout knowin' ef a snake, or a mink, or sumpen 
 wusser moughtn't be on de inside des a waitin' to 
 pizen me ! " 
 
 Then, rubbing the hand that he had probably
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Madam Possum 27 
 
 saved from a painful bite by its quick withdrawal, 
 and stooping low to look closely on the damp dead 
 leaves about the trap, he moved very slowly 
 toward its further end. Before he had scanned 
 all the ground to the other end of the log the grey 
 woodsman straightened up and gleefully shouted: 
 
 " It's a big ole possum ! ramblin' atter day r 
 break, when he'd 'a' better been at home! What 
 he doin' atter sweet 'tater bait I dunno; but I sho' 
 is gwineter bait him wid plenty o' 'taters at to- 
 morrer's dinner! " 
 
 The delighted old trapper kneeled on the dew- 
 damp ground, raised the gate of the safe end of 
 the trap to its full height, and eagerly dragged 
 forth his fat snarling captive by the tail. It was 
 very useless for that " varmint " to instantly feign 
 death as he did on being forcibly dragged out into 
 the full light; for one tap of the trapper's tough 
 hickory hunting-stick at once finished his feasts 
 and his feignings. 
 
 Old Jason decided, after re-setting his rabbit 
 gum, that it was getting rather late to go further 
 into the woods considering the time he was ex-
 
 28 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 pected back home with the firewood. So, con- 
 cluding that the capture of such a prize was glory 
 enough for one day, and leaving the round of the 
 rest of his traps for another, he slung his possum 
 over his back, and, with the boy closely following 
 him, went back to the clearing where the cart had 
 been left. There the deceased possum was laid in 
 due honor on top of the load of cordwood with 
 which the woodrack had been piled, the mule 
 drawing it was started homeward, and the two 
 drivers, who had come out to the woods on it 
 empty, willingly walked back home to lessen the 
 weight of Old Abe's rather heavy load. 
 
 On their homeward way the old man, full of 
 happiness at his trapping success, and hoping to 
 make his young companion almost as happy as 
 himself, started, with only a sudden laugh for its 
 preface, the following tale about how Mr. Fox 
 fooled Madam Possum. Said he, with one more 
 fond look at his fat and still grinning prize: 
 
 " Dat ole Possum ridin' home free up dar whilst 
 me an' you has to walk back puts me in mine o' 
 one o' dem tales 'bout de oletime ' varmints ' mv
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Madam Possum 29 
 
 fambly brimg down here f'om ole Virginny when 
 I war a boy some bigger'n you. Dat 'ticular tale 
 were about Mr. Fox an' de grapes he couldn' 
 git, an' Madam Possum an' de 'simmonses she 
 got. 
 
 " One day, whilst Mr. Fox was gwine along 
 thew de woods an' de thickets lookin' for sumpen 
 to eat, an' des' as hongry as he could be, an' as I 
 is now, he come across a grapevine clammin' high 
 up a tree, wid a whole lot o' pu'pple bunches o' 
 grapes shinin' in de sun way up at de top o' de 
 tree. He stopped dar a long time, wid his mouf 
 fa'rly waterin' for dem nice ripe grapes, and tryin' 
 to study out some way to reach 'um. 
 
 " At las' a smart notion struck sly Mr. Fox all 
 at once, an' he puts out an' trotted off swif an' 
 stretways to fin' his frien', Mr. Possum to do the 
 needful clammin' to git dem grapes. When he 
 reached Mr. Possum's house he foun' Mr. Possum 
 was away f'om home, wood-ramblin* somewhars 
 or udder; but Mrs. Possum was settin' inside wide 
 awake an' lookin' out o' de upper hole in de holler 
 which dey had for a window. So Mr. Fox, he
 
 30 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 scraped an' he bowed, an' paid his 'spects to de 
 lady o' de house, an' made her his perlitest com- 
 pliments on her good looks; an' atter a little o' 
 dat kind o' talk, he says: 
 
 ' * Oh, Madam Possum, does you like grapes? ' 
 ' * I dunno. I ain't ever e't none,' answers 
 Madam Possum. 
 
 " ' Well,' went on Mr. Fox, * grapes is 
 moughty good to eat, an* ef you keers to try 'um, 
 I knows whar dar's some o' de nices' dat ever 
 growed, up a tree in de middle o' de woods; an' 
 ef you'll come along wid me right now an' pick 
 'um we'll 'vide 'um all betwixt us, share and share 
 alike.' 
 
 " At dat Madam Possum shet up de house jest 
 as soon as she could an' jined Mr. Fox on de 
 groun', an' dey bofe trotted an' ambled off to- 
 gedder to de tree wid de high grapevine. Dar dey 
 stopped ; an' Madam Possum looked up at de ripe 
 grapes whar Mr. Fox pinted 'um out. Den Mr. 
 Fox he tells her to clam' up de tree an' pick 'um 
 an' th'ow 'um down for him to Vide 'um in even 
 piles, like he promised.
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Madam Possum 31 
 
 "Whilst Madam Possum is doin' de clammin' 
 Mr. Fox sots down on de groun' on his quarters 
 an' qurls his bushy tail 'roun' his ha'nches, an' he 
 grins, holdin' his drippin' tongue out o' his mouf, 
 whilst he looks up at de ripe grapes out o' one 
 eye, an' at Madam Possum clammin' de tree out 
 o' de udder. 
 
 " Soon Madam Possum reaches de ripe bunches 
 an' pulls 'um an' th'ows 'um down on de groun' 
 widout tu'nnin' her face to f oiler 'um an' see whar 
 dey falls. 
 
 " Mr. Fox he eats up 'all de grapes as fas' as 
 dey hits de groun', leavin' nuffin' but de stems an' 
 de seeds, which he puts in a little pile. 
 
 " When Madam Possum had finished her 
 pullin' an' clammed back down de tree to git her 
 share o' de grapes she'd picked an' drapped to de 
 groun', Mr. Fox he says, standin' up wid his com- 
 pany manners, smilin' an' perlite. 
 
 " ' Take your seat, Madam Possum. Set down, 
 Madam. I's lef you all de bestes' part o' the 
 grapes, dese nice seeds an' stems, set right down 
 an' eat 'um an' see how good dey is.'
 
 32 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " Madam Possum didn' bodder herse'f none 
 over de dry stems, but she chawed an' swallered 
 some o' de bitter seeds; den she put de rest o' de 
 seeds keerfully in her waist-pouch, and she git up 
 an' say, des as perlite an' smilin' as Mr Fox, his- 
 se'f: 
 
 " ' Thank you de kindes' for yo' fine treat, Mr. 
 Fox, I'll take some o' dese nice grape-seeds home 
 wid me des to recomember yo' gre't favor, an' to 
 keep me f'om forgittin' it when I gits a chance 
 to pay it back.' 
 
 " Den she made Mr. Fox her bes' far'well bow 
 an' scrape an' ambled back home. 
 
 " Some days atter dat, when Mr. Fox was 
 snoozin' at home, here come Madam Possum am- 
 blin' up like somebody totin' big news to a neigh- 
 bor. She knocked at Mr. Fox's door loud an' fas' 
 an' woked him up; an', when he come to de door 
 rubbin' de sleep out o' his face wid his befo'-paws, 
 she axes: 
 
 " * Oh, Mr. Fox, does you like 'simmonses? ' 
 
 " * I dunno, I ain't nerer taste none,' answers 
 Mr. Fox, yawnin' an' stretchin' like he done for-
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Madam Possum 33 
 
 got all his good manners, or done lost 'um alto- 
 gedder. 
 
 ' Well,' says Madam Possum, talkin' peart an' 
 lively, * wake up an' come along wid me and try 
 some of de fine 'simmonses I des found in a tree 
 jest loaded down wid 'um in de woods not so fur 
 f'om here; ef you does you'll sho'ly say dat 'sim- 
 monses beats grapes for good eatin' out o' sight 
 an' hearinV 
 
 "Dat talk o' sumpen better'n ripe grapes 
 rubbed all de sleep out o' Mr. Fox's eyes quicker'n 
 his paws could. So he bounces out o' his house to 
 Madam Possum, an' off dey puts, an' ag'in dey 
 ambled an' trotted away togedder till dey come 
 to a 'simmon tree full o' ripe an' green 'sim- 
 monses. 
 
 "When dey got dar Madam Possum started 
 right away to clam* dat tree; but befo' she'd gone 
 more'n halfways up de trunk she stopped an' 
 called down: 
 
 " ' Mr. Fox, I cyarnt th'ow de 'simmonses down 
 to de groun' like I done de grapes, bekase dey's so 
 soft when dey's ripe dey'd git so badly squshed by
 
 34 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 de fall dey wouldn' be fitten to eat; but I'll bring 
 down enough for bofe of us in my pouch.' 
 
 " Den Mr. Fox sot down ag'in on his ha'nches 
 an' qurled his bushy tail aroun' 'um, an' grinned 
 wid his mouf wide open an' xlrippin' water, an' his 
 bright eyes lookin' up watchin' Mrs. Possum 
 pickin' de 'simmonses. 
 
 " Madam Possum, who were de lurges' lady of 
 all her set in all o' dem woods, had a moughty big 
 pouch at de bottom o' her waist; an' she put all 
 de ripe 'simmonses in de right side of her nachal 
 ridicule; an' for every ripe one she picked she 
 pulled a green 'simmon an' dropped it in de lef' 
 side; an 5 when de bag was full enough for bofe 
 she come on down de tree. 
 
 "When she j'ined Mr. Fox on de groun' she 
 says : * Company sarved fust, Mr. Fox,' an' she 
 ban's him out a green 'simmon an' takes a ripe one 
 for hersef a green for Mr. Fox, a ripe for 
 Madam Possum green for him, an' ripe for her, 
 an' so on. 
 
 " About de time her 'simmonses was all gone 
 an' e't up de green ones beginned to ack wid Mr.
 
 MR. FOX'S MOUF COMMENCED TO PUCKER.' "
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Madam Possum 35 
 
 Fox like dey always does wid de fool boys an' de 
 fool beas'es, who don't know nuttin' about green 
 'simmonses an' deir 'ceitful ways. 
 
 " Mr. Fox's mouf commenced tx> pucker, his 
 throat begin to git thick in de gullet, his tongue to 
 draw up tight, an' his innerds to ache moughty 
 bad. 
 
 "'What you laughin' at, Mr. Fox?' axed 
 Madam Possum when dat wide mouf o' his'n got 
 so drawed up he couldn' shet it no mo*. 
 
 " ' Ar-r-r, goo-ar-r, goo-ar-ar-ar ! ' goes Mr. 
 Fox, tryin' to talk back to Madam Possum an' ax 
 her what she mean by playin' him sich a low down 
 ornery trick as dat. His tongue was too twisted 
 an' his mouf too puckered to talk, so dat was de 
 bestes' he could do, dat * ar-ar-ar,' an' ' goo-ar-ar! ' 
 
 " Den says Madam Possum, as perlite and 
 smilin' as Mr. Fox was de day o' de grapeseed 
 dinner : ' I's glad, Mr. Fox, you f oun' yo' 'simmon 
 feas' so fine it makes you feel like singin' sich a 
 pretty chune as dat.' 
 
 " At dat Mr. Fox got so fightin' mad wid 
 Madam Possum he flewed at her like he was
 
 36 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 gwine to t'ar her to pieces right den an' dar; but 
 when he bit de fust bite at her he foun' he couldn' 
 shet his jaws tight enough to bite butter, de green 
 'simmonses had drawed up his mouf so much. 
 
 " Den ole Madam Possum jest laid right down 
 on de groun' an' grinned way back to her ears; 
 an' she squalls out to Mr. Fox, skeerin' him most 
 out o' his senses: 
 
 " ' 'Simmonses is better'n grape-seeds for Pos- 
 sums, Mr. Fox; but dey's rank pizen for Foxes, 
 and de onliest way now for you to unpucker yo' 
 mouf, ease yo' innerds, an' /save yo' life is to take 
 some right hot chicken soup. But you better 1'arn 
 how to ketch young pullets befo' you tries to fool 
 ole Possums.' 
 
 " When she had her laff out, ole Lady Possum 
 got up an' ambled on home to git dinner at a long 
 sight faster gait dan we's gwine home to ours 
 now."
 
 IV 
 
 Boctor 
 
 OLD Jason, the black sage of the planta- 
 tion, stopped his cart at the back gate of 
 the Birdland grounds about the middle of 
 an autumn afternoon, and calling to one of the 
 yard-servants passing near, told him to " go up 
 to de house an* ax de young boss ef he wouldn.' 
 like to go out to de woods an' help to bait de 
 
 hawgs : " with the sable old greyhead the Bird- 
 37 
 
 450266
 
 38 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 land Boy was never mentioned by his proper 
 name, but always affectionately addressed as " Lit- 
 tle Mahster " when spoken to, and spoken of as 
 " de young boss " when mentioned to the ancient 
 negro's fellow servants. 
 
 The grown hogs were allowed to roam in the 
 woods at that season to pick up newly fallen 
 acorns and nuts. As the forest back of the planta- 
 tion was so extensive it was necessary to call them 
 up now and then to a fenced hog-lot between the 
 fields and the woods to which they were often 
 " baited " with a feed of corn to keep them from 
 going wild and running too far away. 
 
 The answer to the old man's message came 
 quickly, with the boy bounding down the steps and 
 running out of the back gate whooping with joy 
 at the prospect of another excursion to the woods 
 he loved so well, and in which he spent much of his 
 spare time. "Hello, * Uncle ' Jason!" he cried, 
 as he reached the dump-cart, clambered up into its 
 box-body and scrambled over its slippery load of 
 freshly husked corn ears, to the driver's bench in 
 front. When he gained a seat close beside the
 
 How Dr. Pig Cured Mr. Wolfs Toothache 39 
 
 grizzled driver, and nearly as close behind his an- 
 cient grey mule, he went on: "Hello! where's 
 your calling horn? Didn't you bring it along with 
 you?" 
 
 The polished ox-horn, for which he asked, was 
 not in its usual place or position, dangling from a 
 rawhide thong looped over its owner's shoulder. 
 The boy looked the least bit disappointed at its 
 absence, as, like many of the fashionable stage- 
 drivers of this modern day, he fancied that the 
 noise of a horn greatly added to the fun of a drive. 
 
 At his question about the horn old Uncle Jason 
 put on a blank look and exclaimed : " I sho'ly mus' 
 be gittin' right ole to go away out to de woods on 
 a hog-callin' ja'nt and forgit my hawn." Then, 
 with much chuckling, he raked away the piled up 
 corn from the corner of the cart nearest his right 
 hand and pulled out that instrument of torture or 
 temptation, which plantation boys love so well to 
 blow, and plantation hogs love so much better to 
 hear. 
 
 On the way of the cart toward the woods the boy 
 blew himself red in the face to produce the most
 
 40 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 inspiring and melodious blasts possible; but the 
 old man only grinned at his many repeated efforts, 
 and the venerable mule only shook his ears in re- 
 sponsive disgust at the untimely discords that dis- 
 turbed his meditations as he plodded his wood- 
 ward way. But, despite Old Abe's slow and sloth- 
 ful progress, they reached the back fence, which 
 divided off the hog-lot from the woods, in good 
 time for the purpose in view, or about an hour be- 
 fore sunset, and drew back the closed sliding bars 
 which shut the opening between the fenced clear- 
 ing and the forest. 
 
 " Now, gimme dat hawn, Little Mahster, an' 
 lemme see how I kin play de proper hawg-chunes 
 on it," said the old man with a hearty laugh, as the 
 boy turned it over to him. And he produced mel- 
 ody from it as if the thing had been a sweet-toned 
 pleading trumpet. Its mellow winding notes 
 swept over the open fields and floated far away 
 into the deep woods, rising, sinking and returning 
 in softened echoes until one who heard it all would 
 have wondered how such sounds could have been 
 wafted from a common ox-horn.
 
 How Dr. Pig Cured Mr. Wolfs Toothache 41 
 
 " Dar' dey comes in a hurry!" exclaimed old 
 Jason, after he had stopped his blowing to listen 
 awhile. A distant rustling of hundreds of feet in 
 the fallen forest leaves told him that the herd had 
 caught the sound of his seductive " hawg-chunes," 
 and far grunts and squeals, coming nearer and 
 louder every minute, betokened that its scattered 
 members were responding to their appeal in hog- 
 like haste. 
 
 " Dar dey comes, leavin' sweet ripe acorns an' 
 fat hick'ry nuts for nuttin' but dis dry yaller corn ! 
 But, no matter what kind o' feed a hawg's eatin', 
 ef he hears o' sumpen' to eat somewharselse he'll 
 drap de grub he's got an' run to dat sumpen' some- 
 wharselse : dat's 'zackly de same way wid a 
 sight o' folkses, too; dey ain't satisfied wid what 
 dey's got hows'ever good it mought be but dey's 
 always ready to run atter sumpen' what moughtn't 
 be any better, or as good, for dat mattah ! " 
 
 As the herd came running and crowding 
 through the opened gap in the fence, the driver 
 backed his cart up against the side or road-fence, 
 and he and the boy pitched out the yellow corn-
 
 42 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 ears to the greedy, grunting, squealing and scram- 
 bling hogs. After watching them scuffling over 
 their supper, and leaving the full ears they had 
 grabbed to chase each other about for what they 
 thought might be choicer ones, the boy casually 
 observed : 
 
 " Uncle Jason, I wonder how that wild hog you 
 told me about not long ago, that was caught by 
 the Panther, who was robbed of one of his hams 
 by the Wildcat, let himself get caught? You re- 
 member in that story your Mr. Wildcat was badly 
 punished by Judge Bear for his stealing? " 
 
 " Law, Mon, dat pig's done been e't up an' for- 
 got' sence ole Noah was a baby! " Here the old 
 man broke off abruptly, slowly got down from his 
 cart, walked around the back corner of the fence, 
 closed the woods' gap with the replaced bars for 
 the night, and climbed back to his board driver's 
 bench, all in grave silence. Then, after he had 
 noisily " hawed " his mule and started him home- 
 ward, he turned with a smile to the young com- 
 panion close beside him and opened up another 
 woodland tale without further hint or asking:
 
 How Dr. Pig Cured Mr. Wolf's Toothache 43 
 
 " Once upon a time as you use' to read me de 
 beginnin' o' some moughty doin's what was tole 
 about in yo' chilluns' story-books I seed a smart 
 Pig on a showboat, what stopped at de plantashun 
 steamboat landin' before de war, what had a lot 
 mo' booklarnin' dan many folkses has, uther white 
 or black. 
 
 " De Pig I seed on dat circus-boat was de 
 smartes' Pig dat ever was bawned. De man what 
 owned him an' showed him off would take him out 
 on a platform befo' all de hunderds an' hunderds 
 o' folkses what was dar, an' make him stan' up on 
 his behine legs an' bow an' scrape to de ladies an' 
 everybody else. Den he'd tell him to sot down an' 
 do his doin's. An', mon, dat Pig sot right down 
 dar an' he counted better'n me, an' he figgered 
 better'n a schoolboy, an' he'd play High-Low- 
 Jack-an' de game better'n de man dat made de 
 cyards ! 
 
 " Bimeby dat Mr. Pig made up his mine dat he 
 was too smart for mens to make a livin' off o' Mm. 
 Yas sar: he knowed it, lemme tell you! So he 
 runned away when he got a good fa'r chance, an*
 
 44 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 he tuk to de woods to make his own livin' amongst 
 de wile varmints. Dat Pig had sense enough to 
 try to make his livin' by his 1'arnin' instid o' gwine 
 to de gre't trouble o' grubbin' in de groun' for it, 
 like folkses what dunno deir A, B, C's has to do. 
 
 " Well, when Mr. Pig fetched up in de woods 
 wid all dat book 1'arnin' in his head, he set hisse'f 
 up for a doctor right off de reel. All he ha' to do 
 to start dat doctor-biz'ness was to look wise, to 
 walk wise, an' to grunt wise. He didn' need to 
 turn loose on de yuther varmints all what he had 
 1'arnt f'om mens all at once; bekase dose yuther 
 varmints des ha' to look at him to know he had a 
 lot mo' in him dan what he let out ; an' some- 
 times some smart folkses fools yuther folkses dat 
 same way, by hidin' what dey knows so close dat 
 dey ain't able to find it deyse'f when dey needs it 
 bad. But, howsom'ever, all de wile varmints come 
 to fink dat Doctor Pig were de wises' creetur' dat 
 ever walked in de woods. 
 
 " Only ole Jedge B'ar didn' bleeve in him much, 
 an* he had no use for live Pigs nohow. Mr. 
 Pant'er was afeared to fool wid dat Pig, finkin' he
 
 How Dr. Pig Cured Mr. WolPs Toothache 45 
 
 might pizen him. Mr. Wolf would ha' liked him a 
 heap mo' as fresh po'k dan what he did as a doctor, 
 but somehow or uther he nebber could meet up wid 
 him; an' Doctor Pig was moughty watchful an* 
 moughty keerful to keep out o' de way o' dem 
 gre't big an' dangersome varmints on all o' his 
 short or long visitin' roun's in de woods. 
 
 " So Doctor Pig built hisse'f a nice doctor-shop, 
 an* he hung roots an* yarbs an' sassifras an' sich 
 to de rafters, an' he put out his doctor sign on de! 
 door. An' soon mos' o' de ailin' varmints, an' 
 many o' de well ones, what felt sho' dey was ailin* 
 mos' o' de time, bad wedder or good, come up 
 steppin' lame or steppin' slow, sayin' dey was 
 feelin' moughty, moughty po'ly an' axin' for some 
 o' his doctor stuff. Doctor Pig would feel deir 
 pulse an' count as fur as he could go, an' make 'um 
 poke out deir tongues, lookin' moughty solemn in 
 it all. Den he'd figger an' spell out deir doses an' 
 roll up his pills an' wrap up his powders an* han' 
 'um aroun', 'til he had mos' everybody in de woods 
 comin' his way. 
 
 " But, like I tole you befo', Jedge B'ar was
 
 46 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 gittin' too ole to ramble fur f'om home, an' he 
 never happen to run across de new doctor. Mr. 
 Wolf didn't uther; but he hunted him high an' he 
 hunted him low ; he hunted him nigh an' he hunted 
 him fur. Ef Doctor Pig hadn't been so smart as 
 he were he sho'ly couldn' ha' outwit' Mr. Wolf so 
 long; but he did outwit him for de longes', an', 
 wid all o' Mr. Wolf's hard huntin', deir trails 
 nebber j'ined. Den Mr. Wolf tried to ketch him 
 at home in his house by day, an' he tried to ketch 
 him dar by night; but every time he reached de 
 house de door was locked tight an' Doctor Pig 
 were on its safe side. 
 
 " Mr. Wolf turned over in his mine all de proj- 
 icks he knowed, an' he stay awake sometimes all 
 night to study out a new plan to ketch Doctor Pig. 
 Bimeby, one bright moonlight night, de right no- 
 tion struck him all at once; an' up he jumped an' 
 off he trotted in a tur'ble hurry todes de doctor- 
 shop in de middle o' de woods. When he got dar 
 he sot down on his ha'nches right befo' de door an' 
 holler: 
 
 " ' Woo-oo-oo! Woo-o-o-o-o! '
 
 How Dr. Pig Cured Mr. Wolfs Toothache 47 
 
 " Doctor Pig never move nor stir. 
 
 " * Wooo-ooo-ooo 1 Wooo-o-o-o! ' 
 
 "Doctor Pig never say a word, but he tiptoe 
 easy to de door an' he peep thew de keyhole at Mr. 
 Wolf settin' out dar on de groun', black as his own 
 shadder, wailin' in de moonshine. 
 
 " * Wooo-ooo-ooo! Wooo-ooo-ooo! ' howls Mr. 
 Wolf wusser an' wusser. 
 
 " * What's de matter, Mr. Wolf, is you singin' to 
 de moon? ' axed Doctor Pig, talking thew de key- 
 hole. 
 
 " * Oh, Doctor, Doctor? wails Mr. Wolf, ' I's 
 got de toofache moughty bad! Won't you please 
 come out here wid yo' toofdraws an* pull it out for 
 me an' stop de mizz'ry? Oh me, wooo-ooo-ooo! 
 Wooo-ooo ! ' 
 
 " * I never pulls no wolf-toofes, nuther any 
 kine o* teefs. You better go to a reg'lar toof- 
 doctor to git yo' toof pulled out/ answers Doctor 
 
 Pig. 
 
 "'Oh-wooo-ooo! dis tur'ble pain makes me too 
 weak to walk,' cries Mr. Wolf fallin' over on his 
 side flat on de groun'.
 
 48 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 "'Humph! humph! humph! howlin' don't 
 cure no toof ache ! ' grunts Doctor Pig. 
 
 " Den Mr. Wolf stop howlin' a while, an' he 
 say : ' Oh, Doctor Pig, all de varmints in de woods 
 says you's de bestes' doctor dat ever walked de 
 yearth; dey claims dat you kin cure de aguer, you 
 kin stop de stomick-ache, you kin ease de rheuma- 
 tiz, an' you kin heal wown's, an' you's got a way to 
 distrack teefs widout no pain.' 
 
 " * Does yo' toof hurt you bad, Mr. Wolf? ' axes 
 Doctor Pig at dat sort o' talk. 
 
 ' ' Oh-wooo-ooo ! moughty, moughty bad, it's 
 fa'rly runnin' me crazy wid de pain, an' I's come 
 to you bekase I know you's de onliest doctor in de 
 worl' what kin stop dis kind o' toof ache/ says ole 
 Mr. Wolf betwixt his moanin* spells. 
 
 " Dat praise about his big name in de woods 
 cotched Doctor Pig, an' made him so proud dat he 
 los' his sharp wits right dar. So, atter takin' a 
 good look at Mr. Wolf layin' on de groun' lookin' 
 moughty weak, an' ' wooin' ' loud an' low, Doctor 
 Pig goes an' rummages in his doctor-box an' picks 
 up his toof-draws, goes back to de door an' unlocks
 
 How Dr. Pig Cured Mr. Wolfs Toothache 49 
 
 it, an' struts out to Mr. Wolf wid his most pom- 
 pdous walk. 
 
 " * Now, hold up yo' head,' says he to Mr. 
 Wolf. ' Open yo' mouf wide, slack back yo' 
 long tongue, an' lemme take a look at dat bad 
 toof.' 
 
 " An' Mr. Wolf jumped up quick, an' open his 
 rnouf moughty wide, an', mon, ole Gabrul would 
 a blowed his hawn right den an' right dar for 
 smart Doctor Pig ef it hadn' 'a' been for his book- 
 1'arnin'. 
 
 " Soon as he lepped up f'om de groun' Mr. 
 Wolf, wid his mouf opened wide enough to 
 'zamine de lastes' o' his back teefs, grabbed Doctor 
 Pig back o' de neck. In co'se Doctor Pig begin to 
 squeal his loudes' too late for squealin'; den, 
 quicker'n Mr. Wolf's teefs could tighten down, de 
 idee come to his head, sence varmint-hollerin' 
 couldn' save him, he'd try dat show-talk what he 
 1'arned f'om mens an' recomembered yit. 
 
 " ' One-two-free ! ' grunts Doctor Pig. 
 
 " Dat startles Mr. Wolf, an' he slacks his holt 
 on Doctor Pig a bit, lowers his tail a little, cocks
 
 50 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 his ears, an' walls his eyes aroun' to see ef a man 
 moughtn't be nigh. 
 
 "'A-B-C-D!' louder grunts Doctor Pig; an' 
 Mr. Wolf turns loose his tight jaw-holt, an' whirls 
 roun' an' aroun', lookin' ev.erywhars to see who's 
 doin' dat talkin'. 
 
 " ' High-Low-Jack-an'-de-Game ! ' shouts Doc- 
 tor Pig. Mr. Wolf knows, for sho' an' sart'in, 
 dat's rale man-talk, an' he tuks his tail betwixt his 
 long behine-legs an' puts out f'om dar de bestes' 
 he could; an' he must be runnin' yit, bekase he 
 ain't never come back to dese woods sence dat 
 time. 
 
 "When Mr. Wolf was good an' gone Doctor 
 Pig goes back in de house, an', atter lockin' his 
 door ag'in, gits him some sahve an' rubs it on his 
 neck, whar Mr. Wolf's teefs hadn' much more'n 
 scratched thew de skin, den he eats a little snack 
 an* goes to bed to be ready for biz'ness in de 
 mawnin*. 
 
 " An' dat sho'ly was one time when bookl'arnm' 
 kep' de Wolf f'om de door, like de preacher says."
 
 HE TUKS HIS TAIL BETWIXT HIS LONG BEHINE - LEGS AN PUTS ' 
 OUT F'OM DAR DE BESTEs' HE COULD.' "
 
 V 
 
 erotonitifl of Ujc tuugtitv* 
 
 ONE of those warm nights of the early 
 spring when the family slept with all of 
 the bedroom windows wide open, the 
 Minstrel of Birdland, as the favorite mocking-bird 
 of the place had long been known, began singing 
 
 one of his sweetest nocturnes. Perched very near 
 51
 
 52 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 one of the windows of the Birdland Girl, who had 
 not long retired, he must have meant to sing her 
 a special serenade. 
 
 The full moon had climbed high above the tops 
 of the live-oaks east of the mansion, and bathed the 
 lower shrubbery and lawns in its silvery radiance. 
 The night-breeze from the Gulf stirred the leaves 
 of the trees, bushes and vines until they seemed to 
 dance in the moonlight like fairies to the tinkling 
 of their own music, and the fragrance of night- 
 blooming flowers was wafted about as if it might 
 have been the perfume floating from fairy 
 gowns. 
 
 As the drowsy girl listened to the low music of 
 the leaves and the sweet melody of the bird, that 
 gifted songster, through some remarkable magic, 
 gradually drifted from his warbling into talking, 
 and he told the sleepy maid the following most 
 marvelous tale about the affairs of the birdfolk of 
 many families. 
 
 " In the good old times," said the mocking-bird, 
 " before snares and bows and guns were invented 
 and used for the fun of boys and men and the
 
 The Crowning of the Kingbird 53 
 
 death of birds, and before millions of birds per- 
 ished in their prime every year, merely that their 
 plumage might adorn the fittings of womenfolk, 
 the birds were the happiest of all the beings living 
 in this world. Fruit and wild seeds and grains 
 formed their principal food; and they also de- 
 voured such insects as were destructive to vegeta- 
 tion to prevent the reduction of the natural food 
 supply and ward off the danger of starvation in 
 any country of the world. 
 
 " In those far distant days everybody had 
 plenty to eat, all were content, and this condition 
 of things should have lasted much longer than it 
 did but for the folly of those of our feathered kind 
 who never knew how happy they were. The 
 trouble arose because it was entirely too easy for 
 the birds to pick a living. Working hours were so 
 short that those of idleness were much too long. 
 Bird-life grew very dull with so little to do, and so 
 few known ways of spending so much spare time. 
 Perpetual chatting and singing and dancing be- 
 came tiresome; and, weary of all the usual pleas- 
 ures, some birds felt that a few changes in our
 
 54 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 social ways were needed to preserve the happiness 
 of birdkind. 
 
 " The Jay, who is at the bottom of most of the 
 mischief in the bird-world, profiting by the grow- 
 ing discontent of his pleasure-worn friends, pro- 
 posed that the primitive rules of birdkind be put 
 aside, and new ones be made for a trial. He ad- 
 vised that, instead of all birds being considered on 
 equal terms, with equal rights, as they were, bird 
 society should be divided into different classes and 
 ranks. 
 
 " According to the Jay's plan, which he thrust 
 forward everywhere like the pert busybody that he 
 is, the general food supply should be shared ac- 
 cording to the strength and appetite of its eaters; 
 and every bird who could show a family crest 
 should be enrolled in a new Nobility, and a King 
 should be chosen, so that power, rank and royalty 
 should take the place of common equality. 
 
 " In forming that last idea the Jay did not for- 
 get that he had a 'fine family-crest, himself. The 
 Crows, who are big cousins of the Jay, and are al- 
 most as wicked as he, held a caucus over that
 
 The Crowning of the Kingbird 55 
 
 proposition that the common food should be shared 
 according to strength and appetite, and they cor- 
 dially and noisily approved it; for, if such a law 
 came into effect, they were very sure to get a large 
 share of the good things. 
 
 " The Owl endorsed the Jay's idea with all his 
 heart, and openly, even boastfully, declared it 
 would be a fine thing to be ranked in bird society 
 by family crests, for he claimed two of them, and 
 fancied that he should climb quite high in the new 
 social order. 
 
 " The Flicker snickered at the Owl's snobbish 
 pretensions, and whispered loud enough to be 
 heard by that hopeful Noble of the double crest 
 that, perhaps, the Owl mistook his ears for crests, 
 and, on the same grounds, the Bat might aspire to 
 equal rank with the Bird of Wisdom. As the Bat 
 is a poor relation of ill-repute, despised and dis- 
 owned by birds and beasts alike, the Owl felt 
 grossly insulted at the Flicker's flippant joke, 
 and grew so snappish and sullen that he retired to 
 his hollow tree in high dudgeon. 
 
 " This plan of having a King and a titled
 
 56 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 ity found such favor with all birds of notable crests 
 and strong claws that they flew about everywhere 
 persuading all other birds to adopt it, until at last 
 it was talked and sung into general approval. 
 
 " Then came the day, previously agreed upon, 
 when an uncountable number of all kinds of birds 
 met on an open plain to choose their King and 
 Nobles. By common consent it was arranged so 
 that those who sought to be King should present 
 their own claims before the great feathered assem- 
 bly, and that afterward the King chosen should 
 appoint his Nobles with the approval of all other 
 birds. 
 
 " First, outspoke a splendid Crane, almost as tall 
 as a man, claiming that, as he stood higher in pub- 
 lic esteem than any other bird present, he should 
 be chosen King without a word of useless debate 
 on the question. 
 
 " Then a mighty Eagle, of hoary head and 
 haughty mien, screamed loud with mirthless 
 laughter, more insulting than the most cutting 
 speech, and went on to ridicule the claims of the 
 Crane to royalty. Shaking his shoulders and ruf-
 
 The Crowning of the Kingbird 57 
 
 fling his feathers, he angrily declared that no such 
 spindle-shanked old spear-head as the Crane could 
 make a fit King of birds ; he might be King of the 
 Frog-stickers of the marshes; but he should never 
 be a monarch of the birds who dwell in the sky 
 and soar above the storm-clouds toward the sun. 
 
 " The Crane wrathfully trumpeted back that 
 when the birds of the fields, forests, plains and 
 marshes desired for their King a short-necked, 
 bandy-legged, crooked-beak old cousin of Vul- 
 tures and eater of carrion, such as the Eagle, they 
 would be slow to let him know ; but he might wait 
 till the sun stopped rising before they did. 
 
 " Every double-crested Owl there, hissed and 
 hooted at the Crane's hot speech against their 
 great kinsman of the Day; and all of the Hawks 
 and Falcons fiercely screamed at this fiery affront 
 to the chief of their kind, who was their choice for 
 King. 
 
 " At the menace of sudden war resulting from 
 the wrathy quarrel of these two rivals for the 
 crown of the bird kingdom, the Owls who had 
 hooted the loudest hurried the fastest to the depths
 
 58 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 of the nearest forest, and all of the weaker birds 
 flew in great alarm to the closest cover. 
 
 " The tall Crane, who was general of all the 
 combined Heron army, loudly trumpeted his com- 
 mands to marshal his host in line of battle. This 
 was done with the skill and quickness of veteran 
 soldiers. On the level plain a long double-rank 
 was formed, composed of Cranes, lighter Herons, 
 Storks and Bitterns in companies of each kind. 
 The birds of these double-ranks stood back to back. 
 Thus along the front and rear of the entire battle- 
 line was a formidable hedge of spear-bills point- 
 ing with a front either way in defense against a 
 charging foe. 
 
 " While this swift formation of the Crane army 
 on the ground was being effected the Eagle was 
 screaming out his orders arraying an attacking 
 host high above the Heron army. Squadrons of 
 Hawks, and, in fact, all of the numerous Falcon 
 kind were soon wheeling and poising in the air 
 awaiting but the word of command to charge the 
 lines below. 
 
 " That command soon came in a war-cry from
 
 The Crowning of the Kingbird 59 
 
 the Eagle, which was heard to the uttermost parts 
 of the plain. Fiercely the Falcon army swooped 
 down upon the foe with a swish of wings that 
 sounded like the keen hiss of a thousand sabres 
 cutting through the air with one murderous stroke. 
 
 " Bravely the double line of bristling spears be- 
 low received and defeated that furious assault. In 
 many places the battle line of the Heron army was 
 broken by that first charge. But in all such open- 
 ings fluttered a dying Falcon pierced through and 
 through by a Heron spear, and still struggled a 
 spearsman, or rather spearsbird, wounded to the 
 death by the beak and talons of his enemy. 
 
 " That terrible attack was splendidly beaten ; 
 and, when the repulsed Falcon squadrons mounted 
 in the air to gather for a second charge, the Heron 
 legions quickly closed up the gaps in their line to 
 meet it as gallantly as they had met the first. 
 
 " The savage attacks and brave repulses were re- 
 peated until the battleground was strewn with the 
 bodies of impaled Falcons and torn Herons locked 
 together in death by beak, talon and spear-bill. 
 
 " At last, fearing final defeat for the greatly re-
 
 60 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 duced Falcon forces, the commanding Eagle deter- 
 mined to lead them himself in one more desperate 
 assault. Putting himself at their head, high up in 
 the sky he flew with his squadrons, until they 
 nearly reached the fleecy white clouds floating over 
 the plain. Then down they swooped, swift as fall- 
 ing stars. The Eagle in advance aimed at the tall 
 Crane general, who held his long gory bill firmly 
 pointed upward to receive his most dangerous 
 enemy. The Eagle suddenly swerved at the end 
 of his rushing downward swoop, with a quick 
 stroke of his strong right pinion struck the Crane's 
 waiting spear aside, and beheaded that long-necked 
 commander with one cruel cut of his scimitar-beak. 
 " Beholding their valiant leader fall, the Crane 
 buglers trumpeted a general retreat. The sur- 
 vivors of their legions rose high in the air, and, 
 taking their flight northward, were soon lost to 
 view. The lesser Herons, Storks and Bitterns 
 fled to the reedy wastes of the marshes and the 
 dark gloom of the swamps, where the victorious 
 Falcons were then too weary to follow them with 
 fatal pursuit.
 
 The Crowning of the Kingbird 61 
 
 " The Eagle was then duly proclaimed King of 
 Birds, and he promptly made his Falcon cousins 
 his favorite courtiers and the only Knights and 
 Nobles of his Kingdom. Even his double-crested 
 near-relations, the Owls, were denied their strong 
 claims to nobility, and were scornfully driven from 
 court to the forest to hide in dark hollows and 
 caves by day. There at night, when the King and 
 his Nobles were asleep, they wailed and mourned 
 from dark to dawn over such unjust treatment. 
 
 " Then the law of the bird-world became the 
 rule of strongest beak and longest talon; and 
 hunger, fear and sorrow took the place of plenty, 
 peace and happiness among the most of bird-kind. 
 
 " In the course of time the Eagle became such 
 a cruel tyrant that his reign could hardly be en- 
 dured. There were many timid secret talks in the 
 thickets and woods as to how to dethrone and get 
 rid of him. But they amounted to nothing; and 
 the end of his odious rule was brought about in a 
 way that astonished the whole of the bird-world. 
 
 " A Flycatcher, or Bee-Bird, smaller than a 
 Thrush, who wore a black coat and crest and white
 
 62 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 breast-feathers, devised a plan of his own to restore 
 the lost freedom of bird-kind. Very wisely he said 
 nothing to any other bird about what he proposed 
 to do until he had done it 
 
 " That Flycatcher, as if moved by mere curios- 
 ity to get a close view of Royalty, quietly flew to 
 Court one day. He correctly reasoned that, as he 
 was such a small bird, he would be ignored there 
 by the attendant great Nobles. When he entered 
 the Court King Eagle was closely surrounded by 
 his fulsome Falcon Courtiers. The valiant little 
 visitor managed to edge his way through that 
 throng until he got very near the throne. Then, 
 sounding a shrill battle-cry, he flew fiercely at the 
 royal head and attacked it vigorously with his 
 sharp, dirk-like beak. 
 
 " The startled and astonished Eagle screamed 
 with fear and pain at that sudden bold assault ; and 
 at that cry of fright, never before heard from his 
 royal beak, the whole Court was filled with help- 
 less panic. King Eagle sprang up from his throne 
 to free himself from his daring little assailant and 
 slay him on the spot.
 
 The Crowning of the Kingbird 63 
 
 " The Flycatcher, swift to elude the strokes of 
 those great, strong wings, struck and stabbed the 
 royal head again and again. Then he darted down 
 between the Monarch's shoulders and clung to his 
 broad back, safe from cruel beak, crooked talon 
 and beating wing; and there he began to busily 
 dig his little dirk down trying to reach and pierce 
 the tyrant's hard heart. 
 
 " With his hoary head reddened by his own 
 gore, his blazing eyes almost blinded by pain and 
 blood, and those keen dagger-thrusts threatening 
 to reach his vitals beneath his tortured back, the 
 King of Birds completely lost all of his courage. 
 Like a frightened Crow, with wings flapping 
 fast and clumsily, he fled straight for the cliffs and 
 crags of the far mountains. There, remote from 
 the fields and forests where he had ruled over bird- 
 kind, he remains to this day a King in name, but a 
 sovereign only of the mountain solitudes. 
 
 "When the little crested victor returned from 
 the scene of his glorious triumph thousands of 
 happy birds welcomed him home with open wings. 
 They hailed him as the Deliverer of Birdkind, and
 
 64 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 joyfully sang his praises. Beneath his black crest 
 they placed a bright golden crown, which is still 
 worn by his descendants of the male line ; and they 
 chose him, amid the greatest rejoicings, their 
 Kingbird. 
 
 " All of the Falcons, from the Eagle down to 
 the end of the list, still acknowledge his royal rule ; 
 and wherever he lifts his black crest, displays his 
 golden crown and sounds his shrill war-clarion in 
 warning against their possible rapacity, they flee 
 afar. 
 
 " And now, when the changing seasons bring 
 around in the middle of March the date of that 
 famous battle between the Falcons and the Cranes, 
 listening people of the far South may hear the 
 Crane legions again trumpeting their retreat. 
 High up in the sky the far bugles blow, from al- 
 most invisible lines which might be but the ghosts 
 of that gallant Crane army of the olden days. 
 Further, fainter the calls float down until the last 
 of them is heard no more on that blue highway to 
 the Northland." 
 
 That might seem a strange tale for a mocking-
 
 The Crowning of the Kingbird 65 
 
 bird to tell; but really the bird never told it. He 
 merely sang the Maid of Birdland to sleep. And, 
 sound asleep, she dreamed all over again a story 
 told her and her brother by their fanciful friend, 
 the young Doctor, just after all three of them 
 had been listening to the flight of the trumpeting 
 cranes overhead in their spring migration north- 
 ward from the marshes bordering the Gulf of 
 Mexico.
 
 VI 
 Efjc Emu tlje jjttoou fftll 
 
 HAVING finished supper one still and sul- 
 try August night, the Birdland Boy felt 
 unusually restless and at a loss for some- 
 tiling to entertain him in the two or three hours 
 before bedtime. He first listlessly sauntered to 
 
 the reading-table in the living-room. But, find- 
 66
 
 The Time the Moon Fell 67 
 
 ing that room made still warmer by the large 
 lighted lamp, he soon wandered thence to the front 
 porch, where the family had not yet gathered for 
 their usual evening assemblage. No breath of 
 breeze was there, so he went on down the front 
 steps to seek some relief from the heat on one of 
 the rustic benches of the lawn before the mansion. 
 
 Soon after reaching that more pleasant out-door 
 resting-place his observant eyes caught sight of a 
 distant, dimly outlined figure approaching up the 
 driveway from the public road gates. The dull red 
 glow of a lighted pipe closely preceding the almost 
 invisible face informed him better than anything 
 else that it was old Uncle Jason going on his self- 
 imposed and entirely unnecessary evening rounds. 
 
 Time out of mind that venerable black guardian 
 of the House of Birdland, as he considered himself 
 to be as much as any faithful and worn-out old 
 watchdog over his master's home and belongings, 
 had taken it upon himself to see that all of the 
 gates and grounds were safe for the night, and 
 secure from even the menace of intrusion of man, 
 beast, or imaginary evils of any kind.
 
 68 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 The slowly moving figure came nearer, and 
 brighter glowed the inseparable pipe. When it 
 was within close hailing distance the boy cried his 
 usual happy greeting. 
 
 "Hello, that you, Uncle Jason? Now that 
 you have all of the gates shut and everything safe, 
 come here to this bench and sit down with me and 
 take a good rest, and talk with me; I'm awfully 
 lonesome; it's mighty hot in the house, and even 
 warm out here. I just wonder where the wind has 
 gone to-night." 
 
 " All right, Little Mahster, I'll be with you in 
 a minnit," replied the old man, " but des' lemme 
 take a peep behine dis las' bush heah to see ef no 
 wuffless road-tramp, or robber or nuttin* ain't 
 dodgin* away out of my sight in its dark shad- 
 der." 
 
 After close and careful examination, " no rob- 
 ber, no wuffless road-tramp, or nuttin'," having 
 been found behind the final bush, the venerable 
 searcher straightened himself up. Still not en- 
 tirely assured of desirable safety to his par- 
 ticular charges, he turned slowly and completely
 
 The Time the Moon -Fell 69 
 
 around, taking a last sweeping glance in every 
 direction, as if his dim and failing human vision 
 were as keen as the night-piercing eyes of an owl. 
 Then he consented, as if still reluctant to relax his 
 vigilance at even his best-loved young friend's in- 
 viting bidding, and slowly took the much desired 
 seat, holding between his knees his formidable 
 night-club, and grasping its knotty top with both 
 of his equally knotty hands. 
 
 " Yas-sar-ree! " he exclaimed, as soon as he felt 
 comfortably fixed. " It sho'ly is good an' fine an' 
 hot; an' dis is des' de kind o' wedder to make de 
 cane crap grow righteously an' put de sugar in de 
 stalks." 
 
 Almost before he had finished speaking, a splen- 
 did meteor flashed its brilliant way far across the 
 sky, lighting the lawn and all of the grounds like 
 a prolonged flash of lightning, and leaving a long 
 trail of trembling radiance in its wake. 
 
 "Oh, wasn't that just glorious!" cried the de- 
 lighted boy. " It was better than the biggest sky- 
 rocket that ever was fired! " 
 
 The old man was more joyful over the boy's
 
 70 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 glee than pleased at the splendor of the display in 
 the starry sky. 
 
 Before the glow of the vanished meteor had en- 
 tirely faded from its path, another almost as large 
 and bright blazed its way in the same direction. 
 
 The passing of that so soon after the other was 
 the cause of the breathless excited silence of both 
 watchers expecting more to come. They were re- 
 warded by the sight of a few more inferior shoot- 
 ing-stars flying on their westward way across the 
 spangled sky. 
 
 Such shows of heavenly fireworks may be more 
 often seen in clear August nights than unobserv- 
 ant people imagine. When that which the Bird- 
 land Boy and Uncle Jason were lucky enough to 
 witness was finished, or appeared to be for that 
 particular night, the old man gravely observed: 
 
 "Dem big an' little shootin'- stars always puts 
 me in mind o* dat true tale my mammy use to tell 
 me about de time all de stars dat ever shined fell 
 out o* de sky one night an* staid fell out all night. 
 But de nex' day dey must ha' got back somehow 
 or ernudder, bekase when night corned aroun' agin
 
 The Time the Moon Fell 71 
 
 dar dey was all shinin' keen an' bright as ever. 
 But she tole me de moon never fell a single inch." 
 
 Through family tales, long handed down, the 
 Birdland Boy had often heard of the great mete- 
 oric shower or " falling of the stars," which had 
 happened about seventy years before; but he was 
 wise enough not to dispute Uncle Jason's version 
 of that event learned from the old man's long-de- 
 parted mammy, that all the stars in the sky fell 
 on that noted occasion and that they " staid fell " 
 all night. The boy knew that the silent acceptance 
 of that great yarn was almost certain to lead to 
 another much more marvelous and interesting. 
 
 He was not disappointed; for, after a sufficient 
 pause to let him satisfactorily swallow and digest 
 that immense Black Mammy story, Uncle Jason 
 went on: 
 
 " Well, des' like my ole mammy say, de moon 
 didn' fall, too, dot time when all de stars felled; 
 but one time it did fall. Leas'while dats' what all 
 de wile varmints an' beases in de woods, big an' 
 little, allowed; an' maybe dey was right. I ain't 
 wise enough to say dey was all wrong, bekase
 
 72 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 many o' de wile varmints in de woods ain't nigh 
 as big fools as some menfolks in de open am." 
 
 " But when and how did the moon fall, Uncle 
 Jason? " impatiently asked the boy, objecting to 
 the tale's being delayed any longer by any sage 
 and prosy comparisons between the wits of beasts 
 and men. 
 
 " Well, it were 'bout dis a way, ef I reckomem- 
 bers right: 
 
 " One day, way back yander an' gone a long 
 time ago, some kind of a big fool of a man, who 
 didn' know how to take good keer of his money, 
 was gwine along thew de middle of de woods to 
 somewhar ernudder. Out of a rip in his pu'ss' or 
 a hole in his pocket he drapped a gret big, bran'- 
 new, bright-shinin' silver dollar on de groun' in de 
 midst of a briar-patch. He went on an* lef ' it dar 
 onbeknown to hisse'f tell he got out o' de woods an* 
 reached whar he were gwine. Maybe he mo'ned 
 for it when he missed it and wondered whar it was 
 gone. But he couldn' reckomember 'zackly whar 
 he los' it. But dat's nudder here nor nudder dar; 
 so he hatter let it go at dat an* do better nex' time.
 
 The Time the Moon Fell 73 
 
 " Mon, a dollar in de house or in de town looks 
 big enough! But a dollar layin' on de groun' out 
 in de middle o' de wide woods looks bigger'n de 
 full moon! An' dem times dollars was more'n ten 
 times as big as dey is now. 
 
 " Well, dat happen in de dark o' de moon. An' 
 when de varmints what wanders all night in de 
 woods, like dey all does dese times, come across dat 
 money dey didn' know what in de worl' to make 
 of it " 
 
 " But, Uncle Jason, how could they see it at 
 night in the dark of the moon?" rashly inter- 
 rupted the listening boy. 
 
 " Little Mahster, ef you knows dis tale better'n 
 I does you better go on an' tell it to me instid o' 
 me tellin' it to you," replied the old man in pre- 
 tended anger. Then, after a pause of sufficiently 
 disappointing length for proper punishment, (he 
 went on: 
 
 "Wid all I done tole you 'bout de ways o' de 
 wile varmints you oughter ha' 1'arnt by dis time 
 dat none of 'um, cl'ar night nor dark night, needs 
 any candlelight to go to bed by, any firelight to
 
 74 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 warm deir feetses, nor any lantum-light to show 
 de way for deir night-ramblin' in de woods or in 
 de open. Look inside yo' pony's two befo' laigs 
 an' you'll find dat even a tame horse has two bone 
 eyes des above his fetlock j'ints to see his way in 
 de darkes' o' nights. An' all de varmints I knows 
 totes dark-lantums inside deir own eyes to light 
 deir way thew de blackes' o' darkness. De mean 
 fire-torch hunters knows dat well, an' dey fools de 
 po' critters into showin' um deir own night- 
 lights. 
 
 " Well, when a wile varmint sees sumpen' in de 
 woods he ain't never seed befo', it 'larums him 
 mos' to deaf for a time tell he kin 1'arn what it is 
 an' git use' to it. Befo' dat no wile varmint had 
 ever seed any money in de woods; an' dey's all a 
 lot better off widout it, like mens mought ha' been 
 had dey only knowed all o' de meanness o' gittin' 
 it an* de mis'ry o' doin* widout it. 
 
 " Fust an' foremos', Mr. Buck-Deer comes sud- 
 den across dat big bright shinin' dollar layin' on de 
 groun* in de briar-patch, right in de middle o' de 
 wide woods. He hits de groun* hard once wid his
 
 The Time the Moon Fell 75 
 
 right befo' foot; he snorts ' What datl ' he boun's 
 higher'n a high-bush blackberry, an' he f a'rly flews 
 f'om darl 
 
 " Next, here come Mr. Wilecat, wid his haid 
 hangin' low an' his yaller eyes half shet; an' he 
 mos' steps on dat big bright dollar befo' he sees it. 
 Den zip ! bounce! mooroo-ow! an' good-by, 
 Mr. Wilecat! 
 
 " Den, here come ole Mr. Possum, fat enouf for 
 de pot an' too lazy to git out o' his own way, am- 
 blin' home slow an' sleepy. When he runs right 
 up ag'inst dat shinin' money he des' falls down in 
 a fit, an* lays dar a little time 'tendin' like he's kilt 
 dead an' all laid out for de buryin'. Den he des' 
 cracks one eye open de leas' little bit, an', seem' 
 dat bright thing ain't comin' right at him, he 
 crawls away thew de high-bush an' de low-bresh 
 tell he gits whar he can do his bes' amblin' away 
 f'om dar! 
 
 " Here come Mr. Fox, trottin' along on three 
 feetses, wid his mouf half open an' sort o' smilin', 
 an' his tricky eyes lookin' seven ways for Sunday. 
 He seed dat dollar f'om a safe distance. Bein'
 
 76 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 sort a' use' to seein' new things f 'om his travellin' 
 so much, but always mistrustful o' traps, it didn' 
 skeer him so much ; so he des' skirted de place an' 
 trotted on about his 'ticular business. 
 
 " Soon, Mr. Coon, he corned a rackin' along 
 keerless-like ; an' when he runs across dat roun' 
 shinin' thing he opens his eyes so wide he draps off 
 de speckticles he always w'ars, an' he racks away 
 f om dar like trouble was runnin' right close behine 
 him to cotch him befo' he could reach his holler. 
 
 " But, Mon, you should ha* seed de antics cut 
 up by smart ole Mr. Rabbit when lie reach de dan- 
 ger-spot. Mr. Rabbit come up lookin' biggoty, 
 an' a lippety, loppeytin', wid his eyes sot sidewise 
 an' backward, always lookin' behine him for some- 
 body to run away f'om, an' he butts right into dat 
 glissenin' money! When he seed it right under- 
 beneaf his nose he des' tumbles two back summer- 
 sets, squeals an' ' skewrees ' his loudes', an' tears 
 bofe his hindfeetses breakin' away thew de briars 
 an' de bresh! 
 
 " Same wid Mr. Mink an' Mr. Muskrat, an' 
 every udder critter small an' lurge in de woods.
 
 " ' HE DBS' TUMBLES TWO BACK SUMMERSETS, SQUEALS AN' " SKEW- 
 REES " HIS LOUDES'.' "
 
 The Time the Moon Fell 77 
 
 Dey all runned away f 'om dat roun' shinin' money 
 wusser'n menfolks runs alter it! 
 
 " Befo' nex' night come, in de ginnal incitement 
 about dat new an' mistrus'ful wonder in de woods, 
 all de varmints whajt had seed it went to wise ole 
 Jedge B'ar an' axed him to go dar wid 'urn at de 
 fus' fall o' dark an' see if Tie could make out what 
 it was. 
 
 "So, wid de sinkin' o' de evenin'-star, dar dey 
 all was ranged aroun' dat shinin' dollar in de briar- 
 patch, wid ole Jedge B'ar in de middle o' de ring, 
 all af eared to go nigher to it dan a good long buck- 
 jump. 
 
 " Dey all looked wonderin' at de money, an' dey 
 all looked questionin' at wise Jedge B'ar, an' 
 waited silent to lissen to what he hatter say atter 
 he had done thunk it out well. 
 
 "Jedge B'ar he put on his mos' sollum cote- 
 house look, an* he 'sidered de question de proper 
 good long time. Den says he, atter a openin' 
 'Woof:' 
 
 " * Brer Varmints all, look up in de sky an' see 
 if any o' you kin see whar's de Moon to-night? '
 
 78 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " Dey all looks up; an' tricky Mr. Fox he 
 s'claims sort o' snickerin'-like : 
 
 ' * De Moon ain't dar, Jedge ; but it ain't riz 
 
 yit.' 
 
 " Jedge B'ar, he frowns at impident Mr. Fox, 
 an' he 'spon's deep down in his f roat : 
 
 " * It ain't riz yit, Brer Varmints all, bekase it's 
 done fell out o' de sky, like all de stars done once 
 when I was young. Dar's de Moon layin' right 
 befo' us on de groun'. Brer Varmints all, don't 
 none of you go nigh it; don't none of you dare 
 'sturb it ; an', maybe, in about f o'teen nights it will 
 clamb back into de sky an' come out new an' des' 
 as bright ag'in as it is layin' dar. Ef it don't we 
 all mought des' as well be gittin' ready for de een' 
 o' de woods an' de een' o' de worl'. So le's us all 
 go away about our business, an' keep away, an' 
 leave de Moon whar it's fell, an' wait for what's 
 gwine to happen.' 
 
 " Den when de meetin' o' de varmints broke up, 
 an' dey all went on home, aldough de sky was mos' 
 kivered wid clouds befo', de clouds kep' a gittin' 
 bigger an' bigger an' blacker an' blacker, ontell,
 
 The Time the Moon Fell 79 
 
 bimeby, de forked lightnin' blazed an' a crack o' 
 thunder bu'st loose what shuk de whole worl'. De 
 groun' trimbled an' de woods fa'rly rumbled wid 
 it. Down corned a few rain draps, big as yo' chiny 
 marbles, Mon! An' it rained and it rained an' it 
 rained; an' it blowed an' it blowed till de trees all 
 shouted; an 9 it thundered till it cracked de sky 
 wide open an' all de water it ever hilt come thew. 
 
 " Mon, it kep' on dat a way for two solid weeks, 
 wid de Moon drapped out o' de dark sky; an* no 
 tellin' ef de Sun ain't drapped out too in all o' dem 
 fo'teen days. It look' like de beginnin' of anudder 
 forty-day No'h's-ark flood. All dat time all de 
 varmints was mos' skeered to deaf at what had 
 come on de worl' f'om de fallin' o' de Moon; an* 
 even Mr. Fox beginned to git sort o' fidgety an' to 
 wonder ef ole Jedge B'ar wasn' quite sich a big ole 
 fool as he thunk he were. 
 
 " Den, one day. 'bout de time dat de spring slips 
 into summer, a po' colored boy, about fo'teen yeah 
 or so ole, passed dat way whilst he was out pickin' 
 blackberries to sell for a little pocket-money. 
 
 " De boy I's tell you about had never owned
 
 80 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 more'n a little silver dime at one time in his life. 
 When he foun' dat big, bright, shinin', braii'-new 
 silver dollar, he open' his eyes bigger'n Mr. Coon's 
 when he drapped off his specktickles ; he jumped 
 higher'n Mr. Buck-Deer when he snorted ' What 
 dat I ' he pounced down on it quicker'n Mr. Wile- 
 cat on a wood-rabbit; he forgot his berry-pail, he 
 tied dat dollar tight up in his pocket wid a piece 
 er gallus-twine, an', I tell you, Mon, he fa'rly 
 busted for home. 
 
 " It were ginger-cakes, candy, all kind o' cookies 
 an' things; Christmas, New Yeah, an' de Fofe o' 
 July for him almos' a whole week! 
 
 " Dat sho'ly was a happy day for dat boy! An' 
 de same night was a moughty happy night for all 
 de wile varmints in de woods, bekase dey foun' dat 
 de new Moon had clambed back into de sky an' 
 was showin' its shinin' aidge in de Wes' ag'in, 
 swingin' under de white evenin'-star, soon atter de 
 Sun went down." 
 
 "I wonder who that lucky boy was?" com- 
 mented with interest the young listener at the end 
 of this fantastic tale.
 
 The Time the Moon Fell 81 
 
 The old black man, after he had lighted and 
 puffed his pipe of departure into a satisfactory 
 glow, chuckled lightly as he replied: 
 
 " Ef I don't disremember, I b'leeves his name 
 were Jason. Good night, Little Mahster; sleep 
 tight an' wake up like a young rooster soon in de 
 mawnin' ! "
 
 VII 
 
 JHr, astir 
 
 NEAR the end of the two o'clock dinner, 
 one day, the Birdland Boy was directed 
 by his father to go out when the meal 
 was finished and look up old Jason and tell him 
 to ride out into the woods in search of some young 
 oxen that had been astray in the forest for more 
 than a month. Then and there the boy decided 
 that two hunters should look for those stray steers 
 instead of one, as hunting wild cattle in the deep 
 
 82
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Spotted Coat 83 
 
 woods struck him as being probably the finest of 
 sports. Therefore, the first to leave the dinner- 
 table, he darted into the hall, snatched up his cap 
 and whip and sped out of the house on his joyous 
 errand. 
 
 Jason was quickly found at the plantation stable 
 hitching his mule up to a light cart used in his gen- 
 eral work. When the message mentioned was de- 
 livered he led his mule over to the harness-room 
 and saddled him up instead, while the boy ran to 
 the yard-stable for his bronco, or Mexican pony. 
 
 When the Birdland Boy rode back the old man 
 was trying to mount his mule; but Old Abe pre- 
 ferred drawing a cart to carrying a rider, and he 
 showed his objections to being ridden in an em- 
 phatic manner with his teeth and his heels. But, 
 after the exchange of many unmeaning menaces 
 of violence between beast and man, the latter man- 
 aged to plant himself firmly in the saddle, and the 
 two hunters of the half -wild cattle took their way 
 to the woods. As they turned down the forest 
 road several of the old woodsman's curs came fol- 
 lowing them some distance behind in a sneaking
 
 84 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 uncertain string. Seeing them their angered 
 owner headed his mule around, raised his whip, 
 and chased them back beyond the stable, threaten- 
 ing and scolding them in such words as : 
 
 " Whar you gwine, dawgs? Ain't I tole you to 
 stay home? You want to go wid us in de woods 
 an' run dem young steers clean wild now it's time 
 to be bringin' 'urn home to break to yoke? Go 
 home, dawgs! " 
 
 When the disappointed curs had folded their 
 tails and fled from the wrath behind them, the 
 mule was hauled around to the right direction 
 after a few stubborn tacks stableward. 
 
 Reaching the woods the riders covered several 
 miles of its crooked roadisi and by-paths without 
 finding any signs of the missing cattle except 
 tracks, which the black woodsman said were more 
 than a week old. Then, about an hour before sun- 
 set, in rounding a sharp turn in one of the by- 
 roads, they suddenly came up on three of the 
 young steers standing together, with ears stretched 
 forward and tails lifted, as if they scented danger 
 and were ready to run.
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Spotted Coat 85 
 
 At the sight of human forms the animals 
 wheeled in their tracks and dashed away in wild 
 terror with the speed of fleeing buffaloes. They 
 were joined by unseen others, and the herd 
 of them in a common panic rushed through 
 the woods with the crash and roar of a whirl- 
 wind. 
 
 "Dar dey goes clean crazy!" exclaimed Old 
 Jason. " Smashin' an' crashin' thew de thick 
 woods like dey'd never seed a man or boy bef o' now 
 in all deir lives, when dey was born in de cowpen 
 an' bred in de pastur', an' now dey runs away from 
 folkses wiler'n a deer an' swif 'er'n a rabbit born an' 
 bred in de woods." 
 
 After listening to the fleeing cattle until they 
 were out of hearing, and silently meditating a 
 minute or so, he went on. 
 
 " De mos' we kin do now is to ride back home 
 an* tell yo' Paw we's foun' dem 'stracted steers; 
 I 'spects dat's all he means us to do, bekase he 
 knows well enough me an' you couldn' drive 'urn 
 home widout mo' help; but before we starts back 
 let's git down an' rest a spell; I's moughty tired
 
 86 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 o' dat joltin' mule-trot, let alone tryin' to f oiler 
 dem fool oxens." 
 
 They dismounted and hitched the mule and 
 pony; but, before sitting down on a decaying log 
 that lay at the roadside, they stopped to look at 
 numerous animal tracks made after a recent rain 
 in the soil of this remote road. With special in- 
 terest the old man noted and followed the pointed 
 pads of a large wood-rabbit, and told the boy the 
 little story thus printed for his woodland reading. 
 
 " Here he hopped out of de bushes in de road 
 las' night. Here he stopped to look an' lissen ef 
 de road's clear an' things was all right. Here, 
 atter satisfyin' hisse'f, he hopped out into de mid- 
 dle o' de road, an' atter lookin' ag'in an' seein' no- 
 body was nigh, he squattedi an' hit de groun' hard 
 wid bofe his behinelegs at once: whop! whop I 
 whop ! an' hollered : * Skewree ! skewree ! 
 skewree! I's de boss buck-rabbit in dese woods, an' 
 I des' dares anybody to come out here a spell an' 
 'spute it wid me ! ' Here he waited awhile, an', 
 when nobody come, he lippety-lopped on down de 
 road wid his toeses so close togedder his tracks
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Spotted Coat 87 
 
 makes one p'inted print. Here he stops an' whops 
 de groun' hard an' hollers his dare ag'in, huntin' 
 for trouble. An' des' look here, Mon, he finds it 
 moughty soon! Look at dese two tracks, big as de 
 pa'm o' yo' han', wid claws cuttin' deep in de dirt, 
 across Mr. Rabbit's. Dar ole Mr. Wilecat lepped 
 f 'om behine dat lawg an' hit down at Mr. Rabbit 
 wid bofe his forefeets. Here, look at Mr. Rabbit's 
 behinepaws an' see de toeses spread wide apart an' 
 dug deep, too. Dat means Mr. Rabbit hearn Mr. 
 Wilecat as he made his spring, an' lepped in time 
 to git f'om under dat live deadfall. Here goes 
 Mr. Rabbit's tracks a whirlin' into de bresh an' 
 briars; an' here's anudder long, long leap o' Mr. 
 Wilecat mis sin' him moughty close. Here, Mr. 
 Wilecat stops, shets up his claws an* studies 
 awhile how he come to miss sich a easy kill; an', 
 maybe, hopin' for better luck nex' time, he walks 
 on down de road listenin' for de braggin' night- 
 talk o' some udder fool o' de woods." 
 
 " I'm glad that rabbit got away! " exclaimed 
 the Birdland Boy, when this tale of the tracks was 
 done.
 
 88 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " But dey warn't always dat lucky," replied the 
 old woodsman, looking grave and shaking his 
 grey head. Then he went on: "I ain't never tole 
 you dat tale about how Mr. Wilecat tried to cook 
 rabbits by fox-fire an' got only his coat spotted for 
 his trouble, has I? Well, I'll tell you about dat, 
 as fur as I knows, on de way home. It's time to 
 start now, de Sun's gwine down, an' de fambly 
 mought be afeared we's done got los' in de woods, 
 as it is." 
 
 When they had remounted and taken the 
 homeward way, old Jason began his story, say- 
 ing: 
 
 " You reckomembers dat chip o' rotten wood I 
 handed you one day up at de house, which you 
 started to th'ow away, an' said I was tryin' to play 
 a prank on you; but I tole you to leave it on yo' 
 bureau till you blowed out yo' candle to go to bed 
 dat night? Well, when you done it, de chip shined 
 an* flickered an' flamed widout gittin' hot: dat's 
 what de folks who knows de woods an' de varmints 
 what lives in 'um calls ' Fox-fire ; ' an' de f us' time 
 you happens to see a tall stump of it standin* up in
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Spotted Coat 89 
 
 de dark woods about midnight you's moughty apt 
 to run, if you kin run. 
 
 " Away back, time out o' mind, a lurge an' lazy 
 ole Wilecat use' to hang aroun' de camp of a gang 
 o' timber-cutters in de heart o' de thick woods. 
 What I's tellin' you happen' so long ago it was 
 befo' de Ginnal Jackson War, or, maybe, befo' de 
 Bible Flood; an' dem woodcutters mought ha' 
 been fellin' timber for Noah's Ark, or for de fust 
 steamboat dat ever runned on de ole Miss'ippi, for 
 all I knows; but dat's nuther here nor there. 
 
 " Somehow or ruther dem swampers didn' have 
 no dawgs wid 'um; an' anywhars you goes in de 
 woods widout dawgs, a possum, a coon, or a wile- 
 cat, or any wile varmint mought be nigh you an* 
 lookin' right at you, an' dey moves so quiet an* 
 hides so close, you won't see 'urn. 
 
 " Well, dat 'ticular Mr. Wilecat hung about de 
 camp o' dem timber-cutters hidin' by day, an* 
 prowlin' aroun' at night pickin' up de cook-scraps. 
 One day, when all ban's was at work away in de 
 woods, an' de cook ha' to walk out to town atter 
 flour an' lard an' fat meat, an' sich things, he lef
 
 90 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 a lurge roas' rabbit keepin' warm in a open pot 
 ag'inst dinner-time for de woodchoppers. Wid all 
 de mens an' de cook gone, Mr. Wilecat sneaked 
 right into de camp to snatch up anything good to 
 eat he could lay his paws on. When he seed dat 
 roas' rabbit in de open pot, nice an' warm, but not 
 too hot to steal, in co'se he tuk it moughty quick 
 an' slipped back in de bresh wid it. He foun' it 
 so fine, an', as long as de timber-cutters staid in de 
 woods, he stole an' e't so much cooked grub, he los' 
 his nachal tas'e for raw meat intirely. 
 
 " Bimeby de timber-gang cut down an' hauled 
 out all de timber in deir contrack, an' moved out 
 o' de woods. By dat time Mr. Wilecat had got his 
 mine sot on cooked vittles, an' wid so much of it 
 he'd got too fat an' lazy to ketch it livin'. But 
 soon he got lean enough to go back to his ole 
 huntin' ways, only he always stayed hongry 
 enough for cooked meat to run him 'most 
 'str acted. 
 
 " One day Mr. Wilecat met up wid Mr. Fox in 
 de woods, an' when dey bofe stopped awhile to 
 pass de time o' day an' talk about de huntin', he
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Spotted Coat 91 
 
 tole Mr. Fox all about his 'sperience wid cooked 
 meat, an' his mizz'ry missin' it. 
 
 " ' Mr. Fox,' says he, * you des' dunno how 
 moughty good cooked meat is: you kin smell it a 
 mile, an' you kin tas'e it all de way in de swallerin', 
 an' on down atter de swallerin', f 'om de way mens 
 fixes it wid deir fire, whilst, wid yo' raw meat, 
 it's gone an' forgot soon as you swallers it 
 down.' 
 
 " Mr. Fox he smiled wid his eyes an' he grinned 
 wid his mouf an' looked moughty knowin' ; den he 
 sot down an' he say: 
 
 " ' Mr. Wilecat, I knows sumpen' 'bout cookin', 
 myse'f . Mens has deir fire ; but I has my fire, too ; 
 only fox-fire never scorches de roas', if you hap- 
 pens to forgit de meat's on, like de mens' fire does 
 sometimes. Maybe my fire kin cook yo' meat mo' 
 to yo' tas'e ef you gives it a trial.' 
 
 "'Whar's yo' fire, Mr. Fox?' axed Mr. Wile- 
 cat, wid his eyes shinin', an' his ears cocked to 
 ketch de answer. 
 
 : ' It's away off yander, in a part o' de woods 
 whar you has never yit been ; de Sun's mos' down
 
 92 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 now an' we kin git dar by good dark, travellin' 
 lively,' says Mr. Fox. ' Come along, ef you's got 
 de time to spare, an' lemme show it to you.' 
 
 " Mr. Wilecat was more'n willin', so dey trots 
 away brisk, wid Mr. Fox gwine befo' an' Mr. 
 Wilecat close behine. Soon atter full dark dey 
 struck a little clearin' in de woods kivered wid 
 bresh an' saplin's. In de middle o' dat openin' 
 stood a blazin' big stump taller'n two mens. 
 White an' yaller shinin' flames o' fire was creepin' 
 all over dat stump an' crawlin' 'round it. It tar- 
 rified Mr. Wilecat so much he wouldn' go nigh it 
 till Mr. Fox had walked up to de shinin' stump an' 
 patted it wid his paws an' larfed at him for bein' 
 af eared of it. 
 
 " ' Dis is my kitchen an' fireplace,' says Mr. 
 Fox, ' an' ef you wants to see fine cookin' des' 
 come to me here wid de meat. Ef you's so fond o' 
 roas' rabbit, ketch yo' rabbit an' skin him, den 
 bring him right here, an' I'll do de cookin', takin' 
 only de head for my trouble an' givin' you all de 
 res'.' 
 
 *' * Much erbleeged to you, Mr. Fox,' says Mr.
 
 WHAT DAT COMINT' THEW DE THICKET? ' "
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Spotted Coat 93 
 
 Wilecat, an' off he runs atter his rabbit. Whilst 
 he was gone rabbit-huntin' Mr. Fox loped lightly 
 home to have a little chat wid Mrs. Fox an' play 
 wid de chilluns. Atter dat he trotted back to de 
 fox-fire stump to wait for Mr. Wilecat. 
 
 " Along about midnight Mr. Wilecat come 
 trottin' up to de fox-kitchen wid a plump wood 
 rabbit skinned an' all ready for de roastin', sayin', 
 as he handed him to de cook: 
 
 " ' I's ruther late, Mr. Fox, but a midnight sup- 
 per's much better'n none/ 
 
 " * Oh, ain't he a fine fat rabbit! ' 'sclaimed Mr. 
 Fox, holdin' him up befo' his face a minnit, den 
 bustlin' todes de fire like he gwine to put him on 
 right off. 
 
 " Den Mr. Fox stopped sudden, drapped de 
 rabbit, stuck out his ears, tukked his tail under him 
 like he was badly skeered, an' whispered low: 
 
 " * What dat comin' thew de thicket? ' 
 
 " De bushes nigh beginned to rustle an' de sap- 
 lin's to shake like somebody breakin' his way to de 
 midst o' de clearin'. 
 
 "'Look out, Mr. Wilecat, a man's comin!'
 
 94 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 squalled Mr. Fox; an' dey bofe lit out f'om dar 
 an' fa'rly flewed thew de woods. 
 
 " Den Madam Fox drapped de green branch 
 she'd ben beatin' de bushes wid, walked up to de 
 stump, picked up de skinned rabbit in her mouf, 
 larfed wid her eyes an' loped on home wid 
 him. 
 
 "Along todes daybreak Mr. Wilecat sneaked 
 back to de fox-fire stump. Nobody was dar or 
 nigh de place, de rabbit was missin' an' de fire was 
 gwine out. Atter takin' notice dere was no man 
 tracks aroun' he went on home to study some. De 
 nex' night he met up wid Mr. Fox in de woods 
 ag'in an' axed him whar was dat man what skeered 
 him so bad, an' how dat dead rabbit manage' to 
 run away f'om de kitchen, too? 
 
 " ' Oh, Mr. Wilecat,' answers Mr. Fox, * all dat 
 noise was enough to skeer anybody in de woods 
 out o' his seven senses; but I seed dis mawnin' by 
 de tracks it was ole Mr. Buck thrashin' de branches 
 in sharpenin' his horns. It was Mr. Hoot-Owl 
 who stole dat wood-rabbit, an' we's los' him for 
 good ; but ef you go back o' de woods to-night an'
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Spotted Coat 95 
 
 bring me one o' dem big ole rabbits what lives in 
 de ma'sh I'll sho'ly show you what my cookin' is, 
 an' you may eat him all up yo'se'f from his head to 
 his heels.' 
 
 " Wid dat Mr. Wilecat went off sort o' satis- 
 fied, but grumblin' a heap ag'inst Mr. Buck an' 
 Mr. Hoot-Owl; an' come midnight ag'in he was 
 at de foxfire stump wid a skinned ma'sh-rabbit 
 much lurger'n de one he los'. Befo' Mr. 
 Fox had time to put him on de fire here come 
 Madam Fox des' streakin' across de clearin'. 
 Widout slackin' her gait she squalled back over 
 her shoulder: 
 
 "'Run! run for yo' lives! dere's a 
 whole pack o' dem gre't big dogs dat don't 
 bark on de trail comin' dis way! dey's mos' 
 here!' 
 
 " Madam Fox flewed on souf. Mr. Fox lit out 
 eas' an* Mr. Wilecat runned wes'. Den, when de 
 yuthers had got out o' hearin', Madam Fox 
 trotted back to de clearin', picked up de skinned 
 ma'sh rabbit, larfed to herse'f ag'in, an' trotted 
 back to her chilluns.
 
 96 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " Mr. Wilecat was too badly skeered to go back 
 to Mr. Fox's kitchen any mo'. De nex' evenin' 
 late Mr. Fox looked him up an' tole him dat dem 
 big dogs had passed to one side o' de clearin' an' 
 never even smelt 'um; an' whilst he was gwine 
 back at sun-up to git de ma'sh-rabbit, dat gre't red 
 thief, Mr. Hare-Hawk, had flewed down an' 
 grabbed de game an' tuk it away to de top of de 
 talks' tree on de back aidge o' de woods whar he 
 lives. 
 
 "When he finished dat tale, says Mr. Fox: 
 * Let's go right off, Mr. Wilecat, an* ax dem rob- 
 bers, Mr. Hoot-Owl an' Mr. Hare-Hawk, what 
 dey done wid our rabbits? ' 
 
 " So dey sot out an* trotted along, side by side, 
 till dey come to de foot o' de holler tree whar Mr. 
 Hoot-Owl had his home. 
 
 " ' Here's de fust thief,' 'sclaims Mr. Fox; ' look 
 at dese four red feets of our wood-rabbit, fallen 
 down here on de groun* f 'om Mr. Owl's front door 
 up dar! ' 
 
 "Den Mr. Wilecat wauled up to Mr. Hoot- 
 Owl:
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Spotted Coat 97 
 
 ' ' Mr. Hoot-Owl, you stole my wood-rabbit an' 
 I wants him back.' 
 
 " Standin' in his high door, lookin' at de moon, 
 Mr. Owl hooted down: 
 
 ' Who, who, who cooks for you all ? ' 
 
 At the old woodsman's wonderful imitation of 
 that bird of night the boy beside him looked up in 
 the twilight into the nearest tree as if the notes 
 came from their natural source. 
 
 " * Des' lissen at him,' whispered Mr. Fox, * he 
 shows he's de thief, for he even knows I was going 
 to cook dat rabbit.' 
 
 " Mr. Wilecat, at dat, yowled up to Mr. Hoot- 
 Owl: ' Shet up yo' mouf, you ole rogue you, an* 
 gimme back my rabbit quick ! ' 
 
 " ' Who, who, who cooks for you all? ' Mr. Owl 
 hooted back at him. 
 
 "Dat made Mr. Wilecat so mad he rattled up 
 de tree to Mr. Owl's high door-hole to kill him; 
 but Mr. Owl stepped inside his holler when he seed 
 him comin'; an', when Mr. Wilecat poked his big 
 head in de door-hole, which was all he could push 
 in, Mr. Hoot-Owl clipped him across de face with
 
 98 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 his hooked bill so hard it made him yell, an' he 
 backed out in a hurry down de tree to ease his pain 
 growlin' on de groun*. 
 
 " Den Mr. Owl come to his door ag'in, an' 
 looked down on him wid his big eyes, an' hooted 
 louder'n ever: 
 
 ' Who, who, who cooks for you all? ' 
 
 " ' Let's git away f 'om here, Mr. Fox, befo' dat 
 thievin' Owl hoots me into a crazy-fit,' growls Mr. 
 Wilecat. 
 
 "As dey went off, Mr. Owl hooted de same 
 words in far'well, an' Mr. Wilecat growled back: 
 ' I'll fix you yit, you rabbit robber! ' An' den he 
 hasted away to get out o' hearin* o' dat hateful 
 owl-talk. 
 
 "Day had broke when dey reached de foot o' 
 Mr. Hare-Hawk's tree, whar dey foun' de grey 
 feets o' more'n one ma'sh rabbit on de ground 
 right under de Hawk-roost. 
 
 " Dar' Mr. Wilecat didn' tarry to do any talkin' 
 wid Mr. Hare-Hawk. Hopin' to ketch him asleep 
 an' kill him dead, he clammed up de trunk his 
 swiftes'. But, when he got up to de perch-limb,
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Spotted Coat 99 
 
 dar was Mr. Hawk wide awake, wid his yaller eyes 
 shinin' an' waitin' to match de risin' Sun. 
 
 " When Mr. Wilecat struck at him Mr. Hare- 
 Hawk loosed de nimble springs in his legs an* 
 lifted hisse'f in de air quicker'n de lick o' Mr. 
 Wilecat's paw ; den down he dashed, give dat long 
 back one deep dig wid his sharp crooked claws, hit 
 dat roun' head one hard biff wid his wings, an' 
 went sailin' out over de ma'sh, screamin' : 
 
 " * Muow! muow! muow! skewree! 
 skewree ! skewree ! ' mockin' Mr. Wilecat fust, 
 an' de ma'sh-rabbit las', an' tormentin' him more'n 
 Mr. Hoot-Owl did about dem los' suppers." 
 Again the old man's marvelous mimicry of the 
 Hare-Hawk's hunting screams amazed and de- 
 lighted the listening boy. " At dat, Mr. Wilecat 
 was all done. He clammed back down de Hawk- 
 tree, parted wid Mr. Fox too sulky to say a 
 good-by word, an' went away by hisse'f des' 
 spittin'-mad. An' Mr. Fox tucked one o' his hine- 
 legs up tight an' trotted home lazylike an* larfin' 
 to hisse'f all de long way. 
 
 " Some time atter dat Mr. Wilecat foun' a
 
 100 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 rotten tree afire an' smolderin' to red coals all over. 
 Seein' it were sho' enough men's fire he went an* 
 cotched him a rabbit an' skint him, an' hilt him to 
 de fire on a forked stick to cook him, hisse'f, wid- 
 out de help o' Mr. Fox. Whilst he was pokin' an' 
 proddin' at de fire de top o' de burnin' trunk crum- 
 bled into pieces an* tumbled over, an' about a hun- 
 dred hot coals an' chunks fell down all over his 
 hide f'om head to tail. If dar ever was a time for 
 his yowlin' an' waulin' dat was it, an' he done it, 
 too, all he knowed how. When his hyar Crowed 
 back ag'in, it come out black in every place dem 
 coals burnt him: an* dat's how Mr. Wilecat got 
 his spotted coat. 
 
 " Well, here we is, at de stable-gate at las' ; an* 
 it's plumb, pitch dark. Good night, Little Mah- 
 ster; an' please tell yo' Paw whar we foun' dem 
 los' steers, an' how de rabbits an' de deers has been 
 1'arnin' 'um to run ever sence dey's been livin' out 
 in de woods."
 
 VIII 
 
 to 
 
 IN the early twilight of a lovely June after- 
 noon, returning from a long horseback ride 
 down the river road, the Birdland Boy and 
 his twin sister found the young Governess seated 
 alone on a rustic bench beneath one of the big- 
 gest and furthest live-oaks of the mansion grounds. 
 When they rode away two or three hours before 
 
 101
 
 102 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 they had left her on that same bench with their par- 
 ticular friend the Doctor, who had promised to re- 
 main until their return, if he were not called away 
 by his duties. 
 
 As, after giving their ponies to the waiting 
 hostler, they ran up to rejoin Mademoiselle, when 
 they were near enough to be heard, the little Girl 
 cried : 
 
 " We have had such a jolly ride and a glorious 
 race, and my pony, Evangeline, almost beat Cor- 
 tez home!" 
 
 Evangeline and Cortez were the names of their 
 Acadian and Mexican ponies, both of which had 
 come from the prairies of the Teche country. 
 
 When the Twins reached the bench they asked 
 together in tones of disappointment. 
 
 "But what has become of the Doctor? He 
 promised to stay here until we came back." 
 
 " Very 'soon after you left he rode away in the 
 other direction, and I have been here all alone ever 
 since," laughingly replied the Governess. " The 
 drone of the breeze in the leaves above me was 
 making me feel very drowsy when something hap-
 
 Mr. Jay Brought to Judgment 103 
 
 pened which wakened me widely all at once; and, 
 if you will quietly sit beside me and listen, I will 
 tell you all about it." 
 
 It did not need the " cross-my-heart " promise 
 to exact silence from her young auditors; and 
 Mademoiselle immediately commenced her story, 
 saying: 
 
 " As my eyes were beginning to close with 
 sleepiness I heard a remarkable fluttering and 
 rustling in the branches above me, as if the wind 
 had suddenly risen and was stirring them to a 
 louder and more variable sound than the low dro- 
 ning that had almost lulled me to sleep. Then sud- 
 denly burst the sound of many bird voices from all 
 over the tree; and, looking up into it, I saw that 
 very many birds of different names and notes had 
 mysteriously gathered there without my having 
 seen their coming. Not one of all of that multi- 
 tude was singing ; but they were all chattering and 
 chirping together in great but subdued excitement, 
 as if they were conversing over a subject of in- 
 tense general interest. 
 
 " That remarkable meeting of so many differ-
 
 104 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 ent kinds of birds in the same tree was quite noisy 
 at first, but, very soon, a deep hush fell in all of 
 the feathered assemblage. 
 
 "A crestfallen Jay appeared, being brought 
 from the heart of a thick 'thorny bush near, with 
 his wings tightly bound together, and conducted 
 to the fork of two stout branches in the very mid- 
 dle of the tree by two red-coated Cardinals, who 
 showed by their uniform that they were law officers 
 for the court of the birds and keepers of their jails. 
 In that tree-fork the bound Jay was left under the 
 charge of two other Cardinals to guard against his 
 possible escape. 
 
 " Then, while the breathless, heavy silence con- 
 tinued, a very venerable and solemn-looking Barn- 
 Owl, with rings of grey feathers, which resembled 
 the rims of big spectacles, around his eyes, stepped 
 with slow and stately pace from a hollow chamber 
 up in the trunk of the tree. He stopped and 
 perched on a great lichen-covered limb, as grey 
 as he, above that awed and voiceless feathered 
 throng. 
 
 " I was wondering the meaning of it all when I
 
 Mr. Jay Brought to Judgment 105 
 
 was told in a most surprising way. One of those 
 enchanted and enchanting fays of the trees, the 
 flowers and the air was my informant. He was 
 clad in a coat of emerald green and wore a brilliant 
 ruby-colored cravat above his dainty white shirt. 
 He darted down like a jewelled beam of light 
 from the foliage of the tree above me, hung hover- 
 ing around my listening ears and hummed into 
 them in a voice which, fairy-like, combined the 
 gift of human speech with a knowledge of the 
 tongues of all the birds in the world. 
 
 " In his enchanted, humming voice, this tiny fay 
 of the flowers and the air told me that the Jay was 
 about to be tried in the court of the birds before 
 Judge Barn-Owl for his sins and crimes against 
 several small animals and defenseless families of 
 birdkind; and he explained that the red-coated 
 Cardinals were his jailers, and if he were found 
 guilty of the crimes of which he was accused, and 
 happened to be condemned to death, the Butcher- 
 Bird would be his executioner. 
 
 " After that the fay of the emerald coat and the 
 ruby cravat and the enchanted voice, told me
 
 106 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 everything that went on and translated all that 
 was said by every bird that figured in the trial. 
 
 " Judge Owl, as he took his perch of justice on 
 his hoary old limb, looked as grave, wise and sol- 
 emnly pompous, as the most imposing human 
 judge that ever sat on the bench in the law courts 
 of mankind. 
 
 " In the hushed pause before the trial com- 
 menced the attendant throng of many hundreds 
 of birds of different feathers exchanged excited 
 looks that spoke more than words or chirps, or 
 turned their eyes with the most intense or horrified 
 interest on the blue prisoner in the forked branch; 
 I say ' blue ' because the poor Jay's expression of 
 countenance was as blue as his coat. But the gaze 
 of the Butcher-Bird, who stood silent behind all 
 of the seated throng, gloated over that prisoner 
 with a hard and hungry look. 
 
 " In that interval my jewel-coated fay gave me 
 the history of the sinning Jay as he had heard it 
 before the recent capture of the culprit. 
 
 " During the early part of the last winter, that 
 unfortunate Jay had reached the full maturity of
 
 Mr. Jay Brought to Judgment 107 
 
 his Jayhood, and, with full-grown size, and vigor- 
 ous health and strength, and a fine education, had 
 started out in the world apparently on a brilliant 
 and promising career. He had been one of a fash- 
 ionable circle of young Jays in their first season 
 of the foremost of feathered society. He and his 
 particular set of friends were among the most 
 jovial of Jaykind. They all wore the handsomest 
 of blue coats, trimmed with dainty ruffles of white 
 lace at the tails, the most stylish of dove-colored 
 vests, the jettiest of black satin cravats or scarves, 
 and the most cockey of family crests. 
 
 " With many cheers and jeers and gay chaffings 
 those lively young chaps had romped through 
 forests, raced each other through evergreen shrub- 
 bery and danced in glee on the ground and among 
 the twigs of leafless trees in the bright and bracing 
 midwinter days. With light wings and nimble 
 feet they had enjoyed together many a game of 
 bird-tag and hide and seek among the woods and 
 groves and evergreen hedges. 
 
 " Then, in the middle of February, St. Valen- 
 tine's Day, and courting-time, came around; and
 
 108 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 the merry crew of young bachelors broke up their 
 bird-club, and they began to flit with elusive or 
 flirting Jay-maids. 
 
 " Soon the prisoner-Jay, up there guarded by 
 the Cardinal-birds, managed to win the prettiest, 
 best-dressed, and daintiest lace-trimmed young 
 Lady Jay that ever lived. When the budding 
 spring arrived the newly-wed pair built them- 
 selves a rather rough and shabby looking nest, in 
 an oak branch where the twigs and foliage were 
 thickest. Perhaps had they devoted less time to 
 pleasure they could have built a much better 
 home. 
 
 " All went along merrily and happily until the 
 final egg of four was laid, and pretty Mistress Jay 
 had to stay ait home a week or two to hatch them. 
 Then young Mr. Jay began to muse over the good 
 old times that he had enjoyed in his recent bache- 
 lor days. He took less and less kindly to the 
 wedded state. He found there was no fun for him 
 to be had in the hatching of children; and, with 
 nothing else in particular to do, he got into some 
 very bad habits born of idleness. Such habits were
 
 Mr. Jay Brought to Judgment 109 
 
 not at all in keeping with his fine clothes and his 
 fair reputation in first-class feathered society. 
 
 " For days at a time he shamefully deserted his 
 faithful young wife, while she had to stay at home 
 devotedly occupied with the most important do- 
 mestic duties of birdkind, keeping the nest clean 
 and hatching a family. He began to roam about 
 the woods and the world in a worthless vagabond 
 way. Without considering the question of help- 
 ing to support his young wife, he grew too lazy, 
 even, to work for his own living. But, as he could 
 not live and have a gay time without eating, first 
 he became a petty thief and pilfered the garnered 
 is-eeds and grain and nuts of honest and provident 
 little animals and birds. Next he became noted 
 as a common robber and nest-breaker. At last it 
 was whispered around among the timid smaller 
 birds that he did not stop at stealing and eating 
 eggs, but killed and devoured a tender, unfledged 
 nestling now and then ; and that, sometimes, when 
 they were unfortunately too well feathered for 
 convenient and comfortable swallowing, he would 
 murder them for that fault out of pure malice.
 
 110 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " The better to conceal his presence or his plans 
 from the lesser birds, who feared him so justly, he 
 completely silenced his loud voice in the general 
 nesting season, and took to the most cunning ways 
 that his wicked head could devise to carry out his 
 dark schemes of pillage and murder. 
 
 "Despite his silence and his secrecy he was at 
 last caught red-handed, or rather red-beaked, at 
 the scene of one of his bloodiest crimes; and there 
 he was, at last brought to judgment in the court of 
 the birds. 
 
 " At the command of solemn Judge Barn Owl 
 the Cardinal Bird officers brought up, one by one, 
 those who had seen and suffered most from the 
 Jay's horrible and depraved wickedness. 
 
 "First the Cardinal Birds whistled for the 
 Ground Squirrel to come before Judge Barn Owl 
 and tell what the Jay had done to him. 
 
 " The tiny striped Ground Squirrel popped 
 from a hole at the root of the tree, ran up and 
 squatted on a limb just below Judge Barn Owl's 
 perch and squeaked in a thin little voice, as he 
 pointed a tiny paw at the prisoner- Jay :
 
 " ' RAN UP AND SQUATTED ON A LIMB JUST BELOW JUDGE BARN 
 
 OWL'S PERCH.' "
 
 Mr. Jay Brought to Judgment 111 
 
 " ' Oh, Judge, that is the very same Jaybird that 
 robbed me. I know him well, because he wears a 
 blue coat, a dove-colored vest, a black cravat and a 
 feather crest. He stole all of the acorns and pecan 
 nuts I had gathered for my family last Fall and 
 stored in our home under the roots of this tree, ex- 
 pecting them to last us until nutting time comes 
 around again. And, now, I and my wife and our 
 poor little hungry children must starve, or eat 
 green things, which don't agree with our little ones 
 at all; and we are suffering awfully from that 
 Jaybird's robbing us of our stored food.' 
 
 " At the end of his squeaking the little Ground 
 Squirrel scuttled quickly back to his home at the 
 foot of the tree-trunk and the Field Rat ran up the 
 tree and took his place. Judge Barn Owl's solemn 
 eyes took on rather a hungry look with the Field 
 Rat sitting so near him, as if he would like to stop 
 the case for lunch. But night was not very far 
 away, and plenty more Field Rats would be then 
 running around in the dark. 
 
 " The Field Rat squealed, in a still thinner voice 
 than the Ground Squirrel's, a tale exactly like that
 
 112 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 of little ' Stripes; ' only the Jay had stolen his 
 garnered store of grass seeds and field grain. 
 Some of the birds tittered at his tale; as they felt 
 that the Field Rat had robbed them and man of 
 what he had stored up for himself. 
 
 " Next came the Baltimore Oriole to tell of the 
 Jay's graver crimes, chirping out: 
 
 " ' In the middle of March I returned from a 
 distant winterless land to my native Summer home 
 with my beloved mate. When we came back we 
 flew about enjoying ourselves, and-, at the same 
 time, looking for a suitable nesting-place safe 
 from climbing creature or stormy weather. We 
 found the loveliest spot in the world for our family 
 home; and there we wove a soft, weather-tight, 
 deep nest, hanging it securely to the tip of a sway- 
 ing limb, so that when our babies came they might 
 be rocked to sleep in their cradle by the winds. 
 
 " ' One bright and beautiful May morning, 
 when my mate was sitting on our eggs near the 
 end of the long and weary hatching time, that Jay 
 there cruelly attacked our home. Unfortunately 
 I was at the time far out in the sunny fields seek-
 
 Mr. Jay Brought to Judgment 113 
 
 ing food for her at home. During my absence that 
 brutal bird rushed up to the nest, tore it open with 
 his beak and claws, beat her almost senseless with 
 his strong wings, threw her down to the ground; 
 and, while she lay there helpless, devoured all of 
 our eggs, one after another, in horrible, greedy 
 gulps. 
 
 ' Thus did he rob our nest and murder our 
 babes unhatched ! ' 
 
 " At the end of the Oriole's pitiful tale a deep 
 sigh welled up from the breasts of nearly all of the 
 listening birds, and a meek Turtle-Dove in the 
 midst of them uttered a low coo of mourning. 
 
 " After a considerable pause a whole colony of 
 English sparrows came scuffling and wrangling 
 and crowding into the bird-court. The Cardinal- 
 Bird officers tried in vain to silence them and to 
 turn them out until they became more quiet and 
 less excited. They almost obliterated the seemly 
 gravity of Judge Barn Owl with an expression of 
 tortured distraction, and gained the contempt of 
 every dignified and self-respecting bird pres- 
 ent.
 
 114 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " Those very ill-mannered birds even kept up 
 their rough jostling and noisy chattering when 
 they were crowded on the limb in the very august 
 presence of Judge Barn Owl, where the other ac- 
 cusers of the culprit, Jay, had told their woeful 
 tales. They all began to talk at once, and not two 
 of them could tell the same story in similar words. 
 The wisest bird- judge that ever lived must have 
 had his wits tangled so that he could not make 
 heads or tails of any such jargon. 
 
 " At last the biggest Cock-Sparrow there beat 
 and bullied all of his companions into temporary 
 silence, and told a tale which proved to be more 
 tragic, from his point of view, than was the 
 Oriole's; although the other birds in the audience 
 were not of the same opinion. 
 
 *' That Cock-Sparrow declared, and most 
 people hope truthfully, that the accused Jay 
 had boldly and often flown up to their colony nests 
 beneath the mossy eaves of the old coach-house of 
 that veiy place, eaten their eggs, swallowed their 
 little naked nestlings, and beaten to death numer- 
 ous others of their feathered young folk who were
 
 Mr. Jay Brought to Judgment 115 
 
 beginning to fly, and dashed their bodies to the 
 ground with wanton cruelty. 
 
 " I told my little Jewel-fay," said Mademoiselle, 
 " that I could bear witness to the truth erf that 
 Cock- Sparrow accusation, myself, as I had seen 
 the Jay busy on the commendable job; but that he 
 must not inform Judge Barn Owl what I had told 
 him in strict confidence, as I did not like to get 
 mixed up in the great case. 
 
 " There were too many witnesses to these dark 
 and tragic crimes of the Jay against that Sparrow 
 Colony for any defense or denial of them to stand. 
 Besides, he had been caught by the Cardinal Bird 
 officers in the very act of committing them. 
 
 " When the Cock- Sparrow had finished his 
 tragic tale no tears appeared to fall from the eyes 
 of any other kind of bird present; which seemed, 
 in my mind, to prove that the Sparrow, as an in- 
 dividual, in families and in colonies, is about the 
 most unpopular member of Bird society. Sparrows 
 collectively, have very bad manners, are greedy at 
 meals, loud and noisy at work or play, and are the 
 greatest gossips among all of bird-kind. There-
 
 116 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 fore, it is no wonder that they are so heartily dis- 
 liked by all decent and self-respecting birds. 
 
 " However, as the fay of the green coat, ruby 
 cravat, and humming voice sorrowfully told me, 
 the law among all birdkind is that the life of a 
 Sparrow is equal before the law to the life of an 
 Eagle; and whoever deprives him or her or it of 
 it purposely is guilty of the greatest crime among 
 birds; the punishment of which is death. 
 
 " When this marvelous trial was finished Judge 
 Barn Owl was compelled to condemn the guilty 
 Jay to die. The awful sentence was that he should 
 be immediately beheaded by the Butcher Bird, and 
 that his crested head should be spiked on the top- 
 most twig of the tallest tree near the scene of his 
 crimes as a warning to all birdkind to kill no fel- 
 low-bird, little or big, old or young. 
 
 " Then the four Cardinal Birds, two of whom 
 fcad brought him in and two been chosen to guard 
 him, as I have told you, surrounded the doomed 
 Jay and started to lead him out to the Butcher 
 Bird's scaffold, a tall thorny locust standing alone 
 in a field.
 
 Mr. Jay Brought to Judgment 117 
 
 " The Butcher Bird followed them closely with 
 a gleam of cruel joy in his glittering eye at the de- 
 lightful job before him. It is the Butcher Bird's 
 greatest pleasure in life to behead a victim with 
 his ax-bill and impale the head on a long and sharp 
 locust thorn or spike. 
 
 " When they started for the lone locust tree I 
 came to the rescue of the poor Jay with a loud and 
 angry scream. My jewelled fay flashed up into 
 the air in a flight so fast as to be almost invisible; 
 and a sudden silence seemed to fall in the entire 
 tree above me. There was not even the whisper 
 of one leaf to another, for the light summer wind 
 had died away. 
 
 " All of my Bird-Court was as empty as if I had 
 only dreamed that it was crowded with a throng 
 of feathered spectators who had gathered to wit- 
 ness the last act in one of the sad tragedies of bird- 
 life. 
 
 " And now as it is about time for us to get ready 
 for supper, let's run a footrace to the house to see 
 who can get there first."
 
 IX 
 
 ?2?f merit 
 
 IN one of their warm Summer night-sessions 
 on the rustic bench of the lawn, where he was 
 told the tale of " The Time the Moon Fell," 
 the Birdland Boy, with his usual skill and tact, 
 contrived to wheedle the following story out of the 
 feignedly reluctant but really delighted Uncle 
 Jason. 
 
 After a considerable amount of beating around 
 
 the bush, looking up at the stars, watching the 
 118
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Himself 119 
 
 climbing of the recently-risen moon, and grave 
 prophesying of what kind of weather was going to 
 happen for a month or more, the old man got a 
 good start on the tale and kept it up steadily to 
 the end, relating : 
 
 " I b'leeves I's done tole you a long while ago 
 about dat time when Mr. Fox fooled ole Mr. Wile- 
 cat into ketchin' a couple o' fat rabbits, or were 
 it possums? for hisse'f an' his fambly; an' not 
 so long sence about how he sort o' 'sputed an* 
 sassed ole Jedge B'ar dat time de moon felled. 
 
 " Now, like some folkses what's always proj- 
 ickin' aroun' wid deir smart ways, tryin' to trick, 
 or to make fun o', or to fool somebody else, come 
 a time when Mr. Fox fooled his own se'f so badly 
 practisin' his smartness des' a leetle bit too far he 
 got cured o' his foolishness for a good long time. 
 
 " Mr. Fox begins his fun by goin' aroun' ev'y- 
 whars startin' a story in de woods dat Mr. Wolf 
 had come back to dem parts ag'in, an' he must be 
 layin' aroun' somewhars in close hidin' by day to 
 begin his dang'ous night-huntin' once mo'. Mr. 
 Wolf had been gone away f 'om dem woods for sich
 
 120 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 a long time dat all de yuther varmints had come to 
 b'leeve dat he was gone away for good an' all; an' 
 dey was moughty glad of it, I kin tell you. 
 
 "Mr. Fox claim' he had seed for hisse'f Mr. 
 Wolf's wide tracks in a part o' de woods whar but 
 few o' de varmints ever rambled. He'd run across 
 dem tracks soon in de mawnin', when he were 
 gwine home f 'om his own huntin', or his henhouse 
 prowlin', or whatever mischeevousness he happen' 
 to be at. 
 
 " Dat was moughty bad news for many o' de 
 small varmints in de woods ; an' for some o' de big 
 ones, too. It made Madam Wile-Hawg moughty 
 oneasy about de ramblin's aroun' o' her lurge 
 fambly o' fat tender little shoatses. Likeways it 
 made Madam Doe-deer des' as anxious about her 
 pretty twin spotted fawns, what spo'ted an' 
 dodged about in de shadders o' de trees an* skipped 
 an' danced in de sunshine o' de clearin's. It even 
 moughtily troubled Madam Wilecat wid thinkin' 
 about her furry an' frolicsome kittens playin' wid 
 an' hittin' at de fallin' leaves an' thissle-haids, an' 
 sich, aroun' her house whilst she an' ole Mr. Wile-
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Himself 121 
 
 cat was a gone a huntin', or a thievin', mos' likely. 
 Den Mr. Possum reckomember dat lie was de one 
 who done de mos' to spread dat funny tale all over 
 de woods about Mr. Wolf leavin' a nice fat Spring 
 lamb, which were already fa'rly in his mouf, to 
 steal a big bag o' new-fleeced wool. An' Mr. Pos- 
 sum begin to wonder right hard ef Mr. Wolf 
 knowed dat or not, an' how much he hilt ag'inst 
 him ef he did know it. So he made up his mind to 
 keep off o' de groun' a spell an' stick to de trees 
 much as he could whilst Mr. Wolf staid in de 
 woods. 
 
 " In co'se Mr. Rabbit was de wussest skeered 
 o' any an' all o' de critters in de woods at de bad 
 news brung by Mr. Fox. He didn' git it straight 
 f'om Mr. Fox, hisse'f ; bekase ef Mr. Rabbit hap- 
 pen to meet up wid Mr. Fox in de woods or de 
 fiel's he neber tarries none to tell him de time or 
 day nor to talk to him about de wedder. He 
 knows dat Mr. Fox likes him too well to part wid 
 him ef dey ever git in shake-ban' distance o' each 
 udder ; an' it's de same way wid him an' Mr. Wile- 
 cat. But Mr. Coon, he got de tale about Mr.
 
 122 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 Wolf's comin' back to de woods ag'in straight 
 f'om Mr. Fox; an' he tole it straighter to Mr. 
 Rabbit. So, when Mr. Rabbit hearn dat tur'ble 
 news, he made up his mind to leave home right off 
 de reel, an' take all o' his fambly along wid him 
 an' camp out in de closes', thickes', thorniest briar- 
 patch he could find in a day's s'arch, ontell de good 
 news mought come ag'in dat Mr. Wolf had gone 
 f'om de woods about his dangersome bizness some- 
 wharselse. 
 
 " Come de nex' night dat true tale o' Mr. Fox's, 
 about Mr. Wolf's comin' back ag'in to de woods, 
 had trabbled aroun' so far an' fas', like bad 
 news always does, dat dar wasn' a varmint in all 
 de wilderness but what hadn' hearn it, an' hearn 
 it a heap stronger'n it fust started, too. Dey was 
 mos'ly all 'sturbed an' skeered enough, I kin tell 
 you. Dat is, all of 'urn was 'cep'n' ole Jedge B'ar 
 an' big Mr. Pant'er. Dey warn't af eared o' Mr. 
 Wolf de leas' bit ; an' dey only hoped for a chance 
 to ketch him an' lay de paws o' righteous punish- 
 ment on him des' once ! 
 
 " Dat day Mr. Fox fix de plan an' got things
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Himself 123 
 
 ready for de fun he had laid out to begin at de fust 
 comin' o' de dark an' de risin' o' de full moon. 
 Some time back he had foun' a los' huntin'-hawn 
 somewhars in de woods, an* he had 1'arnt how to 
 blow it des' like de way of a howlin' wolf, like some 
 huntsmens does to call up los' dawgs, an' like I kin 
 do myself. Dat put de tricky projick in Mr. 
 Fox's haid to fool an' skeer all de varmints in de 
 woods for a night by playin' Mr. Wolf. 
 
 " So, come dark, Mr. Fox picked up his hunts- 
 man's-hawn an' slips away quiet an' easy deep into 
 de woods whar de full darkness corned fust. Dar 
 he sot down on his ha'nches an' smile aroun', 
 lookin' smart an' happy at de prospick of de gre't 
 fun comin'. Den, like Mr. Wolf singin' his fust 
 night-huntin' howl, he blowed a moughty low but 
 fur-trabblin' cry: 
 
 " * Woo-woo-wooah! ' 
 
 "Mon, all o' de varmints widin hearin' o' dat 
 howl stopped right in deir own tracks to lissen an' 
 see ef dey hadn' 'ceived deyse'f's, an' 1'arn ef dey's 
 hearn right by hearin' it ag'in ! 
 
 " ' Woo-woo-wooah ! '
 
 124 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " Dar was no doubtin' or 'sputin' dat, an' dey 
 all puts out to look for home an' safety. 
 
 " Mr. Buck an* Madam Doe-deer hid deir 
 spotted twin fawns in de closes' bresh dey could 
 find, an' stood on guard togedder over deir hidin'- 
 place, wid deir eyes shinin' angry-red in de white 
 moonshine. 
 
 " Madam an' Mr. Wile-Hawg ringed in deir 
 squealin' little shoatses behine 'um wid deir long 
 snouts, an' gnashed deir long white tushes warnin* 
 off danger. 
 
 " Mr. Possum clambed to de top o' his 'simmon 
 tree, qurled hisse'f up in de las' fork, an' tuk a 
 tight hitch-holt aroun' a tough limb wid his tail to 
 save hisse'f in case he mought drap asleep befo' 
 mawnin' an' fall down into Mr. Wolf's wide mouf. 
 
 " Mr. Rabbit suddintly changed his mind about 
 de thick thorny briar patch bein' de safes' place to 
 keep Mr. Wolf away an' he bounced out an' run 
 an' bunched hisse'f an' his whole fambly in a holler 
 lawg too little for big, black, red-moufed, white- 
 toofed Mr. Wolf to squeeze his way in. 
 
 " Mr. Muskrat run his stumblin' blunderin' way
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Himself 125 
 
 for de ma'sh, an' buried hisse'f deep down in his 
 reed an' grass moun'. 
 
 " Madam an' ole Mr. Wilecat hurry' home f 'om 
 deir huntin' an' locked up deir chilluns in de house. 
 Den dey stood inside de do', wid deir backs riz an' 
 deir furrer stickin' out, growlin' an' spittin' in deir 
 gre't incitement. 
 
 " * Woo-woo-wooah I ' blowed Mr. Fox, comin' 
 thew de woods slow, like Mr. Wolf was startin' 
 ahead on his huntin' trail. An' de yuther varmints 
 lay so close an' quiet dat, when de echo died, de 
 dark woods was as still as a graveyard wid even de 
 wind buried dar. 
 
 "'Woo-woo-wooah!' ag'in blows Mr. Fox, 
 movin* a leetle faster. 
 
 " An' like a live an' loud echo here comes an- 
 udder noise breakin' in on de aidge o' de woods : 
 
 " ' Woo - woo - erroo - erroo - yow - woo - yow - 
 yow - erroo ! ' 
 
 " Mr. Fox stopped right suddint an' still ; an' 
 he drapped his hawn an' let his bushy tail fall till 
 de een' teched de groun', an' cocked his ears to 
 lissen:
 
 126 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 ' Woo - erroo - yow - yow - erroo - yow - woo - 
 erroo!'" 
 
 The old man's wonderful mimicry of a hound- 
 pack in full cry had been learned from the music 
 of many a chase he had followed as master of the 
 hounds in his youth and prime. 
 
 " Mr. Fox well knowed dat chune. Bio win' his 
 fool huntin'-hawn he had done gone an* woked up 
 de whole houn'-pack out on de plantashun! An' 
 here dey corned, hot an' whoopin', to jine Mr. 
 Fox's little frolic. An' ef dar's one thing a good 
 houn'-pack likes better'n anudder it's chasin' foxes 
 an' wilecats in de bright moonlight. Somehow dey 
 spar's Mr. Buck-deer den. But it's far'well wid 
 Mr. Fox an' good-by Mr. Wilecat, ef rale true 
 houn's gits a fa'r chance to chase 'um in de moon- 
 light. 
 
 " ' Erroo - erroo - yow - woo - yow - erroo ! ' 
 
 " Here dey comes, like a whirlwin', havin' foun' 
 Mr. Fox's hot trail an' singin' deir bestes' an' hap- 
 pies' over it. An', ef Mr. Fox was lookin' for sho' 
 enough fun, he sho'ly did find it den. 
 
 " Lookin' moughty sour at dat huntin'-hawn
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Himself 127 
 
 what had been skeerin' his brer-varmints to his full 
 satisfaction, but which had brung on de houn's 
 atter Urn, Mr. Fox humps his back, holds up his 
 bushy tail cl'ar o' de daid leaves an' trash, limbers 
 his laigs, an' puts out f'om dar! 
 
 " * Woo - erroo - yow - erroo - yow - woo ! ' 
 
 " Mon, as de houn's come nigher, all de trees o' 
 de woods was a wooin' an' a yowin', an' a errooin', 
 an' dar warn't no time for Mr. Fox to tarry none 
 den! 
 
 " He breaks away for Jedge B'ar; squallin* 
 when he comes up: 
 
 ' ' Oh, Jedge B'ar, a hundered houn's is comin' 
 close behine me! What I gwine to do to 'scape 
 'um? Won't you hit an' bite an' hug 'uin to deaf 
 forme?' 
 
 " Jedge B'ar snorts back at him: 
 
 " * Who was dat Smart Alec what 'sputed my 
 word dat time de Moon fell an' riz ag'in des' like 
 I said it would? Who was dat cunnin' critter, 
 maybe 'twarn't you,, what tricked all de yuther 
 varmints tryin' de Wolf -howl on a huntin'-hawn, 
 des* now; an' brung all dem dawgs atter yo'se'f ?
 
 128 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 Don't ax me to holp you when you's tricked 
 yo'se'f into trouble, bekase, bein' wiser'n me, 
 you sho'ly is smart enough to trick yo'se'f out of it 
 ag'in.' 
 
 ' Woo - yow - erroo - yow - woo - yow ! ' 
 
 " Mr. Fox flees to Mr. Buck-deer : 
 
 " * Oh, Mr. Buck-deer, won't you please save me 
 f 'om dem follerin' houn's, an' fight 'um off wid yo' 
 sharp hawns an' your keen huffs? ' 
 
 "Mr. Buck-deer answers back: 
 
 " ' I got to fought hard enough to 'fend myse'f 
 an' my Doe an' fawns widout foughtin' for you! 
 Who dat blowed de huntin'-hawn like Mr. Wolf 
 on de night-huntin' trail? Better go see ef he kin 
 save you! ' 
 
 " An* Mr. Buck-deer stomped his foot, tossed 
 up his branchin' hawns, an' looked proud at his 
 Doe an' saft todes de thicket whar dey'd hid deir 
 spotted fawns. 
 
 " * Yow - wow - erroo - woo - erroo - yow! ' 
 
 " Mr. Fox flees for Mr. Wilecat's house: 
 
 " ' Oh, Mr. Wilecat, open yo' do' a leetle an' 
 lemme in, de houn's is hard atter me an' moughty
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Himself 129 
 
 close behine me; an' I's mos' out o' breaf. Please 
 lemme in an' save me? ' 
 
 " ' Who played he was big, black Mr. Wolf an' 
 blowed de woods full o' dogs an' stopped our night- 
 huntin'? You better go an' ketch yo' breaf back 
 an' blow 'um out ag'in, so dis fambly kin find a 
 supper 1 ' 
 
 " Wid dat Mr. Wilecat cracks his do' open des' 
 wide enough to hit an' spit at Mr. Fox; den he 
 banged it in his face! 
 
 " ' Woo - yow - wow - erroo - woo - yowl ' 
 
 " Mr. Fox flees on an' on to de home of ev'y 
 varmint in de woods he knows well; but he was 
 'fused a hidin'-place everywhars, bekase he had 
 fooled an* tricked 'um all so off en; an' dey all 
 'spected it were he dat had played Wolf and 
 started de mischief o' bringin' de houn's in de 
 woods an' makin' 'um stay at home hongry all 
 night. 
 
 " At las' tired out, wid his tail draggin', an' 
 ready to drap, he come to Mr. Polecat's house, 
 which were in a big holler-stump, kivered thick 
 wid a pile o' bresh an' daid sticks on top, wid a side
 
 130 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 hole at de groun' des' lurge enough for Mr. Fox 
 to squeeze in by de tightes'. 
 
 " De houn's was gittin' intil'y too close for him 
 to try gwine on to anudder neighbor's; so he ax: 
 
 " * Oh, Mr. Polecat, won't you please lemme 
 hide in yo' house? I's broke down wid de hardes' 
 o' runnin' befo' de houn's, an' dey's too nigh now 
 for me to go no furder! ' 
 
 " Says Mr. Polecat, easy an' perlite: 
 
 " ' Step right in, Mr. Fox, an' make yo'se'f at 
 home. No houn's ain't a gwine to 'sturb you here. 
 Dey likes to keep too keen a aidge on deir noses to 
 stop to visit my house; an* dey won't spile de 
 scent stoppin' now. Dey'll go right on by an* 
 leave you alone ef you stays here a week. Sot 
 down an* res' yo'se'f.' 
 
 " Wid dat Mr. Fox squirms an' squeezes hisse'f 
 into de side do' scrapin' consid'able hyar off o' his 
 back an' sides, de fit was so close. 
 
 "'Sniff! Sniff!' snuffs he. 'Don't you 
 neber give yo' house a leetle airin', Mr. Polecat? 
 It smell sort o' close in here to me! ' 
 
 " ' Now an' den I does, once ev'y Spring, ef I
 
 OH, MR. POLECAT, WON'T YOU PLEASE LEMME HIDE IN YO' 
 HOUSE? ' "
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Himself 131 
 
 don't forgit it,' 'spon's Mr. Polecat. ' But de 
 smells makes it sort a homelike, bekase ev'y fambly 
 likes its own smells best.' 
 
 " Well, Mr. Fox hatter stay in Mr. Polecat's 
 house until daylight, sniffin' an' snuffin' an' 
 sneezin', ontell all de baffled houn's give up de job 
 o' huntin' him an' went back home on de planta- 
 shun. 
 
 " At de break o' day Mr. Fox tells Mr. Polecat 
 good-by widout stoppin' to shake han's wid him, 
 an' he goes straight home, hisse'f, smellin' wusser'n 
 ef he had been daid a week. When he gits in de 
 do' o' his own house Madam Fox she squalls 
 out: 
 
 " ' Phew! whar has you been, Mr. Fox?' 
 
 " Mr. Fox he 'spon's moughty sheepish, but 
 tryin' to hide it de bes' he could by bein' sort o' 
 bullyin' cross: 
 
 f ' I ain't been nowhars in 'ticular ; I des' went 
 an* mistook a skunk for a groun'-squrl ; an* I 
 jumped on him too quick.' 
 
 "'Well, well, well!' answers Madam Fox, *I 
 knowed sumpen' anudder was gwine to happen,
 
 132 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 bekase I dreamp las' night dat I hearn ole Mr. 
 Wolf come back to de woods howlin' on his 
 huntin'-trail early in de night. Den I went on an' 
 dreamp I hearn de houn'-pack yowin' an' errooin' 
 all over de woods mos' all night. But mistakes is 
 mistakes; an' maybe ef you'll go an* take a good 
 hot baff you will smell a little better, Mr. Fox.' 
 
 " But Mr. Fox couldn' get back his nachal foxy 
 smell for more'n a month o' washin's in warm baffs 
 or cool, runnin' branch-water. 
 
 " De wussest of it was dis : he'd done played so 
 many tricks an' projicks on all de yuther varmints, 
 an' deir time was come at las'. Ev'y varmint he 
 met up wid in de woods would stop an' walk all 
 aroun' him a sniffin' an' a snuffin', an' dey'd say in 
 a smilin' way: 
 
 " ' Howdye, Mr. Wolf, or is it Mr. Fox? J An' 
 * Umph, whar does you buy yo' 'fumery, Mr. 
 Fox?' ' Is you an* Mr. Polecat gone pardners in 
 de parfume bizness? ' ontell he was 'shamed to look 
 at his own face when he bent down his haid to lap 
 a drink in still water. 
 
 "Atter while Mr. Fox took to dodgin' ev'y
 
 How Mr. Fox Fooled Himself 133 
 
 critter dat corned along instid o' tryin' to play any 
 mo' o' his smart tricks on 'um. 
 
 " You knows it hurts a wile varmint wusser to 
 be laffed at an' made a fool of dan to be badly 
 wownded. Dey kin lick de pain' out of a wownd 
 long befo' dey kin ease de mis'ry o* hurt f eelin's. 
 
 " It's de same wid a tame dumb critter. Ef you 
 don't b'leeve it, des' look any hones' dawg straight 
 in de face an' snicker an' laff at him a little while ; 
 an' see if he won't drap his haid, lower his ears, 
 tuck his tail betwixt his laigs an' sneak away an' 
 bide somewhars ontell his f eelin's is eased. 
 
 " But de Moon's done clambed half way up de 
 sky, widout crossin' a cloud. It's gwine to be cl'ar 
 wedder to-morrow, and for a week atterwards. 
 Good night, Little Mahster."
 
 X 
 
 ?i>oU) ix\ anv <ot W\* 
 
 Birdland 
 Boy had in- 
 vited three of 
 his schoolmates to spend 
 ^Friday night and their 
 ; Saturday holiday with 
 him. The principal 
 k event of that visit was 
 to be the first night- 
 coon-hunt of their lives. The young Doctor of the 
 vicinity had been asked to join in that hunt, to the 
 joy of all the juvenile members of the party, and 
 he had promised to come surely, if he could, 
 and take them a long way in the woods. In the 
 November dusk the four boys were gathered near 
 
 the front steps of the Birdland house impatiently 
 134
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Striped Face 135 
 
 waiting for the coming of their grown-up friend. 
 Ready for rough and rugged walking in the woods, 
 they all wore their oldest clothes and thickest 
 boots, and had armed themselves with the deadliest 
 sticks they could find in the growth of the mansion 
 grounds. 
 
 At last the young Doctor rode up, wearing his 
 corduroy shooting clothes and carrying a lovely 
 little .22 calibre rifle. Although it looked like a 
 pretty toy, that weapon could drive the bullet of 
 one of its longer cartridges clean through a large 
 buck. 
 
 In their wild state of excitement over their com- 
 ing night-adventure in the woods the boys could 
 scarcely wait for their grown companion to greet 
 the other members of the household; they consid- 
 ered his lively chat with the two ladies and the 
 Birdland Girl a useless waste of very valuable 
 time, and the foolish lingering at the supper-table 
 worse extravagance in the same line. When those 
 vexatious delays ended they led, or rather pulled, 
 him out of doors. 
 
 At the rear of the mansion they were joined by
 
 136 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 the mulatto yard-stabler, who cared for the several 
 horses used by the family members. That yellow 
 hostler bore on his shoulder a long-handled but un- 
 lighted petroleum torch, one of many belonging 
 to the great canesheds of the sugar factory, which 
 worked all night as well as in the daytime. Then 
 they all went out to the Negro Quarters to get old 
 Jason with his pack of numerous cur-dogs, to trail, 
 chase and tree the foredoomed coons. As the old 
 hunter of varmints had been duly notified that he, 
 specially, would be needed on this proposed hunt, 
 they found him at home all ready and waiting for 
 them in the midst of his dogs. 
 
 When the noise of the hostile yet harmless bark- 
 ing, with which the numerous curs of the Negro 
 Quarters greeted the strangers, had been sternly 
 hushed by their owner he led the way to and down 
 the forest road. There, turning to the right, he 
 headed the party, prodding the ground with his 
 hunting-club in time with the brisk gait of his legs. 
 Holding back their pace to suit that of their mas- 
 ter, his pack was strung out before him in a long 
 straggling file. The group of white hunters
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Striped Face 137 
 
 closely followed the black leader; and, in con- 
 venient talking distance, the yellow bearer of the 
 unlighted torch brought up the rear. 
 
 As they walked rapidly toward the woods, on a 
 road sufficiently lighted for travel by the bright 
 starlight, only, the young sportsmen shortened the 
 way with much gay talk and many jokes; the 
 veteran black hunter close ahead of them spoke 
 only to his dogs, muttering admonitions and re- 
 proaches to various individual members of his 
 pack, calling each by name as he did so; the 
 mulatto torch-bearer, who was gifted with only the 
 " Gombo-speech " of the half -negro native of the 
 Creole country, was voluble with his patois when- 
 ever he could find a willing listener. 
 
 In due time they reached the forest and turned 
 down a rough and stumpy road, whence many a 
 rougher and stumpier branch, opened by wood- 
 cutters, penetrated into the depths of the woods. 
 In the open fields the smooth wagon road, in the 
 starlight, had been visible enough for rapid walk- 
 ing. Every road and pathway in the woods lay 
 under black darkness. Lighting the torch for bet-
 
 138 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 ter progress would not do, as its bright glare in 
 continual motion, blinded the eyes and made the 
 shadows about the moving feet blacker. 
 
 The Doctor advised the boys to follow his lead 
 as closely as possible; he claimed that as he had 
 hunted big black bears, and chased fierce spotted 
 lynxes or wildcats through those woods so often he 
 could find his way over every foot of them in the 
 blackest night. Having heard other authentic 
 tales of the hunting and killing of bears, and even 
 of two or three panthers, or cougars, in these very 
 same big woods, the boys followed the Doctor's 
 advice strictly and stuck very, very close to him. 
 
 When the tireless old black hunter decided that 
 they were far enough in the woods for good hunt- 
 ing he harked on his dogs; and they quickly scat- 
 terd about, snuffing over the fallen leaves for a 
 fresh trail, while the men and boy hunters sat on 
 stumps and spreading roots to wait for the rinding 
 of game. 
 
 The forest was almost solemnly still, except for 
 the pattering and rustling of the receding dogs; 
 but soon even that died away in the pitch-dark dis-
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Striped Face 139 
 
 tance. Then suddenly sounded a hoarse " Who- 
 who, who-who-who-ah ; " and, after that signal 
 hoot from a big forest owl, a weird concert of 
 " who-who's " and " who-who-who-ah's " rose and 
 echoed in the woods near and far. 
 
 That stopped, and the silence was deeper for its 
 ending, when a great Laughing-Owl screamed, 
 like a loose maniac, "Hee-yahl Hee-yah! 
 Hee-yah! Hee-yah!" as if he were overcome 
 with mirth at the idea of his lesser kindred of 
 the forest considering their recent hooting as 
 music. 
 
 At that appalling scream of the biggest night- 
 bird, the smallest of the boy hunters shivered in his 
 shoes and exclaimed: "Whew! that awful laugh- 
 ing thing in the dark woods gave me a kind of 
 foot-asleep feeling to the top of my head." 
 
 The human laughter following that juvenile 
 exclamation was interrupted by a sudden burst of 
 barking from three or four dogs that had stumbled 
 on game; the full cur-chorus quickly joined in; 
 and, as the running pack broke away in a rapid 
 zigzag chase, Uncle Jason proudly boasted:
 
 140 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " Dey's sho'ly got Mr. Coon a gwine now." 
 
 After a sharp and short run the noisier station- 
 ary barking and whining of the mongrel pursuers 
 showed that " Mr. Coon," or some other varmint, 
 had been treed. Then the men, with the boys very 
 close behind, ran and scrambled the best they could 
 through thick underbrush and tangled vines 
 through the dark woods. 
 
 When they reached the waiting dogs they found 
 them frantically barking and clawing the trunk of 
 a tall bitter-nut hickory. In the book way those 
 coon-hunters should have had a handy ax with 
 them to cut down a valuable tree merely to catch a 
 coon. But, as these were real hunters, who were 
 wise enough to get their coon without wasting a 
 large tree, and too merciful to have their game, 
 half -stunned by a hard tumble to the ground, tor- 
 tured and torn to death by a dozen rending dogs, 
 they carried no ax and spared the tree. 
 
 The petroleum torch was lighted for the first 
 time, and it flared forth upward brilliantly light- 
 ing the whole tree. From the top-crotch of the 
 tree gleamed down, with reflected light from the
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Striped Face 141 
 
 flaming torch below, two glowing beads like bright 
 red coals of fire. With the torch near him station- 
 ary and furnishing all the steady light he needed 
 to see the fine sights of his little rifle, the Doctor 
 carefully aimed it at the tiny fire-balls far above. 
 .At the light crack of the poised weapon a fat old 
 coon came falling and bouncing through the 
 branches to the ground with a fatal hole bored 
 through its head above the eyes. 
 
 The coon was dead when it struck the ground; 
 nevertheless the dogs pounced on it for one vin- 
 dictive bite and shake. Beating them off, and with 
 much wordy abuse to the last of them to let go, 
 Uncle Jason picked up the " fine varmint," as he 
 promptly pronounced it, fastened its hindlegs to- 
 gether, shoved his hunting-club between them and 
 slung it over his shoulder in the unvarying way of 
 the veteran " varmint-hunter." While doing these 
 things he chuckled with joy at the slain coon's 
 large size and extra fatness. When he had 
 finished fixing the coon for convenient carrying 
 the old man gazed with admiring wonder at that 
 little gun, shorter and more slender than his hunt-
 
 142 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 ing-club, which could bring down a treed coon so 
 much more quickly and easily than the slow and 
 toilsome ax. 
 
 When the first coon was thus captured the 
 hunters went back to the road they had recently 
 left. Going down that still deeper in the woods, 
 the dogs were started on another hunt, and the 
 party again rested on other natural rustic seats. 
 The mulatto torch-bearer, looking at the dead coon 
 which Uncle Jason had happened to lay on the 
 ground very near him, took advantage of this in- 
 terval of rest to observe that this hunt reminded 
 him of that tale about Mr. Wilecat asking Mr. 
 Coon to dinner and Mr. Coon returning the com- 
 pliment. Delighted to find that he had four ready 
 young auditors for such talk he broke abruptly 
 into the following story: 
 
 " One tarn, 'way back, w'en Mr. Wilecat go 
 walk in de wood, after one fine dinner an* one good 
 nap, w'ich make him full wid good humor, he meet 
 op wid Mr. Coon, an' he say: 
 
 " ' Howdy, Mr. Coon, I glad to see you, yas; ' 
 an', w'en dey done shake han', he hax: ' How you
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Striped Face 143 
 
 lak to come eat dinner wid me to-morrow, Mr. 
 Coon? ' 
 
 " Mr. Coon he look' much please' an' he say 
 back: * T'ank you, Mr. Wilecat, I lak dat fine, me.' 
 
 "Den Mr. Wilecat he say: 'Well, ajeh, 
 good-by, my good frien', I mus' go hunt some sup' 
 now; but be sho' you come to my dinner, I goin' 
 to give you fine one, yas.' 
 
 " Mr. Coon, he, too, say ajeh (adieu) ; an' Mr. 
 Wilecat he go off, pat-pat-pat, to look for some 
 grub, an' Mr. Coon he go off, rack-rack-rack, to 
 his house in de holler tree by de bayou. 
 
 " De nex' day, befo' dinner-tarn, Mr. Coon he 
 step down to de bayou befo' his house, he wash his 
 face an' han' clean, he bresh his coat nice, den he 
 go, rack-rack-rack, much hongree to Mr. Wilecat' 
 house. W'en he knock on de do' Mr. Wilecat, he, 
 open it wide, an' he say: 
 
 " ' Walk in, Mr. Coon, I glad to see you look' 
 so well, you look as fine as dis fine wedder, yas; 
 walk in an' take a seat; we goin' to have dinner 
 soon.' 
 
 " Den dey set down in de house to talk till din-
 
 144 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 ner be ready ; an' w'en dat tarn come dey go quick 
 to de table an' take dey place. 
 
 " Fus* dey has some Cooter-Gombo, lak tarri- 
 pin-soup you know dat Cooter w'at fall of de 
 lawg floatin' in de water w'en you but looks at him 
 aslip in de sun. Now, Mr. Coon he don't like 
 Cooter raw or cook; he hate de sight or de smell 
 of Cooter. One tarn, w'en he was liT young Coon, 
 full wid play lak one boy, he go swim in de bayou 
 for fun. Den one big Cooter bite him hard an' 
 hurt him bad, yas ; an* he mos' die. Since dat tarn 
 all de Coon familee is enemy wid all de Cooter 
 familee. Mr. Wilecat he know all dat well, him, 
 w'en he make dat fine Cooter-Gombo ; but he say : 
 
 "' Wat! you don't lak Cooter-Gombo, Mr. 
 Coon? Well, I feel sorry, me, but dis Gombo so 
 good I kin eat it all, myse'f .' 
 
 " When he finish dat Gombo, Mr. Wilecat wipe 
 his mouf wid his paw, an' he say : * Now here come 
 one fine Possum-Fricassee wid plentee red pepper 
 an' onion: Phew! ain't dat Possum-Fricassee 
 good? ' he say sniffin' over it loud wid his nose. 
 
 " Mr. Coon he been close neighbor an' good
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Striped Face 145 
 
 frien' wid Mr. Possum sence dey was small boy an' 
 run about an' play togedder on de grass an' in de 
 bush'. So w'en he see dat Possum in fricassee he 
 sigh lak he sick bad an' he say: 
 
 " * Please to excuse me, Mr. Wilecat, but I been 
 take' sick sudden, an' I fil too bad to eat any din- 
 ner to-day.' 
 
 " ' Wat ! ' says Mr. Wilecat. ' You can't eat 
 Possum-Fricassee? Well, you mus' be sick sho' 
 'nough; but I b'leeve I kin eat for you an' for me.' 
 Wid dat he finish all de dinner hese'f ; den he wipe' 
 his whisker' on his paw' an' pick his teet' wid his 
 claw'. 
 
 " Den Mr. Coon, he say he fil well enough to go 
 home, an' he invite Mr. Wilecat to come eat dinner 
 wid him to-morrow; an' Mr. Wilecat, he say yas, 
 he be glad to do dat. Den Mr. Coon, he say 
 ' ajeh; ' an' w'en he git out o' Mr. Wilecat' sight 
 in de wood, he go, rack-rack-rack, like he never 
 been sick befo'. 
 
 " W'en Mr. Coon, he git home, he go quick to 
 de bayou an' in de water where some bullresh' 
 grow tall an' t'ick; he pull plentee dose long an'
 
 146 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 strong bullresh', an' he go back on de bank an' he 
 make him one big basket wid dose bullresh'. Den 
 he ketch dose red crawfish wid big sharp claw w'at 
 pinch so hard dey cuts yo' finger to de bone. 
 Wen dat basket was half full wid dose crawfish 
 he tie it in de water to de bank, an' he grin wid all 
 his teet', when he go to de house to eat a good sup- 
 per an* go to bed. 
 
 " De nex' day Mr. Wilecat, he comb' out his 
 long whisker' wid his claw', he lick his spotted coat 
 clean wid his tongue, an' den he trot thew de wood' 
 to Mr. Coon's dinner. 
 
 " Mr. Coon, he meet Mr. Wilecat at his do' 
 befo' he knock', an' he ax him to sit down till din- 
 ner-tarn. Den he step to de bayou an' bring back 
 dat basket wid dose big, mad crawfish, w'at was all 
 clackin* an' clashin* dey long sharp claw'. Wen 
 he set dat basket down befo' Mr. Wilecat he tell 
 him: 'Help yo'se'f to de fus' co'se, Mr. Wilecat, 
 an* a better one is cominV 
 
 "Den Mr. Coon he pick up one crawfish wid 
 his han', w'at has finger' lak yo' han', only his ban' 
 is hard lak harness-ledder, too tough for dose
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Striped Face 147 
 
 crawfish claw' to cut. He wash dat crawfish in 
 some water by de basket, he eat op dat crawfish 
 an' smack his mouf lak it was fine, yas; an' you 
 know, Mr. Coon t'ink crawfish de bes' o' grub. 
 
 " Mr. Wilecat he could not use his foot for one 
 han' lak Mr. Coon, wid his toe' too short for 
 finger' ; so Mr. Coon tell him to take one bunch o' 
 crawfish at a tarn wid his long teet'. Den Mr. 
 Wilecat, he stick his mouf down dip in de basket 
 to git plenty crawfish at once. Dose crawfish grab 
 his big head wid dey sharp, crooked claw'; dey 
 hook in his fat chik an' sof lip an' eye-lid an' to 
 his ear'; an' dey hoi' on an' cut dip till de blood 
 run all over Mr. Wilecat' roun' face. 
 
 " W'en Mr. Wilecat he juk back his head out 
 dat basket he look' terreeble, yas, wid dose red 
 crawfish hangin' all over his face. He holler, he 
 roll all over de groun' ; he smash dose crawfish wid 
 his two fo'paw' till dey was all kill' an' knock' off 
 his face. Den he git op an' he ax Mr. Coon: 
 
 " * W'at kind o' dinner is dis to give to one re- 
 spectab' Wilecat? ' 
 
 " Mr. Coon, who been git close to de bayou w'en
 
 148 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 Mr. Wilecat was fightin* de crawfish f 'om his face, 
 answer: 
 
 ' Wat kind o' manners was dem to stick yo' 
 mouf in de dish instid of yo' han' w'en you eats 
 wid a respectab' Coon? ' 
 
 " Dat make Mr. Wilecat so mad he jomp quick 
 at Mr. Coon to kill him dead. But Mr. Coon he 
 jomp in de bayou; he dive dip an' come op in de 
 middle an' he holler: 
 
 " ' Oh, Mr. Wilecat, how did you lak dat secon' 
 co'se o' my fine dinner, Wilecat head wid crawfish 
 trimmin's ? ' 
 
 " At dat Mr. Wilecat git so redhot mad he start 
 to jomp in de bayou to ketch Mr. Coon an' kill him 
 in de water; but Mr. Coon he dive dip once mo' 
 an' he come up in de t'ick bullresh, where he hide 
 laughin' inside hese'f while Mr. Wilecat stop' on 
 de bank to wash his bloody face to see de way bet- 
 ter goin* home in de woods. But dose stripe an' 
 dose scar dem crawfish make dat tarn on Mr. Wile- 
 cat's face stay dere yit, yas!" 
 
 Very soon after the conclusion of the torch- 
 bearer's tale a much less cunning coon than its
 
 " ' BUT MR. COON HE JOMP IN DE BAYOU.
 
 How Mr. Lynx Got His Striped Face 149 
 
 hero was trailed, treed and shot ; and, well satisfied 
 with their night's sport, the hunters all turned 
 homeward. 
 
 It was after midnight when the worn-out young- 
 sters reached home, where they sleepily undressed 
 and tumbled into bed, to listen again to the hoot- 
 ing of owls and the barking of dogs in boyhood's 
 land of dreams.
 
 XI 
 
 I 
 
 the afternoons 
 of the latter part 
 of the Spring and 
 the Summer, when the 
 weather was too warm for 
 him to enjoy his favorite 
 sports and active exer- 
 cises, the Birdland Boy would ramble out to the 
 levee, which was only about two hundred yards 
 distant in front of the residence; and there he 
 would lie at full length resting on the soft turf 
 covering the top of that earthen embankment, and 
 watching with keen interest the tawny currents of 
 the Mississippi river as they rolled southeastward 
 to the sea, and the sights connected with the great 
 stream. 
 The drift floating down from the forests of the 
 
 150
 
 Who Belled Mr. Buzzard? 151 
 
 far-off mountainsides, the flocks of wheeling, 
 screaming and darting white and grey gulls flying 
 back and forth above its wide waters, the light row- 
 boats creeping close along the shore on its 
 smoother eddies, the white-sailed luggers gliding 
 rapidly down or slowly up its surface, and at rarer 
 intervals, a great puffing steamboat, passing with 
 curling foam dashed from her bows and crested 
 waves following far astern in her wake, all carried 
 their different degrees of interest for the watching 
 boy. 
 
 But far above all such objects that caught his 
 attention were the rushing, river-pounding white 
 steamboats. The swarm of black roustabouts 
 gathered on the lower or freight-deck between the 
 jackstaff and the swinging stages, the passengers 
 in groups within the side-guards and on the prom- 
 enade deck, and the captain standing in solitary 
 grandeur on the front of the hurricane deck, all 
 appeared to the boy ashore as if they might belong 
 to some different and more lively world than that 
 which contained the quiet sugar plantations on the 
 banks of the big and bustling river. While he gazed
 
 152 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 with more or less interest at the rapidly passing 
 crews and passengers of those boats his admiration 
 was centred on the single imperious figure of the 
 commander standing well to the fore on the hur- 
 ricane deck, and his highest boyish ambition was 
 that he might some day grow to be as great a man 
 as the captain of a Mississippi river steamboat. 
 
 If there were no steamboats in sight nor their 
 smokes approaching around the nearer bends, 
 when the boy became tired of looking at the float- 
 ing drift and fancying how very far it might have 
 travelled, or of watching the wheeling gulls and 
 the white lugsails, he would sometimes lie on his 
 back and intently watch the passing turkey-buz- 
 zards, trying to solve the mystery of the larger 
 part of their flight, which is a problem that has 
 puzzled many older heads. Those black pirates of 
 the air were continually sailing back and forth 
 over the edge of the river seeking prizes from the 
 chance wreckage of death stranded on its shores; 
 any kind of grounded " floater " was their prey. 
 
 When the boy lay perfectly still, with his eyes 
 closed to slits over all but their peering pupils, the
 
 Who Belled Mr. Buzzard? 153 
 
 passing vultures appeared to take a very deep in- 
 terest in him. Then they would fly very low and 
 slowly and near enough to learn if he were merely 
 taking a short nap or had gone to sleep for good. 
 At times, when he lay thus they came so close to him 
 that he beheld the hopeful beam in their hungry 
 eyes and the wrinkles in their bald redheads, and 
 he considered that he would be well repaid for his 
 playing 'possum to deceive the turkey-buzzards if 
 he could only manage to learn how they could sail 
 a mile or more in level flight dead against the wind 
 without a single beat, flap, or other visible move- 
 ments of their wide-spread wings. He had seen 
 the frigate birds sailing over the beaches and surf 
 of Barataria Island, and only them, capable of the 
 same manner of flight. But he had much better 
 opportunities for studying the buzzard flight at 
 close range, and he tried hard to make the most of 
 them. 
 
 After looking closely at the buzzards many, 
 many times he saw, or fancied, that as they sailed 
 slowly by him with outstretched wings, they or 
 perhaps the wind did it gave a twisting half-
 
 154 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 turn to each of the long feathers of their unmov- 
 ing wings. That twisting half -turn appeared to 
 him exactly like the motion with which a boatman 
 handles his continually submerged oar-blade over 
 the stern of his skiff while he " sculls " that craft 
 through the water. Thus an expert boatman can 
 " scull " a skiff with a single submerged oar al- 
 most as fast as he can row it with a pair of oars, 
 alternately dipped in the water and lifted in the 
 air from the side rowlocks. The boy, who had 
 often been sculled along in skiff-rides on the 
 bayous by black boatmen, felt almost sure at last, 
 as he saw innumerable buzzards sailing against the 
 wind, that they also sculled their way in the air 
 with their twisting feathers. 
 
 'But there came a day when one of the passing 
 turkey-buzzards furnished him far more enter- 
 tainment than any of his attempts to solve the 
 mystery of their level sailing flight. One after- 
 noon while he was lying on his back, playing 'pos- 
 sum to entice near him the first of the vultures that 
 happened to come along, he suddenly heard the 
 tinkling of a sheep-bell. Instead of coming from
 
 Who Belled Mr. Buzzard? 155 
 
 the road, which ran along the inner base of the 
 levee, the merry music of that bell came from the 
 air, increasing with the approach of a low-flying 
 buzzard, and sounding its loudest as that great 
 bird sailed directly over the head of the wide-eyed, 
 amazed boy and went its way with a disappointed 
 look. 
 
 Wonder of wonders, the buzzard himself wore 
 the bell! The Birdland Boy saw that bell plainly 
 hanging to Mr. Buzzard's neck, and heard it as 
 well as if he had rung it with his own right hand. 
 Astonished and delighted, as any other boy would 
 have been, at the sight of that big bird of evil bear- 
 ing a merry bell, the boy sprang to his feet as the 
 belled Buzzard passed over him, jumped up and 
 down with joyous excitement, and hastened Mr. 
 Buzzard's retreat with his yells and hurras of 
 greeting and farewell so that the air in the bird's 
 wake tinkled with a continuous jingle. 
 
 As the boy told this marvelous event to the as- 
 sembled family later the common wonder was: 
 Who belled Mr. Buzzard? 
 
 It would be too long a story to tell how that Mr.
 
 156 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 Buzzard commenced his sinful career in this world, 
 and of all the very wicked things he had done ; but 
 there may be time and space to mention a few of 
 his numerous misdeeds and to explain how he won 
 and wore his brazen bell. 
 
 The Mr. Buzzard of this tale was one of a large 
 flock of vultures of the turkey name and resem- 
 blance that roosted on the skeleton limbs of an 
 enormous liveoak tree which had been killed by 
 lightning long since in the heart of the Birdland 
 forest. Once, in one of his numerous rides in the 
 woods with Uncle Jason, the Birdland Boy had 
 passed that Buzzard-Roost-tree in the deepening 
 twilight as they were returning home. With its 
 white, leafless and barkless limbs covered with the 
 great birds, whose heads were hidden in their black 
 body-feathers, the tree looked to him as if it bore 
 an overcrop of black fruit of fabulous dimensions. 
 
 In the mornings, when Mr. Buzzard and his fel- 
 low vultures woke up, they would stretch their red 
 necks toward each other, consult with voices 
 sounding like thick short hisses about their plans 
 for the day, sharpen their keen beaks on their hard,
 
 Who Belled Mr. Buzzard? 157 
 
 barkless roosting limbs, and then, spreading their 
 black sails, go cruising over Louisiana and the 
 three States bordering it, to seek their dead prizes 
 or their living prey. A turkey-buzzard in good 
 health can soar over three or four States in a day 
 quite as easily as a healthy country boy in his teens 
 can stroll over half a dozen farms, or three or four 
 large plantations in a day's hunting. 
 
 Mr. Buzzard usually preferred meals quite dead, 
 very dead, in fact ; but if he could not find them 
 in that most desirable form he was more than will- 
 ing to take them alive in the shape of any helpless 
 young animal he could find, when men or their 
 mothers were not near enough to guard them. 
 
 This cruel pirate of the air also preyed on crip- 
 pled, or freshly killed game fallen beyond the fatal 
 range of the guns of the hunters whom he robbed. 
 In fact, he commenced his offenses against human- 
 folk by stealing the first mallard ever killed by a 
 happy boy hunter on his first duck hunt. Full of 
 joy and pride as he saw that " greenhead " fall 
 dead to his shot, after flying a little farther from 
 him, and turn breast upward in a shallow bayou,
 
 158 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 the boy pushed his little boat out of his " blind " to 
 go after his game; but, before he dipped his pad- 
 dle in the water, the very Mr. Buzzard of this 
 story swooped down on the dead drake, grasped it 
 for himself, and flew far away with it, only slightly 
 stunned by a few spent pellets of the two loads of 
 shot angrily sent after him. Any boy truly fond 
 of duck-shooting can appreciate how heart-break- 
 ing it was to that boy hunter to have been thus 
 robbed of such a prize. 
 
 Then, before he was even suspected of possess- 
 ing a fondness for fresh pork, the same Mr. Buz- 
 zard took, in successive days, several little living 
 pigs from a hog-ranch in Texas, devouring them 
 in their open pen. For that crime a dozen or more 
 of his fellow-pirates fell to the gun of the enraged 
 ranchman who had thus been robbed, and who 
 hotly expressed the hope that there was a place of 
 future punishment for wicked buzzards as well as 
 for sinful men. But in this instance the guilty pig- 
 stealer escaped. 
 
 The next cruel crime of this Mr. Buzzard was 
 the wanton massacre in Mississippi of an entire
 
 Who Belled Mr. Buzzard? 159 
 
 litter of beautiful little setter puppies of a famous 
 breed, during the short absence of their mother, 
 who had followed her master on his morning 
 rounds over the fields. The black pirate again es- 
 caped scot-free before a handy shotgun could be 
 secured to finish his dark career, although he was 
 caught red-beaked by the owner of the Gladstone 
 puppies at the scene of their atrocious murder. 
 Although the feathered glutton could devour but 
 one of his victims he had slain them all in fiendish 
 cruelty. 
 
 Soon after that, as Mr. Buzzard was circling 
 and sailing over a sheep-pasture in Arkansas, he 
 beheld a large flock of sheep far beneath him. Be- 
 hind the flock was a single lagging ewe followed 
 by a feeble newly-born lamb. Before the guard- 
 ing shepherd boy and his dog could come to the 
 rescue Mr. Buzzard swooped down hawk-fashion, 
 with half-closed, humming wings, beat the bleating 
 mother-sheep away with hard blows of his black 
 pinions, killed the defenseless lamb with his foul 
 beak as quickly as an Eagle could have done it, 
 and gobbled down a good part of it before his din-
 
 160 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 ner was interrupted and he was driven away from 
 it by the shouting boy and the barking collie as 
 they rapidly approached him. 
 
 The shepherd boy, feeling sure that the greedy 
 robber would return to his mutton when the meat 
 had reached a riper flavor, laid his plans to capture 
 and punish the evil bird. Right on the spot, with 
 much boyish energy, he collected the needful small 
 saplings and sticks and built a large trap, which 
 he baited with the remains of the murdered 
 lamb. 
 
 A day or two later Mr. Buzzard, who has a long 
 memory, for the location of meals at least, came 
 back to finish his mutton, on his invisible path in 
 the blue sky. When he alighted near the trap he 
 stopped a while, inspecting it with suspicion and 
 fear, stretching his red neck toward his recent prey 
 and looking at it with hungry glittering eyes. Of 
 course soon his greed became greater than his fear; 
 and he stepped under the raised trap, grasped the 
 bait with his strong beak, gave it a good tug ; and 
 down came the trap, and the robber was a prisoner! 
 
 From their hiding-place in a nearby thicket out
 
 Who Belled Mr. Buzzard? 161 
 
 rushed the shepherd boy and his dog with delighted 
 whoops and barks to the big trap, where Mr. Buz- 
 zard vainly flapped and struggled in attempts to 
 get out. The first thought of the boy was to kill 
 the bird at once and take no risk of his getting 
 loose and stealing more lambs; but, on second 
 thought, he changed his mind. Most shepherd 
 boys of Arkansas and everywhere else have plenty 
 of time on their hands to give their heads a fair 
 chance to think up unheard of amusements. Send- 
 ing his collie to care for the sheep-flock the boy 
 stopped at the buzzard-trap to devise some plan of 
 punishment for the prisoner which would combine 
 pleasure with profit, and be most satisfactory to 
 himself and most unsatisfactory to Mr. Buzzard. 
 
 As he pondered over that problem, highly im- 
 portant to the boy and bird chiefly concerned, a 
 happy idea suddenly cleared his perplexed brain. 
 Gleefully crying out: "I'll fix you all right, all 
 right, old fellow, so you'll never come back and 
 meddle with my sheep any more!" he ran all of 
 the long way home and back again, bringing an 
 extra sheep-bell which was kept in the house.
 
 162 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 Cutting the new leather neck-strap of that bell 
 to the proper short length he slid aside one of the 
 slats of his trap; and when Mr. Buzzard pushed 
 his neck through this wider opening, hoping to get 
 away at last, the boy buckled the bell round the 
 wrinkled naked neck until it was more firmly at- 
 tached to Mr. Buzzard than he was ever after to 
 the bell. Then the joyous youth kicked the jail to 
 pieces and turned loose the prisoner. 
 
 Almost as joyful at being freed, Mr. Buzzard 
 sprung high from the ground on leaping legs and 
 beating wings, and began to fly fast away from 
 that hated spot. But sudden amazement and 
 fright followed his great joy; as the glad boy 
 shouted after him: "Without rings on your 
 ringers and bells on your toes you shall have 
 music wherever you goes," when he found he was 
 taking away with him the clanging jingle of gra- 
 zing sheep. At that terrifying noise so near his 
 ears Mr. Buzzard flapped and fled as he never had 
 flown before. He passed a flock of wild geese 
 winging their southward flight over sixty miles an 
 hour, as if they were merely hovering in the air.
 
 HE PASSED A FLOCK OF WILD GEESE WINGING THEIR SOUTHWARD 
 FLIGHT."
 
 Who Belled Mr. Buzzard? 163 
 
 After many such bursts of speed and wheels and 
 vaults in vain efforts to rid himself of that cease- 
 less jangling melody of the pastures he turned 
 homeward at last. 
 
 When the belled pirate, with his black sails set, 
 sought his distant haven, the plowmen in the fields, 
 as he passed over them, stopped their teams in 
 startled wonder to look up and find whence came 
 that bell-ringing in the air, while some timid and 
 superstitious blackfolk took to the bush at once. 
 In the villages and towns boys broke up their 
 games to gaze at Mr. Buzzard with his merry bell 
 and speed him on his parting way with perfectly 
 rapturous cheers. Even grown folks ran out from 
 their work to look at him, and then laughed at the 
 incongruous sight of a cruel vulture .wearing the 
 bell of the gentlest and most innocent animal. 
 
 Everywhere that Mr. Buzzard flew over the 
 homes and haunts of men he was hailed by joyful 
 juvenile cheers and cries of: "Who belled Mr. 
 Buzzard?" He was honored with frequent men- 
 tion in the village and town papers of the Gulf 
 States; and it became a matter of hot dispute
 
 164 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 among some of them as to who had belled that buz- 
 zard and where it was done? 
 
 The afterglow of the day had been almost 
 blotted out by the gathering darkness when the 
 bird-pirate with his novel neck-piece reached his 
 home port. As usual, the ghostly-looking limbs 
 of the great skeleton-tree were already crowded by 
 his fellow-craft that had furled their black sails, 
 hidden their red figure heads, and fallen asleep. 
 The belated wearer of the bell sailed past the dead 
 oak with unflapping wings, rounded to, swung up 
 against the wind with shivering pinions, dropped 
 his anchor claws and grasped his usual limb. 
 
 At the sound of that bell coming suddenly on 
 them in the beginning of the night, all the other 
 vultures of the flock woke up, stretched out their 
 tucked-in necks and flapped up into the air in wild 
 terror. Then, learning who was to blame for that 
 startling noise, they pounced upon the bell-ringer 
 and beat him away from the roost, telling him that 
 they needed no bell to summon them to meals. 
 
 Banished from the flock, Mr. Buzzard with the 
 bell sought a solitary roost by night and cruised
 
 Who Belled Mr. Buzzard? 165 
 
 noisily and alone to look for a living by day. 
 After a year or two of his flights with that immov- 
 able sheep-bell along the low shores of the Missis- 
 sippi river and over the hills and vales of three or 
 four Gulf States, he was seen and heard no more. 
 
 After missing the belled Buzzard for some time 
 the Birdland Boy observed to old Uncle Jason 
 that he wondered what had become of the bird? 
 The old man meditated a little, then replied with 
 great gravity: 
 
 "Well, I dunno 'zackly what's becomed o' him; 
 but I 'spects Mr. Buzzard's wored out de bell or 
 de bell's wored out Mr. Buzzard, maybe."
 
 XII 
 
 fHv. 2Lgnr Host te Hong Eait 
 
 TN the darkest 
 hour of a night 
 in the begin- 
 ning of December there 
 t was a violent rainstorm at 
 Birdland, after which the 
 fc wind changed to the 
 North and the weather became clear and cold. In 
 the thick of that tempest, when all of the planta- 
 tion dogs had been driven to shelter under sheds 
 and cabin floors in the Negro Quarters, a Lynx 
 had raided the turkey-roost back of the mansion 
 grounds and carried off the finest gobbler of the 
 flock. That lost turkey was the most highly 
 prized fowl of the flock; through extra feeding 
 with pecan-nuts he was being fattened for the 
 
 Christmas festivities a few weeks later. 
 166
 
 How Mr. Lynx Lost His Long Tail 167 
 
 The robber Lynx, or Wildcat of the local name, 
 was a monster of his kind, as his retreating tracks, 
 which were partly filled with rainwater, showed. 
 At the seven o'clock sunrise his footprints in the 
 rain-softened soil, leading from the turkey roost to 
 the forest road, were found by old Uncle Jason on 
 his early morning rounds. Along that trail was a 
 turkey feather here and there to turn suspicion 
 into conviction. The footprints, big as those of a 
 large dog, led straight on down the road to the 
 woods. The loaded wildcat had chosen a straight 
 and clear way for the carrying of his heavy 
 plunder. 
 
 After the old black hunter of " varmints " had 
 called the master of Birdland and taken him to 
 look at the departing tracks and fallen feathers 
 he proposed to run down the robber right away 
 with his mixed pack of fice, cur and other mongrel 
 dogs. But, fearing that such inferior noses could 
 not follow the fugitive lynx to his lair, the late 
 owner of the lost turkey forbade such an attempt. 
 With a better plan in view he returned to the 
 house and telephoned the young Doctor and an-
 
 168 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 other friend living near him, who owned a pack 
 of a dozen hounds, to come up as quickly as they 
 could to take breakfast at Birdland, and bring 
 their hounds along to hunt the predatory lynx im- 
 mediately after that meal. , 
 
 Within half an hour the two young sportsmen 
 arrived on horseback, followed by their hounds 
 leashed in pairs. Having begged, and been 
 granted a holiday for such an unusual hunt, the 
 Birdland Boy already had his spirited Mexican 
 pony saddled and at the hitching rack when the 
 visitors arrived. 
 
 Finishing breakfast, the three hunters took 
 horse, and, at the nearer end of the forest road, 
 were joined by Uncle Jason mounted on his grey 
 mule and surrounded by his mongrel pack. When 
 the coupled hounds reached the road the hated 
 wildcat scent set them howling and straining at 
 their leashes. The curs sniffed in surprised con- 
 tempt at such noise and unnecessary excitement, 
 as if they thought those long-eared dog-donkeys 
 were making great fools of themselves pretending 
 that any kind of wild beast had passed that way
 
 How Mr. Lynx Lost His Long Tail 169 
 
 without their knowing of it and smelling him out, 
 themselves. 
 
 The eager hounds were held back; and the 
 horsemen, enthused at the certainty of running 
 down the lynx on a scent so fresh, loped their 
 steeds to the rear fence of the plantation. There 
 numerous feathers were found scraped from the 
 gobbler as its body was dragged over the lowest 
 of the draw-bars. Those movable barriers were 
 quickly let down; and, at a little distance from 
 them, on the edge of the woods, lay a pile of 
 feathers and torn fragments of the lost 
 turkey. 
 
 The hounds were hurriedly unleashed on the 
 spot, and rushed away into the woods howling on 
 the hot trail. The chase was too warm and wild 
 for the mongrels of the Negro Quarters to main- 
 tain their silent contempt. They broke away in 
 the wake of the hounds, yapping, yelping and 
 barking their best. In the words of the old black 
 hunter of " varmints " the two clamorous packs 
 " woke up de woods." 
 
 The lynx, having been suddenly aroused from a
 
 170 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 one-eyed nap in a dense thicket near the scene of 
 his breakfast of nearly a whole turkey that was 
 too much for one, very soon learned that he was 
 having the hardest and perhaps the last run of his 
 life. 
 
 The horsemen followed the chase as best they 
 could down rough branch roads, and through clear- 
 ings and open timber, while Uncle Jason on his 
 grey mule fell far in their rear. 
 
 After two or three miles of rapid flight and cun- 
 ning dodging, finding that the hounds, which he 
 had at first easily outrun, were still true to his 
 trail and were fast gaining on him, the hard-pressed 
 lynx at last took to a tree. Coming up quickly 
 the pursuing dogs stopped, and', seeing him above 
 them and out of their reach, redoubled their former 
 clamor. 
 
 Soon after the lynx had " treed " the riders 
 reached his refuge nearly together, when they saw 
 the fierce cat, as large as any of their hounds, lying 
 in the lowest fork of a liveoak. He was glaring at 
 the dogs on the ground with his great yellow eyes, 
 and answering their frenzied howling and barking
 
 How Mr. Lynx Lost His Long Tail 171 
 
 with growls of hate. His attention was so closely 
 fixed on the dogs directly beneath him that he did 
 not see his human foes until they rode under the 
 tree a dozen yards from its trunk. 
 
 Fearing dogs far less than men, he instantly 
 sprang to his feet at the first sight of his human 
 hunters, and leaped to the ground in desperation 
 to take a last chance of escape in another long run. 
 But, as he touched the ground, a brave little bench- 
 legged fice that, having been belated, had just ar- 
 rived at the outer edge of the pack, rashly grabbed 
 one of his hind legs. Whirling as quick as light- 
 ning, the seized cat had time to give that fool- 
 hardy fice just one tap on the head with his hard 
 bony foreleg before the many other dogs could 
 close in on him. With a cracked skull the valiant 
 fice went to the happy hunting grounds without 
 knowing what had hit him. 
 
 Then more than a score of dogs of high and low 
 degree rushedi, crowding over each other, into the 
 fight. The mass of them made a rolling, raging 
 mound of hair, fur, claws and fangs, in the midst 
 of which the savage wildcat fought his way to the
 
 172 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 foot of the liveoak from which he had leaped a few 
 moments before. 
 
 There he backed against the gnarled trunk for 
 the death-combat. It was not long, but it was furi- 
 ous while it lasted. When it was finished the great 
 lynx lay dead; but he had left many a life-scar 
 among his conquerors; and their ravings and 
 slaverings of the battle were changed to whines 
 and whimpers of pain as they licked their many 
 wounds after their victory was won. 
 
 Old Jason, on his slow mount, reached the bat- 
 tlefield shortly after the conflict was over. When 
 he beheld the huge lynx, lying stretched in death 
 on the ground, he exclaimed: 
 
 "Gre't fathers! dat's de bigges' ole wilecat 
 I's ever seed in all my life, an' I's been in at de 
 killin' o' many a one! " 
 
 Then, catching sight of his dead fice, he dis- 
 mounted, walked over to it, and after discovering 
 the cause of its death, he rambled on in a tone of 
 angry reproach, as if the brave little dog were still 
 living : 
 
 " So, Pepper, you's done cotch it at las', has you?
 
 How Mr. Lynx Lost His Long Tail 173 
 
 What I tell you, dawg? Ain't I done warn you 
 off 'en enough to keep out de way when wilecats is 
 doin' de fightin'? But, like a little fool, you was 
 always ready to resh into any fight at de drap o' 
 yo' hat; an' now you's gone an' got yo'se'f kilt 
 deader 'n dat wilecat layin' dar! " 
 
 The old hunter, frowning at the past rashness 
 of the deceased Pepper, picked him up, carried 
 him to a hollow log lying near and stuffed his body 
 as far as he could reach into its cavity and stopped 
 its mouth with dead brushwood. Thus that little 
 warrior was buried on his last battlefield. 
 
 The wildcat was left a prey to the buzzards. 
 His skin was too badly torn to be worth taking 
 home. As they were leaving, the Birdland Boy, 
 taking a last look at the lynx's lank body, ex- 
 pressed his wonder that so long a cat should have 
 such a short tail. 
 
 Old Jason smiled at the boy's remark and said 
 to him: 
 
 " Ef you kin keep dat frisky pony o' your'n 
 close alongside o' dis lazy mule whilst we's gwine 
 home I'll tell you how dat come to happen: Mr.
 
 174 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 Wilecat warn't made dat a way at fust ; he got his 
 tail bobbed for his mizz'able meanness." 
 
 When they were out of the woods, and the pony 
 had been hauled up beside the jogging mule and 
 held back to match the latter's gait, the old man 
 began : 
 
 " I hearn dis tale I's gwineter tell you now in 
 dis part o' de country atter I come f 'om ole Ver- 
 ginny, about fifty year back, mo' or less. De ole 
 Creeowl colored folks tole it to me befo' de war. 
 Dey claimed deir granddaddies got it f'om de 
 Laffoosh Inguns, who owned all o' dis sugar coun- 
 try befo' we an' de white folks did. I cyarnt talk 
 dat kind o' Creeowl gumbo whar 'Merikin' an' 
 French is all mixed up an' biled down in de same 
 pot: dat's des' like Creeowl cookin', wid so 
 many diffunt tas'es in de same dish you dunno it's 
 main meat. But dey tole me dis tale so offen I 
 managed to ketch it right, an' I'll tell it to you in 
 good ole Verginny talk. 
 
 " Dey says dat de fust Wilecat ever bawned here 
 lived away back in de woods out yander. Atter he 
 growed up he built him a good house, an' he hoped
 
 How Mr. Lynx Lost His Long Tail 175 
 
 to raise a fine lurge family, like mos' cats gin'ally 
 does. But he didn' have neither wife nor chilluns 
 den. Well, dat fust o' de Wilecats was fat an' 
 strong, an' a whole lot bigger'n dat ole Wilecat 
 we's des' done kilt an' lef out in de woods. He 
 wored a fine spotted coat, an' he had a tail as long 
 as his coat; same as every cat has what ain't had 
 it cut off by a mischeevous boy or a no-'count man, 
 an* dere's a heap o' sich. 
 
 " Mr. Wilecat was prouder o' his long tail dan a 
 he peacock is o' his'n. He would switch it dis 
 aways an' dat aways, an' qurl it at de een' like 
 some young mens keeps a twistin' an' foolin' wid 
 deir fust musstash, wantin' ev'ybody nigh to see 
 dey's got one. 
 
 " A mile or so f 'om Mr. Wildcat's house was a 
 deep bayou runnin' thew de back o 5 de woods, nigh 
 de ma'sh. Dat bayou was full o' de bestes' kind o' 
 fish. On its bank lived Mr. Otter, in a big hole for 
 his house, wid its do'way or mouf underneaf de 
 water. 
 
 " Some ways furder down de bayou Mr. Mink 
 had his home in another hole in de bank.
 
 176 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " Dey was bofe fishermans; for dem days Mr. 
 Mink, like Mr. Otter does now, never e't nuttin* 
 but fish, though he's changed his ways sence. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Wilecat was fonder o' fish dan a 
 tame cat is. When he could git it he'd ruther eat 
 fish dan fresh meat; same as some folkses who'd 
 ruther have de grub dat belongs to somebody else 
 dan what dey owns deyse'fs. 
 
 " But Mr. Wilecat couldn' ketch fish for hisse'f 
 an' de onliest way he could git any was to hide by 
 de bayou an' watch Mr. Otter an' Mr. Mink when 
 dey went a' fishin' an* wait dar to take deir fish 
 away f'om 'um when dey cotched 'um an' fetched 
 'um to de bank to eat 'um, like dey always does. 
 Den Mr. Wilecat would slip up on Mr. Otter or 
 Mr. Mink, easy, easy, easy, so dey couldn' hear 
 him 'proachin', an' when he got nigh enough he 
 would bounce beside 'um befo' dey had time to 
 jump in de bayou out o' his reach to save deir fish. 
 
 " Den, widout even sayin' ' Howdy, Mr. Otter,' 
 or ' Howdy, Mr. Mink/ he would growl : 
 
 " ' I see you's got fish for dinner to-day ; sence 
 you's forgot to invite me I guess I's got to invite
 
 How Mr. Lynx Lost His Long Tail 177 
 
 myse'f.' Den, ef dey grumbled at his takin' de 
 lurges' share, or de whole o' de grub: slap! 
 slap! slap! he'd box 'um on bofe sides de head 
 de same second, an' dey'd ha' to jump in de water 
 an' duck deir heads under to ease de pain an' stop 
 de loud ringin' in deir ears. An' when dey'd come 
 up to ketch deir breaf, atter Mr. Wilecat had e't 
 up all de fish, he'd stay dar awhile to torment 'um 
 wid tellin' 'um what a nice dinner it was, an' mo' 
 pesterin' talk. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Otter an' Mr. Mink study an' study, 
 an' plan an' plan how to stop Mr. Wilecat f om 
 stealin' deir fish so offen. For a long time dey'd 
 bofe been worried mos' out o' deir wits by Mr. 
 Wilecat's axin' 'um over an' over to 1'arn him how 
 to ketch fish like dem. But dey was af eared to tell 
 him de trufe, bekase, thinks dey, ef a gre't big 
 critter like Mr. Wilecat, wid sich long legs for 
 swimmin', sich long toofes for killin', an' sich a big 
 mouf for eatin', 1'arnt deir way o' fishin', an' took 
 to de bizness steady he'd soon 'sterminate all de 
 fish in de bayou, an' dey'd starve to deaf. 
 
 " Bimeby Mr. Otter hits on a good projick, an'
 
 178 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 he ups an' away to hunt for Mr. Mink an' tell him 
 about it. When he f oun' Mr. Mink an' tole him de 
 plan he made him keep de las' word of it to hisse'f. 
 
 " De nex' time Mr. Wilecat happen' along an' 
 foun' Mr. Otter at dinner, dat slick fisherman 
 make out he moughty glad to see him; he git up 
 an' say: 
 
 "'Howdy, Mr. Wilecat? You come in good 
 time, I got a fine dinner to-day; set down an' eat 
 it all, bekase I ain't a bit hongry, myse'f.' Den, 
 whilst his company was busy eatin', he went on: 
 ' Oh, Mr. Wilecat, you's been axin' me for de 
 longes' time to 1'arn you my an' Mr. Mink's way 
 o' fishin' ; I's been moughty mean to you not to tell 
 you befo', but I's gwine to make up for it by lettin' 
 you know right now. It's dis; we bofe fishes wid 
 our tails; an', when de fish bites an' swallers 'um 
 fur enough, we juks 'um quick roun' to our moufs, 
 an' grabs 'um wid our teefes, an' takes 'um asho' 
 to eat 'um.' 
 
 " * Huccome you don't set on de bank an' drap 
 yo' tails in de water instid o' divin' down under de 
 water to do yo' fishin'?' axed Mr. Wilecat.
 
 How Mr. Lynx Lost His Long Tail 179 
 
 " Mr. Otter answer' : ' Ef I only had a tail as 
 long an' fine as your'n, Mr. Wilecat, I'd do all my 
 fishin' dat way; but put my tail an' Mr. Mink's 
 togedder an' dey ain't nigh as long as your'n; an* 
 ef we sot on de bank an' drapped our tails in de 
 bayou we couldn' fish deep enough for nuttin' but 
 sufface-minnows, whilst yo' fine, long, strong tail 
 kin reach mos' to de bottom, whar de biggest fish 
 runs.' 
 
 " Nuttin' in de worl' could put Mr. Wilecat in 
 sich a good humor as praisin' his long tail; same 
 as it makes some fool folks proud to flatter 'urn to 
 deir faces; so Mr. Wilecat begin to purr like one 
 o' dem new little gasserleem boats what runs up 
 an' down de river, an' he say: 
 
 " ' Well, Mr. Otter, ef you'll pick me out a good 
 fishin' place, I believe I'll try my han', or my tail, 
 at de spote.' 
 
 " ' Des' wait here till I swims a little ways down 
 de bayou to fotch Mr. Mink, lie knows de fine 
 fishin' places much better'n me,' answers Mr. Otter. 
 
 "Wid dem words he lepped in de bayou in a 
 hurry, an' off he swummed. But when he got
 
 180 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 aroun' de fust bend out o' Mr. Wilecat's sight, he 
 dived down to de bottom to look up de lurgest 
 Mud-Turkle he knowed ; an* when he f oun' him he 
 says: 
 
 ' ' Oh, Mr. Turkic, does you want a fine dinner 
 to-day? ' 
 
 " ' In co'se I does, I always does,' answers Mr. 
 Turkic. 
 
 " ' Well, Mr. Turkic, you go right off de reel to 
 a suttin' place * (which Mr. Otter whispered in his 
 ear) , ' an* hoi' yo' head a little ways under water 
 for a while, an' you'll sho'ly git one.' 
 
 "Whilst Mr. Turkic paddled away fast as he 
 could go to de 'p'inted place, Mr. Otter riz to de 
 su'fface an' swummed on to Mr. Mink's house. 
 Findin' Mr. Mink at home de two hasted back to 
 Mr. Wilecat, afeared he might git tired o' waitin' 
 an' go home. 
 
 " When dey got back, mos' out o' breaf , dey 
 foun' Mr. Wilecat settin' 'zackly whar Mr. Otter 
 had lef him; an' when Mr. Mink had cotched his 
 wind ag'in and said howdy, he says: 
 
 " ' Mr. Wilecat, I'll show you de bestes' fishin'
 
 " 'SOON HE FELT A 'SPICIOUS NIBBLE.' "
 
 How Mr. Lynx Lost His Long Tail 181 
 
 place in all dis bayou ; come right along wid me ; ' 
 an' he tuk Mr. Wilecat a short distance down de 
 bank, whar Mr. Otter had made a slide f'om de 
 bushes into de water. 
 
 " ' Here's de spot fish bites any time o' day or 
 night,' 'sclaims Mr. Mink. 
 
 " Mr. Wilecat den sot down on de aidge o' de 
 bank wid his back to de bayou an' drapped his long 
 tail down deep in de water. Soon he felt a 
 'spicious nibble, an' up he jukked his tail wid 
 nuttin' on it. 
 
 " ' You done los' him, you jukked too quick, befo' 
 he swallered de bait, wait till you gits a good bite, 
 den juk hard an' swif',' says Mr. Otter. 
 
 "Dem words was de sign for Mr. Turkic to 
 watch out an' take holt; an* when Mr. Wilecat 
 drapped his tail back in de water, Mr. Turkic 
 grabbed it nigh de top een' an' shet down his sharp 
 jaws hard an' tight. 
 
 " At dat Mr. Wilecat jukked his hardes', an', 
 heels over head, he went into de bresh an' briars, 
 wid his fishin' line broke an' all his fine long tail 
 gone 'cept de stump!
 
 182 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " De way dat big varmint riz up an' r'ared, an' 
 ripped an' wauled Wilecat cuss-words, an' clawed 
 an' clubbed aroun* was a sight for eyes to see an' 
 ears to hear! 
 
 " Mr. Otter an* Mr. Mink had jumped in de 
 bayou at de fust start o' dat strong pull betwixt 
 Mr. Turkle an' Mr. Wilecat an' went on home like 
 de house was afire. 
 
 " Mr. Turkle sunk to de bottom, whar Mr. 
 Wilecat's mighty noise couldn' 'sturb his eatin', an' 
 finished his fine long dinner. 
 
 " When de wusses' of his mad fit was over Mr. 
 Wilecat groped an' grappled in de water a long 
 time for his los' tail; but at las' he had to give up 
 de s'arch an' go on home. Atter dat he was so 
 'shamed of his short tail an' de way Mr. Otter an' 
 Mr. Mink had made sich a fool o' him he kep' clean 
 away f'om dat part o 5 de bayou whar dey lived, 
 hatin' for dem tricky fishermans to laugh at him 
 f'om deir hidin'-places. 
 
 " But dat warn't de wusses' part of it : Mr. 
 Wilecat's bob-tail Vended down to his chilluns an' 
 deir chilluns till dese times; an' de whole Wilecat
 
 How Mr. Lynx Lost His Long Tail 183 
 
 breed is so 'shamed of it yit dat dey hides f 'om all 
 de yuther varmints o' de woods every blessed hour 
 o' de daylight, be dey long in de Summer or short 
 in de Winter; an' dey goes slinkin' an' prowlin' 
 an' thievin' 'roun' only in de darkness. 
 
 " Dey all still nu'sses dat oldtime grudge ag'inst 
 Mr. Otter an' Mr. Mink, while all o' Mr. Otter's 
 an' Mr. Mink's 'scendants knows dey has it an' 
 gwine to keep it till de een' o' de worl'. So when 
 dey fishes in de water or dey slips thew de woods 
 Mr. Otter an' Mr. Mink always keeps one eye 
 open for danger. 
 
 " Git up here, you pesky, lazy mule, you's 
 movin' like you don't know it's gwine on todes 
 dinnertime!"
 
 XIII 
 Jjttr. Jtfinlt Hrrame a ?KMtnt0man 
 
 A COLD, blustering North wind was blow- 
 ing at Birdland and all over the sugar 
 region one afternoon of the midwinter, al- 
 though the sky was perfectly clear. Mademoiselle, 
 the governess, and the Twins were out of doors in 
 the bright and bracing weather, running about the 
 mansion grounds to keep warm. In the midst of 
 their romp they came across old Uncle Jason, who 
 was working beside his light job-cart, to which his 
 almost inseparable grey mule, Old Abe, was 
 hitched. With a hay-fork the old man was pitch- 
 
 184
 
 How Mr. Mink Became a Huntsman 185 
 
 ing the piled up trash of recently trimmed shrub- 
 bery into his cart. 
 
 As Mademoiselle and the Twins stopped to give 
 " Uncle Jason " their usual hearty greeting he 
 gazed admiringly at a new set of mink furs worn 
 by the governess, and exclaimed: 
 
 " Mamzel, dat long mink windin' roun' yo' neck, 
 wid his tail hangin' down de front o' yo' frock an' 
 his bead eyes shinin' so bright, puts me in mind o' 
 dat ole Mr. Mink who use' to live out on de bayou 
 an' fooled Mr. Wilecat so bad. But dat Mr. Mink 
 moved to de woods, an' I hearn he done some 
 moughty funny doin's in de woods an' de fiel's." 
 
 There the grizzled speaker abruptly stopped 
 talking and briskly pitched the rubbish into his 
 cart, as if to make up for the time just wasted in 
 speech. The brother and sister knew that the old 
 woodsman had another tale of the wild things in 
 mind, and they begged him hard to leave off work 
 at once and accompany them to their playroom, 
 where a warm wood-fire was burning, and tell 
 them something about "ole Mr. Mink's funny 
 doin's in de woods."
 
 186 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 Pretending to be very reluctant to stop working 
 when the sun was still an hour high, Old Jason 
 leaned on the handle of his pitchfork for some time 
 in frowning meditation, as if he were deeply and 
 doubtfully pondering over the question whether he 
 should continue his light task, or take a resting 
 spell to entertain his urgent young friends. 
 Finally he decided to comply with their request, 
 with these protesting words : 
 
 "Well, Little Mahster an' Little Mistis', dis 
 trash here ain't gwine to walk out o' de yard by 
 itse'f, an* dis mule ain't gwine to move de cyart 
 widout me close behine him ; but it looks to me like 
 I's got to mind you two young whitefolks, des' as 
 much as I minded yo' Gran'paw an' Gran'maw 
 forty yeah back; an' I mought des' as well go 
 'long an' do what you tells me." 
 
 Then the venerable driver climbed up in his cart, 
 and, with a severe frown on his brow and a sus- 
 picious smile in his mouth, tapped his dozing mule 
 lightly with his whip-lash, and drove off toward 
 the back gate. 
 
 Mademoiselle, who was also much interested in
 
 How Mr. Mink Became a Huntsman 187 
 
 the promised mink story, then walked with the 
 Twins to the playroom. In good time Old Jason 
 entered its door, saluting the place and its three 
 occupants with an ancient low bow and a spoken 
 " yo' sarvant " as he came within, took the wide 
 armchair as ancient as he which the Twins 
 had set for him in the cosiest corner of the fireside, 
 and, holding his wrinkled hands a while near 
 enough to the bright blaze to burn them, he 
 began : 
 
 " Well, dat ole Mr. Mink, who use' to live out 
 on de bayou whar' it passes thew de ma'sh, de 
 same one like I tole you what made up wid Mr. 
 Otter dat smart projick on Mr. Wilecat, tuk a 
 notion to move. De fishin' was gittin' sort o' po', 
 wid him an* Mr. Otter an' Mr. Turkic an' Mr. 
 Yallergator at it steady day in an' night out, so 
 Mr. Mink made up his mine to move to de woods 
 an' turn huntsman. He built hisse'f a new house 
 at de bottom of a big holler in de thick o* de woods, 
 which was nigh enough to a pawnd for him to git 
 a fish or frawg dinner when he hankered atter his 
 oletime feastes.
 
 188 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " When Mr. Mink moved to de woods dat was 
 a moughty bad day for some o' de weak an' skeery 
 varmints what lived dar already. Yas sar reel 
 when dat new neighbor come to de woods trouble 
 was fetched wid him; an' it spread f'om de ma'sh 
 behine to de open fields in front. Befo' Mr. 
 Mink's movin' in Mr. Mushrat had so many chil- 
 luns he ha' to chase mos' of 'um out de house to res' 
 in peace when his day's wuk was done; but, 
 bimeby, he notice' dey was gittin' sort a scurce. 
 Mr. Sq'url ha* to sleep high in de tree, an* Mr. 
 Gopher ha* to burrow deep in de groun'. Den, 
 early one moonlight night, here come Mr. Rabbit's 
 young folks runnin' home deir hardes', hollerin': 
 
 "'Daddy! Oh, Daddy! Dar's a gre't big 
 black ha'nt in de woods, an' he tuk atter us an' 
 chased us home!' 
 
 "'What yo' big black ha'nt look like?' axed 
 Daddy Rabbit. 
 
 " ' Oh! ' dey all squeals at once. ' Under de 
 trees he's black as dark; in de clearin's he's shiny 
 as de moonshine; he's long as a snake an' big 
 'roun' as a tree, an' his eyes is like coals o' fire I '
 
 How Mr. Mink Became a Huntsman 189 
 
 '"Pooh! Pooh!' puff' Daddy Rabbit, 'you 
 chilluns was des' skeered by yo' own shadders in 
 de moonshine shet up yo' squealin' ! I's 'shamed 
 o' you for bein' sich little cowards!' 
 
 " At dat de little Rabbits hush' right tight, an' 
 snuggle close togedder, wukkin' deir lips like dey 
 was whisperin' to one anudder about de black 
 ha'nt ; whilst deir tale drapped out of Daddy Rab- 
 bit's mine in a minnit. 
 
 " But de nex' night here come Mammy Rabbit 
 runnin' home f'om her pa's'ley-patch, hoppin' high 
 as a young gal jumpin' de skip-rope, an' des' 
 bouncin' in de front door. 
 
 " ' What you in sich a big hurry 'bout, old 
 lady?' axed Daddy Rabbit. 
 
 " Not wantin' to skeer de chilluns too bad wid 
 sich a tale Mammy Rabbit went over an' whisper 
 easy in Daddy Rabbit's ear: 
 
 " * I was chased home by a black ha'nt, or a 
 critter sich as I never seed befo' in de woods or de 
 fiel's. He was black one minnit, red de nex', den 
 white as de moonshine; he looked like a big snake 
 wid four legs, an' he was lurge as a tree-limb.'
 
 190 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 "'Pooh! Pooh!' ag'in puff' Daddy Rabbit. 
 * You's wusser'n de chilluns, an' dey's skeery 
 enough; maybe dey comes by it f'om der 
 Mammy's side o* de fambly.' 
 
 " But de very nex' night de same critter or var- 
 mint tuk atter Daddy Rabbit, an' he never tarried 
 none gittin' home. De chilluns, who'd seed him 
 a comin' across de clearin' before de house like his 
 feets was hot, all axed him togedder when he 
 reshed inside : 
 
 ' ' Oh, Daddy, what made you come home so 
 swif ? Was de black ha'nt behine you, too? ' 
 
 " Daddy Rabbit was too busy pantin' to answer 
 at once; but, soon as he could ketch his breaf he 
 puff': ' Pooh! Pooh! No! I was des' 
 limberin' my legs a little for de benefick o' 
 de exercise you chilluns git yo' supper an' go 
 on to bed widout bodderin' me any mo' wid yo' 
 fool questions ! ' 
 
 "Atter his own little 'sperience Daddy Rabbit 
 made up his mine to go an' see Jedge B'ar who 
 settled all de varmint troubles like I's tole you 
 befo' 'bout dat critter, or black ha'nt, or big
 
 How Mr. Mink Became a Huntsman 191 
 
 fo'-legged snake, what chased him an' his fambly 
 home at night. So, de fus' thing in de mawnin', 
 he hunted up de ole Jedge an' 'splain de case dis 
 away: 
 
 " * Oh, Jedge, dar's a big black ha'nt in de 
 woods; he runs me an' my wife an' chilluns home 
 'mos' every night, an' de chilluns an' deir Mammy 
 is moughty afeared of him.' 
 
 " ' How 'bout de Daddy; ain't he afeared some, 
 too? ' axes Jedge B'ar. 
 
 " * Well, I dunno 'zactly, he ain't cotched up 
 wid me yit, but he looks moughty dang'ous,' an- 
 swers Daddy Rabbit. 
 
 " * 'Scribe him,' says Jedge B'ar. 
 
 " * He's black one time, red anudder, den he'll 
 shine like a sperrit in de moonshine; an' he has a 
 body like a snake wid legs like a varmint, an' he's 
 about as big ag'in as me/ answers Daddy Rabbit. 
 
 "'Woof! woof! woof!' larfs Jedge B'ar, 
 'woof! woof! woof! Why, mon, yo' big black 
 ha'nt ain't nobody but Mr. Mink. What you 
 afeared o' Mr. Mink for? Ybu's bigger 'n him, yo' 
 teefs is longer'n his'n, an' so is yo' legs, ef you
 
 192 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 don't feel in a fightin' humor when you happens 
 to meet up wid him.' 
 
 " * Yas, Jedge, all dat mought be de trufe,' ar- 
 gufies Daddy Rabbit. ' I mought whup Mr. Mink 
 as a varmint, but he kin change hisse'f into a ha'nt, 
 an' I's skeered of a ha'nt more'n I is o' de bigges' 
 an' wusses' varmint in de woods.' 
 
 " At dat Jedge B'ar grinned some, an' den put 
 on his cote-look an' growled out: 
 
 ' ' Den what make it you's always braggin' so 
 much 'bout what you gwine to do when you gits a 
 good chance? What make you squat on de grass 
 befo' yo' own house, wid de door moughty handy, 
 an' stomp de groun' hard wid yo' behine feets, an' 
 squeal yo' dares like you's sp'ilin' for a fight?' 
 
 " Daddy Rabbit couldn' answer a word to all 
 dat; so he des' blinked his big eyes an' flicked back 
 his long ears an' scratched his chin; an' all dat 
 made Jedge B'ar so mad he snorted: 
 
 " ' Yas, you rabbit-folks is de no'countes' var- 
 mints in de woods; you don't do nuttin' but eat 
 an' sleep an' play, day or night, wid yo' dancin' 
 an' tag-games on de grass all night, till you ain't
 
 How Mr. Mink Became a Huntsman 193 
 
 fittin' to wuk or to fight, nor to do nuttin' 'cept to 
 run, an' you ain't steady enough to stick to dat, 
 bekase dey tells me even Mr. Turkic beat you in 
 a good fa'r an' squar' race.' 
 
 " Wid dat Jedge B'ar turned his back on Daddy 
 Rabbit an' lef him widout de good-by word, an' 
 Daddy Rabbit lippety-lopped back home. 
 
 " Well, de black, red an' moonshiny huntsman 
 kep' ha'ntin' de woods aroun' Daddy Rabbit's 
 house every night, an' de po' little Rabbit chilluns 
 ha' to stay close at home wid nuttin' to eat but a 
 little mess o' greens Mammy an' Daddy Rabbit 
 brung home now an' den in de broad day. Den, 
 one mawnin', atter sun-up, whilst Daddy Rabbit 
 was busy in a turnup-patch 'bout a mile f 'om home, 
 here come Mr. Mink hot on his trail. At de fus' 
 sight of him Daddy Rabbit drapped de armful o' 
 turnups an' green tops he had pulled to take home, 
 an* he circled aroun' Mr. Mink to git betwix' him 
 an' de woods. 
 
 " Mon, dar was a race for it den! Daddy Rab- 
 bit put out for home in a hurry wid his white tail 
 wavin' fa'r'well to Mr. Mink. But he was gwine
 
 194 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 too fas' to keep his win', an' soon he had to slow 
 down a heap wid his heart an* his lights 'mos' 
 bustin'. 
 
 " Den Mr. Mink, wid de same long boundin' 
 lope of his start, begin to gain steady. Closer, 
 closer, closer he come, wid Daddy Rabbit moughty 
 tired an' pantin' hard for his secon'-win'. 
 
 " Daddy Rabbit cotch dat secon'-win' wid Mr. 
 Mink no more'n de length o' dis room behine him, 
 an' he turned loose his legs in his best licks ag'in; 
 but he let down sooner 'n befo'. 
 
 " Mr. Mink never changed his gait once, an' he 
 soon gained more'n he los' when Daddy Rabbit 
 got his secon'-win' ; an', wid Daddy Rabbit's losin' 
 dat, he was gittin' nigher an' nigher every minnit. 
 
 " When Mr. Mink was close enough for de fin- 
 ishin' spring to grab him an' bring him to de 
 groun* for good an* all, Daddy Rabbit, wid home 
 in sight, made one las' spurt o' speed, reached his 
 house, lepped inside an* banged de door tight, wid 
 Mr. Mink so close behine dat he butted his head 
 ag'inst de slammin' door. 
 
 " Daddy Rabbit staid locked in his house till de
 
 JEDGE B'AK LAKFED AG'lN.' "
 
 How Mr. Mink Became a Huntsman 195 
 
 midday, when all o' de night-prowlin' varmints is 
 home sleepin' sound as we folkses sleeps in de 
 middle o' de night. Den he hasted off to Jedge 
 B'ar's house to beg de ole Jedge hard to save him 
 an' his fambly f 'om Mr. Mink. When he managed 
 to wake up Jedge B'ar by de hardes' knockin', he 
 come to his door frownin' an' growled out: 
 
 " ' What you doin' here bodderin' me dis time o' 
 day when you knows all sensable varmint-folks is 
 sound asleep ? ' 
 
 " At de tale Mr. Rabbit tole 'bout his race for 
 life wid Mr. Mink behine, an' how nigh he come 
 to gittin' cotched, Jedge B'ar larfed ag'in; but 
 when he hearn about dem hongry chilluns starvin' 
 at home for fear o' Mr. Mink he tuk pity on dat 
 whole skeery fambly, an' says: 
 
 " ' Mr. Mink seems to be gittin' too mean an' 
 bad to live in de woods, an' it's about time to 1'arn 
 him better ways ' den he stopped awhile to study 
 an' to hem an' haw de right idee in his head; an', 
 atterwhile, he says: 
 
 8 ' Frien' Rabbit, you go back to dat same tur- 
 nup-patch to-morrer mawnin' summ'at sooner'n
 
 196 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 you did dis mawnin'; Mr. Mink is more'n apt to 
 foller you dar' ag'in. Look out for him keerful, 
 an' when you sees him comin' instid o' runnin' 
 home cut right across de open fiel's to de black- 
 folks' quarters, which ain't as far as de woods. 
 Dar' de fus' henhouse you happens to see will have 
 de door locked; but de chicken-hole at its bottom 
 will be open dat time o' day. Run right into dat 
 chicken-hole an' out ag'in, an' aroun' behine de 
 henhouse an' hide. When Mr. Mink follers yo* 
 trail into de same chicken-hole git up an' go home 
 any gait you please, bekase Mr. Mink ain't gwine 
 to chase you back to de woods.' 
 
 6 ' But what I gwine to do 'bout Mr. Dawg, who 
 lives in de blackfolks' quarters, he's wusser'n Mr. 
 Mink! ' 'sclaims Daddy Rabbit. 
 
 " * Well,' growls Jedge B'ar, gittin' out o' pa- 
 tience, * ef you's sich a fool as not to know Mr. 
 Quarters'-Dawg is wid his owner out in de cane- 
 fiel' dat time o' day you ought to be cotched some- 
 ways; but go 'long an' do 'zackly like I says, an' 
 don't you 'sturb me no more.' 
 
 " So de nex' mawnin', feelin' moughty oneasy
 
 How Mr. Mink Became a Huntsman 197 
 
 lest Jedge B'ar's plan wouldn' work out all right, 
 Daddy Rabbit went 'arly to de turnup-patch an' 
 sot dar waitin' an' watchin' for Mr. Mink. 
 
 " Bimeby Mr. Mink hove in sight, comin' on his 
 tracks out o' de woods, an' Daddy Rabbit put out 
 right off for de plantation quarters. He runned 
 in de chicken-hole o' de fus' henhouse he reach', 
 out ag'in, an' hid behine de henhouse. 
 
 " In good time here come Mr. Mink, true to his 
 trail. He runned in de chicken-hole; an' Mr. 
 Rabbit hopped up lightly an' lit out for de woods. 
 
 " 'Zackly like Jedge B'ar had figgered it all out, 
 Mr. Mink forgot Daddy Rabbit's fresh trail wid 
 de smell o' chicken ticklin' his nose, an' de tas'e o' 
 chicken waterin' in his mouf, an' he stopped right 
 dar to 'zamine aroun' him. One ole settin' hen 
 quar'led at him some f'om her nes', but he never 
 'sturbed her none, bein' too smart to raise a racket 
 dar in de daytime. So, atter studyin' de place 
 well, he slipped out an' went on home to de woods 
 to projick a way to do some chicken-stealin' dat 
 night. 
 
 " When midnight come, dar' was Mr. Mink
 
 198 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 creepin' to de henhouse door, whar he stopped 
 awhile to lissen if Mr. Man, or Mr. Dawg, was 
 awake an' movin' aroun'. But dar was no moon to 
 keep Mr. Dawg awake, an' no howlin' Mr. Dawg 
 to wake up Mr. Man. So, wid de chicken-hole shet 
 tight, he dugged a hole under de bottom o' de door, 
 an', gittin' inside, he croped quiet to de foot o' de 
 chicken ladder leadin' to de roos'. 
 
 "When Mr. Mink got dat far clack! an' 
 a good sharp steel trap grabbed him by de leg. 
 He squealed, roosters squawked, an' hens squalled, 
 an' ah 1 de Mr. Dawgs in hearin' o' dat row woked 
 up an' barked. 
 
 " Den a lighted lantum come bobbin' thew de 
 dark, de henhouse lock clicked, de door flewed 
 open, an' Mr. Man wid a club run in an' done de 
 res'. De nex' mawnin' he skint Mr. Mink an' soon 
 atterward sold his skin. Maybe I was de man' dat 
 cotched Mr. Mink an' skint him; an' maybe some 
 pretty Creeowl Mamzel is wearin' his black an' red 
 an' moonshiny furrer right now. 
 
 " Daddy Rabbit an' all o' his fambly sho'ly was 
 glad when ole Mr. Mink was gone for good; an'
 
 How Mr. Mink Became a Huntsman 199 
 
 dey all still lives, sleepin' an' eatin' all day, an' 
 dancin' an' playin' tag in de moonlight all night. 
 And Daddy Rabbit still squats on de grass an' 
 stomps de groun' an' squeals his dare to brag how 
 brave he is; an' he's still ready to run away at de 
 drap of a ripe hick'ry-nut on de dead leaves."
 
 XIV 
 
 Hattys Jttottletr 
 
 IT was the evening of Mademoiselle's birthday 
 anniversary; it is unnecessary to give the 
 number, as, perhaps, that modest young lady 
 might have been more reluctant to reveal her 
 youth than to tell her age. Among several very 
 pretty presents sent her, or given her directly, in 
 remembrance of the day the prettiest was a costly 
 and handsome gift which came without the name 
 
 of the donor, and without a word to signify who 
 200
 
 My Lady's Mottled Belt 201 
 
 had sent it, or to furnish the least clue of its source. 
 If the intent of the giver had been to add interest 
 to the gift by mystifying the fair maid who re- 
 ceived it, and piquing her feminine curiosity, he, 
 or she succeeded very well in such purpose. 
 
 Mademoiselle herself was perfectly sure that it 
 had come from one of her most intimate girl 
 friends of the city, a fellow graduate of the Con- 
 vent of the Sacred Heart, with its noted finishing 
 school; and she fancied that a little touch of teas- 
 ing had accompanied the gift, with the intent of 
 tiying to make its recipient believe that it had 
 come from some fond admirer of the other sex. 
 
 The Birdland Twins and their parents offered 
 many guesses at the name of the sender; but no 
 one could decide how nearly they hit or how widely 
 they missed the object of their curiosity. When 
 the handsome young Doctor, who had been invited 
 to help celebrate the evening of that happy natal 
 day, arrived, they immediately showed him the mys- 
 terious present and set Mm to guessing to solve the 
 puzzling question of its source. 
 
 The Doctor, holding the very interesting object,
 
 202 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 in his hand for some time, closely examined it with 
 admiring and wondering eyes. It lay in an oblong 
 morocco box, about the size of most books, on a 
 bed of purple cotton. On its cover the box bore 
 the name in gilt letters of the recipient, and, on the 
 reverse was minutely graven that of the most noted 
 jewelry firm in New Orleans. Within the box was 
 a complimentary card, on which was no name, but 
 it bore this graven inscription: 
 
 " From him who first wore me." 
 
 The beautiful birthday-gift was a wide, mottled 
 belt, clasped by a gold buckle of double serpent 
 heads. The material of which the belt was made 
 was a very thin and pliant leather, which was prop- 
 erly stiffened beneath with some stouter fabric, 
 and lined on its inner side with pearl-colored satin. 
 The outer surface was of a pale tawny color, or 
 copper-tint, marked with evenly placed diamond- 
 shaped figures in jet-black dots. 
 
 The mottled belt was the finely tanned and fin- 
 ished section of an enormous rattlesnake's skin, as
 
 My Lady's Mottled Belt 203 
 
 they all knew when it was first taken out of the 
 jeweler's case. 
 
 The visitor ventured more guesses as to the 
 name of its giver than the pretty girl who had re- 
 ceived it and the Twins and their parents com- 
 bined. His taking so many random shots at the 
 mystery might have led persons of more guile than 
 his friends of Birdland to suspect that he was 
 firing so often merely to divert suspicion from his 
 own direction. 
 
 When, after eager insistence of the others, 
 laughing and blushing, Mademoiselle clasped that 
 perfectly fitting girdle around her waist, over that 
 which she already wore, the Doctor declared that 
 she was extremely becoming to it, and she might 
 prove as fatal to men wearing it now as was the 
 serpent who had worn it first. Then in further 
 bantering tones he went on: 
 
 " Now that you have a rattlesnake belt, I can 
 get you, from a negro snake-doctor who lives in 
 the nearest town, the skins of two little coral ser- 
 pents for crimson and gold bracelets; there I 
 might also find enough rattles of the singing-ser-
 
 204 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 pent to make you a necklace of beads; we might 
 take the hide from a tender young alligator to fur- 
 nish you befitting walking boots, borrow hawks- 
 wings and heron-plumes to bedeck your dark hair 
 and thus have you as beauteously arrayed from the 
 raiment of the wild things as was ever the loveliest 
 young maid of the Houmas Indians who once 
 dwelt here beside the Father of Waters." 
 
 They all laughed heartily at this fancy picture 
 of the young Governess in savage attire ; and, thus 
 finding his limited audience in a receptive mood, 
 the Doctor developed symptoms of drifting into 
 his story-telling failing. Encouraged by the un- 
 necessary urging of the Twins, and the smiling 
 silence of their parents and also of the Governess, 
 he began: 
 
 " It was not altogether in fun that I pictured 
 Mademoiselle adorned with snakeskins and wear- 
 ing alligator hides and bird-feathers; but, isn't it 
 perfectly ridiculous how women rob the wild things 
 for their ornaments nowadays? They are more 
 beautiful than the birds, yet they borrow their 
 feathers, from dainty heron-aigrettes down to
 
 My Lady's Mottled Belt 205 
 
 pigeon wings, to make themselves look prettier; 
 their necks may be whiter than Annie Laurie's, 
 like the swan, yet they try to improve their orig- 
 inal snow with swansdown trimmings; they adorn 
 their lovely tresses, top, back, and sides, with 
 combs from the shell of the ugly tortoise; they 
 girdle their willowy waists with the skins of hide- 
 ous serpents ; and they even carry their wealth and 
 their fine raiment in bags made of the hide of the 
 horrible crocodile! but, oh my, how I ramble! 
 Let me get back to rattlesnakes right away! 
 
 " My Lady's mottled belt, possibly, came 
 dressed and finished from a curio store in the city, 
 containing a small tannery in which are employed 
 two or three expert workmen from France. For 
 fine furs, fancy bird-skins and feathers, and reptile 
 hides that tannery depends mostly on the marshes 
 and the * chenieres ' as the Creoles call the live- 
 oak forests of our Gulf Coast parishes. Prob- 
 ably the belt-buckle only was added at the jewelry 
 workshop. 
 
 " Some of the ' chenieres ' or liveoak forests in 
 the river-parishes below the city start in the rear
 
 206 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 of sugar plantations fronting on the river and 
 stretch out many miles into the low waste of sur- 
 rounding sea-marsh. Those liveoak forests are 
 noted for their number of rattlesnakes and the 
 enormous size of some of those deadly reptiles. 
 There such small animals as rabbits, squirrels, 
 minks and muskrats are so abundant that the rat- 
 tlers have good hunting, and so much food that 
 they reach the full limit of their growth in girth 
 and length; 
 
 " A doctor, living on that lower coast, who is a 
 particular friend of mine, recently told me an in- 
 teresting tale of 1 the largest rattlesnake he had ever 
 seen in that serpent-abounding section. 
 
 " That * King of the Rattlesnakes/ as he was 
 called by the local colored folk, lived in a liveoak 
 forest, which was called by the Creole natives and 
 hunters ' Grand Cheniere/ as it was the greatest 
 liveoak forest of that district. English-speaking 
 residents of the plantations near called it the Her- 
 mitage Woods, from its having but one old house 
 in all of its wilds. 
 
 " The serpent monarch of the Hermitage forest
 
 My Lady's Mottled Belt 207 
 
 was seldom seen; but those few times were much 
 more frequent than the negro woodchoppers who 
 happened to see him cared to come across him. 
 They loudly declared and stoutly maintained that 
 the ' monst'ous snake was leben foot long an' big- 
 ger'n a man's leg in de body.' When they saw him 
 they decided that he was entirely too large and 
 long and wicked-looking to be tackled with an ax 
 or a club at close quarters. Therefore on such 
 occasions there was always a prompt and mutual 
 parting of company; and the seeing colored man 
 was always more prompt in such encounters, trav- 
 eling like calamity might be trying to overtake 
 him, while the royal serpent, with unruffled dig- 
 nity, kept slowly on his gliding course, scarcely 
 honoring the human intruder on his domain with 
 a rattle of warning. 
 
 " The superstitious black men who met the 
 ' King of the Rattlesnakes ' avowed firmly that he 
 was always preceded by a six-foot reptile they 
 called the ' rattlesnake-pilot,' a serpent devoid of 
 rattles and harmless of fang. According to the 
 immovable belief of most of such negroes that lat-
 
 208 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 ter reptile pilots the poisonous grown rattlesnake 
 in all its paths, and most faithfully guides his 
 venomous friend at the shedding time, when the 
 rattler is blind or sees but dimly through the thick 
 eye-scales of its uncast skin. 
 
 " This fabulous snake-story of the negro wood- 
 cutters found little credence among white people. 
 Their employer considered it a pure invention, on 
 which to base their begging for a dram to fortify 
 their nerves on going out to their morning's work 
 in the woods. 
 
 " But, soon, a reliable and perfectly sober white 
 overseer confirmed the incredible tale of the scared 
 negroes in some respects. Riding, one forenoon, 
 behind a canefield which was bounded at its back 
 edge by the Hermitage forest, he beheld the King 
 lazily crawling over the boundary road between 
 field and woods into the bushes skirting the forest. 
 Amazed and horrified at the sight of a serpent so 
 huge, such as he had never before seen, he hastily 
 leaped from his horse to cut a roadside sapling to 
 kill his corpulent majesty. But the monarch, lift- 
 ing and shaking his rattles in a listless indifferent
 
 My Lady's Mottled Belt 209 
 
 manner at the man's hostile demonstration, 
 crawled on across the road and disappeared in the 
 underbrush before the rod of his destruction could 
 be made ready. 
 
 " Now, a vigorous healthy rattlesnake has two 
 strains of tail-music; one sounds like the steady 
 fall of a stream of dried beans poured from a bag 
 into a basket from a slight elevation. This is when 
 his temper is not much excited, just to let men- 
 folks know he is around and ready for business. 
 When his wrath is fully aroused his war-note rings 
 like the fall of a continuous stream of quarters 
 flowing from a currency sack, a sound which is 
 sometimes heard by those fortunate enough to 
 have dealings with money banks. When the rat- 
 tlesnake's tail rings with that shrill metallic note, 
 beware! for he is daring death with death. 
 
 " The King of the Hermitage Woods wore a 
 gorgeous royal coat, with colors very closely 
 matched with those of another forest monarch, the 
 royal Bengal Tiger. That coat, as you see in my 
 Lady's mottled belt, had a tawny copper-colored 
 ground-fabric covered with regular diamond
 
 210 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 markings of jet, with a satiny shimmer shining 
 over it all. In certain lights the copper coloring 
 was burnished with a lovely sheen of iris, just like 
 that which tints the neck and breast of the cooing 
 turtle-dove : what a strange fancy of Dame Na- 
 ture to touch the plumage of our meekest bird and 
 the mottled skin of our deadliest serpent with the 
 same iris lustre! 
 
 " Soon after death that bright iris hue of the 
 rattlesnake disappears, as the living lustre of all 
 other highly-colored serpents is said to do. The 
 serpent-hunters of India, in order to preserve the 
 coloring on the snake-skins they procure for fash- 
 ionable folk, skin their victims alive, which does 
 not trouble the ladies who wear their skins nearly 
 so much as it, does the serpents that lose them. 
 
 " Nature gave the rattlesnake, as it did the 
 tiger, the leopard and the jaguar, what the natu- 
 ralists call its ' protective coloring ' to match the 
 lights and shadows and growth of the jungle and 
 the rocky ravines, to conceal it from its prey. But, 
 in mercy to man, knowing that, lying still in its 
 lairs, it would most likely be invisible to him, she
 
 My Lady's Mottled Belt 211 
 
 fixed to its harmless end a timely warning of its 
 presence for his ears. Many times the sudden 
 sounding of that rattle has been the saving of a 
 human life; and then it has almost always been 
 the singing serpent's own death-knell: but let 
 me get back again to our own big snake and finish 
 him up before you all fall asleep. 
 
 " The King of the Hermitage Forest, enjoyed 
 much royal ease; really, he had no work to do, 
 only a little lazy waiting while his subjects stepped 
 up, paid their dues and furnished him a fat living. 
 They never had any cause to complain later of the 
 hardness of their lot under his rule. 
 
 " In a loose flat coil he would lie comfortably 
 in the forest beside some path used by the smaller 
 animals. Toward that path he would point his 
 shovel-shaped head with his neck cosily overlap- 
 ping the coil nearest that narrow winding way; 
 but that neck, cosy as it looked, would be set at 
 trigger tension. 
 
 " Before the monarch grew very hungry he 
 would hear a slight rustle, in the dead leaves on the 
 ground, coming his way. His dull leaden eye
 
 212 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 would brighten and burn at the sight of some lesser 
 animal stealing through the woods. Was it a rab- 
 bit, as usual? his eyesight was too bad to distin- 
 guish at first. No! this time it was a large mink 
 warily stealing through the woods. As this story is 
 told of real rattlesnake life I might just as well 
 change my tense right here. 
 
 " That mink was, of course, on mischief or mur- 
 der bent, as minks mostly are when on the move in 
 wood or field. In the full light of the late fore- 
 noon he was more furtive and cautious than he ever 
 had need to be in the night's darkness. As he stole 
 along the woodland path, stretching up his long 
 neck and holding his head high as possible to look 
 in every direction for danger, he noticed a new and 
 an unusual object near the left side of the path 
 just a little way ahead of him. He stopped for 
 quite a minute to make it out, and then decided 
 that it was only a low mound of dead leaves piled 
 up by some eddying wind in the woods. Mostly 
 the leaves were russet, with a few pink leaves, such 
 as the maple sheds, among them; they were 
 sprinkled with tiny beams of sunlight, and mottled
 
 DECIDED THAT IT WAS ONLY A LOW MOUND OF DEAD LEAVES.
 
 My Lady's Mottled Belt 213 
 
 with bits of black shadow. That thick, weather- 
 stained stick, with a darker knot or knob at its end, 
 lying over the edge of the mound toward the path, 
 was but part of a rotten limb fallen from the tree 
 above. 
 
 " The mink, reassured, started again in the same 
 direction on his prowling, watching way. Passing 
 the pile of dead leaves, so naturally sprinkled with 
 the filtered sunbeams and marked with black 
 shadows, he was smartly tapped by an unseen out- 
 stroke of the knobbed piece of rotten limb. 
 
 " Startled into a short squeal of terror by that 
 unaccountable movement the mink made a dozen 
 long bounds onward; then stopped and looked! 
 back to see how that length of dead limb could 
 have reached the path and struck him. No, 
 thought he, the thing had not moved in the least, 
 as he had foolishly and fearfully imagined; it was 
 lying just exactly as it was when he first saw it; 
 but he was puzzled how that fancied stroke gave 
 him at the same time the smart sting in his side. 
 
 " While the mink was pondering over this puzzle 
 the sting increased to a burning pain, which crept
 
 214 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 from that spot on his left side where he had been 
 struck and spread all over him. A few minutes 
 more and that unfortunate mink was ready for the 
 belated royal breakfast. Then the innocent-look- 
 ing leaf-mound was transformed into a great un- 
 coiling serpent, that leisurely crawled up to his 
 prey, gradually swallowed it down, and stretched 
 himself out at length for a good long nap. 
 
 " The white overseer who had seen ' the biggest 
 rattlesnake living ' crossing that backfield-road in 
 the midsummer happened to be still hunting for 
 deer in the Hermitage forest late in the afternoon 
 of a day in the following October. As it was not 
 nearly cool enough so early in the Autumn for ser- 
 pents to go into holes and hollows for the Winter 
 that hunter had to keep an eye on the ground for 
 snakes as well as look around the forest for deer. 
 
 " Directly in his path that same mound, in a dif- 
 ferent locality, which so closely resembled a pile 
 of dead leaves and rotten wood, lay a few steps 
 before him. 
 
 " The mute serpent that had poured his venom 
 into the mink luckily was not so silent at the ap-
 
 My Lady's Mottled Belt 215 
 
 proach of the man, who had also fancied him to be 
 but a mound of dead leaves. Just as the deer- 
 hunter's foot was about to step within the circle 
 covered by the fatal stroke, the snake sounded his 
 shrill war-note and reared his head ready to deliver 
 death to his hated human foe. The startled and 
 terrified man leaped backward nearly his own 
 length, stopped where he stood a few moments to 
 steady his shaken nerves; then he raised his rifle 
 and sent its smashing bullet through that hideous 
 deadly head. 
 
 " The negro woodsmen had exaggerated the 
 length of that monster by considerably less than 
 a yard, for his skin was more than eight feet long 
 with his head and rattles cut off, and his body was 
 bigger than a man's leg. They should have been 
 praised for their moderate estimates; for the won- 
 der is that they did not have him as long as a tele- 
 graph pole and big as a barrel. 
 
 " The lucky hunter who killed the King of the 
 Hermitage Woods, cut, and split some distance 
 up, a stout sapling and in its cleft carried his be- 
 headed body straight away to the office of the
 
 216 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 medical friend already mentioned by me. In giv- 
 ing me this true history of that huge serpent he 
 told me that he skinned off his royal coat and sent 
 it to the French tannery on Chartres Street to be 
 converted into lovely woman's belts, hand-bags or 
 walking boots. And, perhaps," concluded the 
 story teller, " his serpentine Majesty of the Her- 
 mitage forest bequeathed this birthday remem- 
 brance to My Lady of the Mottled Belt." 
 
 " And now we all know that he left it to you to 
 send Mademoiselle," gaily cried the Birdland Girl 
 as the Doctor rose to take his leave of the family.
 
 XV 
 
 iicsurrcctf on of 
 
 an* 
 
 OUT in the sunshine, before the door of her 
 room, sat the old Black-Mammy of Bird- 
 land in a low rocking-chair the mid-after- 
 noon of one of those bright, warm and beautiful 
 days of the latter half of February, which are the 
 beginning of the real Spring in that part of the 
 
 country. 
 
 217
 
 218 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 With the racial love for basking in the sun's 
 warmth and brightness, the old woman was happy 
 and comfortable, although she was by no means 
 idle; for her fat fingers were busy mending some 
 large piece of household linen which lay across her 
 ample lap; and the peak of her gaudily colored 
 bandana head-handkerchief nodded briskly up and 
 down and back and forth as she bent over her work, 
 or stopped to look for new holes to stitch up, or 
 new weak spots to strengthen. 
 
 Happiness seemed to hover around the con- 
 tented old black nurse, as in subdued tones she 
 hummed the tune or sang the words of bits of those 
 quaint old negro meeting-house hymns that have 
 been heard on the Southern plantations for gen- 
 erations. The repeated whistle of a bluebird came 
 from some spot in the grounds not far away; now 
 and then a robin uttered its single or double blithe 
 "cheep;" the mocking-bird was practising his 
 mating melodies nearer, and from woodshed, wash- 
 house, or fence-top, at short intervals, burst the 
 gurgling gush of the little but very loud and gar- 
 rulous native wren.
 
 Cock-Robin and Jenny-Wren 219 
 
 But to the old woman's ears the sweetest sound 
 of all was the merry laugh coming from the lips 
 of a little girl, unseen as she ran and romped up 
 and down the hedged walks, in the thicker shrub- 
 bery, or over the winter-blooming rose beds. 
 
 It was the voice of the little Birdland Girl, who, 
 in the day belonging to this story, was but seven 
 years old. This was several years before the time 
 in which she figured in some other stories of this 
 series. But every year of her life was interesting to 
 those who knew her best, as every day of it still is 
 to very many people. 
 
 After an hour, perhaps, of lively and active play 
 her laugh and little snatches of song became silent ; 
 apparently she was becoming fatigued from her 
 very active exercise; and very soon she was seen 
 coming slowly from the shrubbery, crossing the 
 sunny lawn toward her seated black nurse. When 
 she reached the rocking-chair she dropped wearily 
 on the ground at the old woman's feet, and laid her 
 flushed face against the linen-covered knees, ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 " Oh, Mammy, I am truly tired out playing so
 
 220 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 hard, and in this winter frock I feel just as warm 
 as if it were real summer." 
 
 " Well, Little Honey," replied the old woman, 
 with gruff but gentle sympathy, " set still an' res' 
 yo'se'f whar you is; an' maybe, in a few minnits, 
 you will be ready to run away ag'in an' play as 
 hard ag'in when yo' brether gits back home from 
 school; an' he ought to be along moughty soon." 
 
 " Oh, he will not be home until dark," regret- 
 fully answered the little girl; " for he was going 
 to spend the whole afternoon visiting one of his 
 school friends who lives down the road, below the 
 school-house; I don't know what to do without 
 him. I'm so lonesome and tired of playing all by 
 myself. Oh, I know what will help to pass away 
 the time until he returns, Mammy, you'll tell me a 
 story!" 
 
 " What does I know about stories, chile, when 
 you's got yo' Cock-Robin an' Jinny- Wren books 
 wid colored bird picters big as life, an' bulls an' 
 chu'ch-bells, an' owls an' spades an' shovels an' 
 graves an' sich things. Den you's got dat Red- 
 Ridin'-Hood an' Ole Wolf book; an' yo' Blue-
 
 Cock-Robin and Jenny- Wren 221 
 
 beard book wid de picters o' de haids o' all de kilt 
 wives an' Sister Annie on de house-top watchin' to 
 save anudder ; an' yo' ' Fee ! Fi Fo Fum 
 I smells de blood of a Englishmon ' book; all o' 
 which you's done read to me many a time an' over. 
 Now, what's a po' ole ign'ant colored 'ooman like 
 me gwine to do to put her wits ag'inst all dat book- 
 Farnin' to tell a little gal what knows how to read 
 moughty well, herself, any o' my fool tales? " 
 
 " But, oh, Mammy, they are all so tiresome and 
 horrid now that I've grown old enough to under- 
 stand them. They are all about killings and blood 
 and burials and bogies and eat-'em-up-alives. I 
 want something lively and funny, like you can 
 tell : every time I read about the burial of Cock- 
 Robin, which I have not done for a year, I won- 
 dered why the story did not go on and tell about 
 what became of the poor little bride, Jenny- 
 Wren!" 
 
 " Well, Little Honey Chile, ef yo' don't mind 
 lissenin' to anudder buryin' tale, maybe I kin tell 
 you what de Cock-Robin book done lef ' out about 
 dat part. But what I's gwine to say needn* make
 
 222 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 you cry much in de beginnin'; bekase, maybe, 
 you'll find a larf comin' at de last een' of my fool 
 ole black 'ooman story." 
 
 " Oh, Mammy, please tell me all you know about 
 Jenny- Wren; and I'll just make-believe that I 
 really and truly believe every word you say." 
 
 The old woman laid one of her hands caressingly 
 on the child's bended head and tenderly crooned: 
 
 " Well, Little Honey Gal, you set right still an' 
 rest yo'se'f, an' I'll tell you all I knows about dat 
 long tale ef it takes tell sundown. 
 
 " Like de book says : once upon a time, when I 
 was a little gal almos' double yo' age, I hearn yo' 
 gran'maw read de Cock-Robin tale to yo' oldes' 
 uncle ; an' read it over to him night atter night des' 
 befo' his early bedtime, tell I knowed all de story 
 better'n de book did itse'f; an', des' like you, I 
 wondered all de time what dey done done wid 
 Jinny-Wren. Dat 'sturb me day an' night tell I 
 was mos' 'stracted about it. Den one night sumpen' 
 moughty cur'ous happen. I mought ha' dreamp 
 it, an' it mought ha' been nuttin' but a wakin' 
 mind-picter; but dis is how it was.
 
 Cock-Robin and Jenny- Wren 223 
 
 " One warm night in de middle o' de summer- 
 time I was layin' in bed mos' asleep when a little 
 hunchback screech-owl flewed in my winder an' 
 lighted on de sill. He des' sot dar still awhile an' 
 looked at me wid wide-open eyes, like I'd des' done 
 axed him sumpen' anudder an' he'd come dar to 
 answer me. Now, some fool folkses is sort o' 
 superspicious about screech-owls, an' thinks dey's 
 full o' evil sperrits. But I's never been afeared o' 
 no bird dat ever flew aroun' dis good old place, day 
 or night, whar' chu'ch-folks has been livin' sence 
 time out o' mind. An' screech-owls, what ain't as 
 big as barnyard pige'ns nohow, lives peaceful an' 
 quiet in de ole holler oak trees here all day; an' 
 dey flies an' pyerches aroun' de place by night, 
 sayin' only * pur-ur-ur-ur ' time an' ag'in sort o' 
 sociable to one anudder an' 'sturbin' nobody wid 
 good soun' sense in deir haids." 
 
 " Oh, I know that, Mammy," gaily interrupted 
 the little girl, " because many an evening of the 
 Spring and Summer, just after dark, my brother 
 and I go out under the live-oak trees where they 
 live and purr at them until they come close to us
 
 224 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 and pun* back at us; and we and they have long 
 funny talks to each other. Papa says that they 
 really ought to be called Caf-Owls, because they 
 have heads like a cat, purr like a cat, and one of 
 them will catch more mice and young rats in a year 
 than a hundred bird-killing cats but please go 
 on with your story." 
 
 "Well, des' like I was tellin' you; dar's me 
 layiii' in bed mos' asleep; an' dar's little Mr. 
 Hunchback Owl pyerched on de winder-sill lookin' 
 at me wid his wide-open eyes like I had des' axed 
 him a question an' he'd come dar quick an' polite 
 as he could to answer it de bes' he could ; an', atter 
 a little, says he: 
 
 " ' Little black Gal, did you ax me what be- 
 comed o' Jmnz/-Wren when Cock-Robin got kilt 
 by de sparrer wid his bo'n'arrow, an' all de birds 
 had dat big buryin' time? ' 
 
 "Says I: 
 
 " ' I dunno as I did, Mr. Owl ; but, sence you 
 sesso, maybe I did in my mind, bekase I was 
 thinkin' about dat moughty hard when you lit dar 
 on de winder-sill; an' I wanted to hear de trufe
 
 Cock-Robin and Jenny-Wren 225 
 
 about it moughty bad; an' I'd be moughtily much 
 obleeged to you, ef you knows de tale, to tell it to 
 me?' 
 
 " ' I knows it moughty, moughty well/ sollum- 
 like 'spon's Mr. Hunchback Owl, ' bekase it were 
 my own gre't-gre't-gre't-gran'daddy who handled 
 de spade an' shovel at dat big Cock-Robin buryin' ; 
 and all o' dat tale has been handed down thew all 
 of de Owl fambly up to my time, an' I's gwine to 
 pass it on to my chilluns. Dis is de way it was tole 
 f ' om de fus'. 
 
 " * Atter de buryin' o' Cock-Robin, wid de scat- 
 terin' o' all de crowd o' birds what was dar, de 
 bestes' frien's o' po' Jinny-Wren took her back 
 home an' dressed her up in de proper mournin' 
 weeds; maybe 'twas rag- weeds blackened by de 
 fust fros', but de tale didn' take in all dem little 
 'ticulars. Jinny-Wren wasn' like some gay 
 'ooman folks amongst people what soon casts off 
 deir mournin' weeds to ketch some udder live Cock- 
 Robin. She kep' 'urn on tell she took an' died a few 
 months atter de buryin' o' de bride-groom. 
 
 ' * In course it didn' take long 'mongst things
 
 226 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 wid wings to tote de news o' Jinny-Wren's dyin' 
 aroun' nigh and far. When dey hearn it, all de 
 birds in de country whar dat happen' fixed it up 
 amongst deyse'fs to give her de bigges' o' buryin's, 
 bigger'n Cock-Robin's, ef dey could; an' dat 
 was a fu'nal what dey made sich a fuss about 
 in de books, like you knows yo'se'f, little black 
 gal. 
 
 " * When dey had all flewed up to her house 
 f'om de fiel's an' de woods an' de hills an' de hol- 
 lers, de fust thing they done was dey sont for Mr. 
 Woodpecker to make Jinny-Wren a nice fine 
 coffin. 
 
 " ' Mr. Woodpecker he went right to work on 
 de job, an' he ripped off slabs o' bark f'om a 
 sycamo' tree, o' dat kind which looks like it is all 
 kivered wid de fines' o' white silk an' satin. He 
 sawed away, an' he chiseled, an' he hammered dem 
 slabs togedder wid many a rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat, 
 ontell he made a coffin fittin' to look at. 
 
 "'Den dey got Mr. Hang-Bird (oriole) to 
 weave her a white shroud, made out o' milliums an' 
 milliums o' dem fine spider-webs which floats in de
 
 Cock-Robin and Jenny- Wren 227 
 
 air close above de groun', what de swallers flyin' 
 aroun' cotched an' brung him. 
 
 " * Atter dat dey ag'in sont out Gre't-gre't-gre't- 
 gran'daddy Owl wid his spade and shovel to the 
 graveyard, to dig her a grave beside o' Cock- 
 Robin's, whar de grass was already beginnin' to 
 git good an' green. 
 
 " * When dey'd 1 got ev'y thing good an' ready, 
 dey took'n wrapped dat buryin' shroud, what Mr. 
 Hang-Bird made, close aroun' 7m?M/-Wren, an' 
 dey lifted her keerfully into de white sycamo' 
 coffin. Atter dat Mr. Woodpecker he hammered 
 down de lid tight wid a few mo' sollum rat-tat-tat, 
 rat-tat-tats, an' den dey kivered it wid dem little 
 white an' blue flowers what folkses call forgot-me- 
 nots. 
 
 " * De six Bluebirds dey had 'p'inted for pall 
 bearers den picked up de coffin an' stood ready to 
 tote it on to de graveyard. 
 
 " ' When de gre't flock o' birds gaddered dere 
 begin to git into line to walk out to de grave Mr. 
 Blackbird, who had 'p'inted hisse'f de chief 
 mourner, clucked 'urn all to stop, as he had a little
 
 228 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 sumpen' to say. Dey all thought it was gwine to 
 be sumpen' in praise o' Jinny-Wren, so dey all 
 stood right still to lissen, like he axed 'um. 
 
 But when Mr. Blackbird riz up an' pretended 
 to wipe de tears out o' his eyes wid de tip o' his 
 wings, he said he'd like to make a few remarks 
 befo' de fu'hal beginned what he hoped wouldn' 
 hu't de feelin's o' nobody in dat moughty sollum 
 'semblage. 
 
 " * Den he gaze' aroun' wid a look in his face like 
 a preacher who had hearn somebody larf out loud, 
 when 'pentant sinners was 'proachin' de mourners' 
 bench. 
 
 " ' An' den, says he : 
 
 " * " It look like me an' Mr. Crow am de only 
 birds here what has on de right kind o' clothes for 
 a 'spectable fu'nal, an' it's a shame dat so many 
 birds here is disgracin' deyse'fs an' deir famblies by 
 wearin' deir best finery at a sollum buryin': 
 
 " * " Dar's Mr. Jaybird heah wid his blue coat an' 
 his dove-colored vest. Dar's Mr. Redbird, who 
 ought to git redder in de face w'arin' all red f 'om 
 de collar to de tail of his coat. Dar's Mr. Hang-
 
 Cock-Robin and Jenny- Wren 229 
 
 bird, wid de right kind o' black coat on his back, 
 but a vest lookin' like a nes' afire. Bar's Mr. 
 Medder-lark wid a speckled country coat an' de 
 gayes' o' yaller shirts. Dar's Mr. Flicker, wid his 
 wings gilt, an' a cap on his haid redder 'n Mr. Red- 
 bird's whole suit. Dar's Mr. Redwing comin' heah 
 like a sojer-man on perade wid red an' gold eppi- 
 lets on his shoulders. Dar's red an' green an' blue 
 an' yaller all aroun' me; but, wusser'n all, dar's 
 Mr. Mawkin'-bird comin' to a buryin' wid his grey 
 ev'y-day coat on, an' w'arin' a shirt what mought 
 ha* been white once, but looks like it should ha' 
 been sont to wash week bef o' las' ! " 
 
 " 'Cordin' to de tale as little Mr. Hunchback 
 Screech-Owl tole it, dar's whar Mr. Blackbird 
 took'n' put his foot in it; as anybody who knows 
 Mr. Mawkin'-bird's ways could ha' seed he did. 
 Mr. Mawkin'-bird is de smartest bird what flies; 
 he's got de hottes' o' tempers, an' a way o' talkin' 
 back at odder birds what makes 'um sorry enuff 
 dey ever open' deir moufs at him, an' shets 'um up 
 moughty tight. So when Mr. Blackbird 'bused 
 Mm about his clothes he up an' say:
 
 230 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " ' Look heah, Mr. Blackbird, you des' as well 
 go 'long an* mind yo' own business an' lef udder 
 birds' clothes alone. You ain't got nuttin' to brag 
 about dat way yo'se'f. You owns only dat one 
 rusty ole black suit, an' you w'ars it ev'ywhars, to 
 weddin's an' feastes an' fu'nals, or anywhars else 
 whar deir's much eatin' pleasure, or prayin' incite- 
 ment gwine on, in which you ginnally gits more'n 
 yo' sheer. Now, sence you wants to see all yo' 
 brether-birds in mournin' heah, I's got a good plan 
 to expose to you. 
 
 " * S'posen', ef you wants ev'ybody to w'ar some 
 sign of mournin' at dis sollum Jinny-Wren 
 buryin', you lend each an' ev'y bird heah, what 
 needs black, one o' yo' own black fedders to stick 
 in his right shoulder betwix' his wing an' his back 
 to w'ar as a proper mournin' sign as he walks in de 
 graveyard percession; des' like folkses w'ars at 
 deir big buryin's? ' 
 
 "Says little Mr. Hunchback Screech-Owl to 
 me when he got on dat far: 
 
 " ' Little black gal, you des' ought to ha' been 
 dar to ha* hearn de hurra which dem many hun-
 
 Cock-Robin and Jenny-Wren 231 
 
 dreds an' hundreds o' birds raised at dat projick o' 
 Mr. Mawkin'-bird ! Mr. Blackbird wish he hadn' 
 open his mouf about de mournin' bizness. But he 
 des' hatter 'gree to smart Mr. Mawkin'4>ird's plan. 
 An' when ev'ybody dar what needed one had 
 stepped up an' picked one o' his mournin' plumes 
 he was sheddin' sho' enuff tears. An', at las' he 
 looked like he mought ha' been chief mourner at 
 about a millium big fu'nals, an' naked an' ragged 
 as he was befo' he fus' left de nes' whar he were 
 hatched. 
 
 " * Atter dat Mr. Blackbird didn' have no more 
 to say about him an' Mr. Crow bein' de only birds 
 dar drest fittin' for a fu'nal. 
 
 " ' When all de birds dar had fixed dem bor- 
 rowed mournin' plumes in de right place, an' 
 primped up deyse'fs properly, dey got in de long 
 line, dey had started out to form before, an' walked 
 sollum an' slow, like folkses does, out to de bird 
 buryin' ground. 
 
 " ' When dey reached de place dey didn' have no 
 bull to toll de bell; but Mr. Hermit-Thresh tolled 
 his moughty much better; an' gre't-gre't-gre't-
 
 232 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 gran'daddy Owl filled de bride's grave wid de same 
 spade an' shovel he had used for de groom. 
 
 " ' Den a fine Thresh choir, wid Mr. Mawkin'- 
 bird in de lead, sanged sich a fu'nal hymn as ain't 
 never been heard at no bird-buryin' befo' nor 
 sence.' 
 
 " Heah Little Mr. Hunchback Owl hatter stop 
 his tale. He say he couldn' carry de chune o' dat 
 hymn 'zackly right, bekase his ' gre'ts ' an' his 
 gran'daddies never was much on singin'. But he 
 tole me ef I'd go out to de aidge o' de woods in de 
 middle of de Springtime, when de wedder was fair 
 an' de twilight was beginnin' to fade into de dusk, 
 I mought heah de Wood-Thresh singin' it all over 
 again des' as sweet an' sad as it sounded in dat old 
 time when Cock-Robin an' Jinny-Wren lived, an' 
 fell in love and died. 
 
 "Died! did I say! No, bless de Lawd, Little 
 Honey! De story book was wrong. My Screech- 
 Owl tale was a dream! Dat was only one o' dem 
 make-believe tales like you said. Dem dear little 
 birds never did die! Or if dey did dey's been res- 
 urrected a good long time an' is livin* ag'in.
 
 Cock-Robin and Jenny-Wren 233 
 
 " Look at all o' dem birds on de lawn yonder, 
 hoppin' on de grass pickin' up deir supper befo' 
 goin' to roost at de settin' o' de sun! Look! Bar's 
 Cock-Robin, wid his red breast; an' dar's little 
 Jinny- Wren right behind him! An' lissen at Mr. 
 Bluebird on de hedge-top nigh 'um, lookin' down 
 at 'um an' whistlin' 'um good night: An' yan- 
 der comes yo' little brether on his pony gallopin' 
 thew de open road-gate!" 
 
 The little lass leaped to her feet, her white arms 
 flew around the fat black neck of her old nurse in 
 a quick loving embrace, and she joyously sped 
 away to join her returned brother.
 
 XVI 
 
 JWr, 
 
 (Sat 
 
 SHORTLY before and long after sunrise in 
 the Summer mornings several redheaded 
 woodpeckers in turn would entertain them- 
 selves, and, perhaps, their more quiet mates, with 
 noisy rapping on the board roof -cap of the old 
 coach-house at Birdland. There, after bugling 
 from their throats a blithe " cheer " as a reveille, 
 
 234
 
 How Mr. Woodpecker Got His Red Head 235 
 
 they would beat a regular longroll of drumming 
 with their bills. Animated by high spirits, which 
 very often seem to have the same effect on happy 
 and healthy boys, those birds doubtless made that 
 noise for the sake of the noise alone, regardless of 
 the lack of appreciation of others who were com- 
 pelled to hear it. 
 
 The feathered redheads who favored especially 
 the roof -cap of the Birdland coach-house for the 
 blowing of their reveille bugles and the beating of 
 their resonant drums would perform about like 
 this: 
 
 "Cheer! rap-rap-rap-b-r-r-r-r! " Tapping 
 far more rapidly with their single bills than the 
 most expert human drummer in peace-parade, or 
 war-array could beat with his double drumsticks, 
 the birds would replace each other in quick succes- 
 sion at this performance, keeping it up for more 
 than an hour of that pleasant time in the morning 
 in which people most troubled with " that tired feel- 
 ing " find sleep the most desirable. If such per- 
 sons only knew how fair was the sunrise, how 
 brightly the dew-drops shone with rainbow tints in
 
 236 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 its first level rays, and how pure and fragrant was 
 the early morning air, perhaps they might be less 
 content to remain lying in the rumpled mustiness 
 of an unmade bed. Then, possibly, they might con- 
 sider the redheaded woodpecker a wiser bird than 
 they think him to be for getting up so long before 
 they do. 
 
 What was fun to the woodpeckers that fre- 
 quented the coach-house roof and hammered so 
 happily on its cap was quite afflicting to a young 
 man who slept in a loft-room directly under it. 
 That man was the yellow hostler of the yard-stable. 
 In the local vernacular he was known or classed as 
 a Creole-negro, or mulatto, or one of those who 
 speak a sort of gombo-French, or a worse broken- 
 English patois, both of which form the dialect of 
 many of the negroes of the southern half of Lou- 
 isiana. 
 
 It was this yard-hostler's duty to feed and take 
 full care of the six family horses, and to have those 
 in daily use properly groomed, saddled and har- 
 nessed before the seven o'clock family breakfast 
 was finished. Like the most of his mixed breed
 
 How Mr. Woodpecker Got His Red Head 237 
 
 and generation, he loved sleep and rest and hated 
 early rising, which was the necessary prelude to 
 his light daily work. The sun rose about five 
 o'clock in those long Summer days ; but, as far as 
 he possibly could, the yellow hostler avoided fol- 
 lowing its good example. He would wait until the 
 big plantation bell, from its belfry above the corn- 
 barn boomed its signal for the general turn-out of 
 the field-gangs at six o'clock; then he would get 
 up overlate and hurry through his morning work 
 with a rush. As the man had enough good quali- 
 ties to nearly offset his laziness this leading fault 
 was tolerated by a lenient employer, who felt that 
 in replacing him he might g6 further and fare 
 worse. 
 
 But the redheaded woodpeckers were not so 
 tolerant of the hostler's main failing as was the 
 kind owner of Birdland. At all events, they 
 seemed to make up their several minds that as soon 
 as the sun rose the sleep-loving mulatto should 
 do likewise. They " cheered " their shrillest and 
 drummed their loudest on the hard, well-seasoned 
 sounding-board of the roof-cap above his bed.
 
 238 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 The sound of their hard rapping was greatly in- 
 creased in the garret beneath the roof, and their 
 noise was as loud as if it might have been made by 
 a number of boys tapping up there with tack-ham- 
 mers ten thousand times 'a minute. There was 
 no resisting that summons to wake up and stay 
 awake. 
 
 The hostler bitterly hated those birds for this un- 
 welcome service; but he dared not try to kill or 
 harm them; for he well knew there was an un- 
 breakable law governing the Birdland grounds 
 against the malicious injury or murder of any of 
 the resident or visiting birds. And, fully aware 
 that disobedience to that law would cost him his 
 easy position, he could only vent his great grudge 
 against the sleep-destroying woodpeckers by the 
 most expressive verbal abuse of both of the mixed 
 languages at his command. 
 
 One afternoon, as the Birdland Boy came out to 
 the yard-stable to get his bronco for a ride about 
 the plantation, he found the yellow hostler enjoy- 
 ing one of his numerous resting spells, sprawling 
 on a mound of hay. As the boy came up the man
 
 How Mr. Woodpecker Got His Red Head 239 
 
 rose to start carrying the hay into the stall-racks 
 ready for the horses; but, happening to hear one 
 of his woodpecker enemies begin to do a little ex- 
 tra mid-afternoon drumming on the stable roof- 
 crown, and probably hoping to prolong his latest 
 interval of rest, he asked the youngster, before he 
 had time to call for his mount: 
 
 " Didn' I never been tole you dat liT tale 'bout 
 de Peekbois, w'at you calls de Woodpeck', 
 an* de Coon? 
 
 "Non? No? but you say you lak' to hear 
 dat tale ? Well, I gwine tole it to you now, me ; 
 an' how Mr. Woodpeck he git dat red head w'at 
 he got, yas. 
 
 " One tarn one big Coon, he have his house in one 
 tall hollow tree in de t'ick wood', one big hoak 
 tree; dat been long time back, yas. Dose tarn' de 
 Peekbois head same lak his back, his wing, his tail, 
 widout no red; but he mo' big dan he is now; he 
 beat his drom mo' loud an' long, an' mo' soon in 
 de mawnin', yas ; lissen to dat woodpeck on top 
 dat roof now: 
 
 " ' Cheer! br-r-r-r-room! '
 
 240 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 "Now, Mr. Peekbois begin wid de sun an' 
 drom, drom, drom, all tarn o' day; but dose ole 
 tarn' w'at I gwine tell to you 'bout, come de fus' 
 break o' de day come Mr. Peekbois. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Coon, he lak to slip late in de 
 mawnin', yas; 'mos' all night tarn he ramble, he 
 hunt, he fish, he go stil de roas'n'-ear in de corn- 
 fiel'; some tarn he don' come home till t'ree or fo' 
 o'clock. 
 
 " Den Madame Coon she look at de tarn by de 
 star', an' she ax: 
 
 ' Where you been, Mr. Coon, to come home 
 dis tarn o' night, or dis tarn o' mawnin' ? ' 
 
 " Mr. Coon he answer to her: ' I been travel far 
 an' work hard, me ; I been hunt, I been fish, I been 
 stil green corn. I been fine some grub for all de 
 familee, w'ile you slip all de night, yas.' 
 
 " Madame Coon, she spik back : ' You been loaf 
 all night, you! You been have good tarn wid yo' 
 frien'; maybe you been take some yo'ng gal to dat 
 Possum dance ; an' you leave me here 'lone to take 
 care de chillun, yas, dat w'at you been do ! ' 
 
 " Mr. Coon, he show to his Madame dose roas'n'-
 
 WHERE YOU BEEN, MR. COON, TO COME HOME 1)1S TAM O ? NIGHT? ' ' ,,
 
 How Mr. Woodpecker Got His Red Head 241 
 
 ear he been stil, dose bull-frawg he been ketch, an' 
 dose bunch o' pat-de-chat w'at you calls cat'- 
 paw berries he been pick, to prove he had no 
 tarn to loaf w'en he gone so long. 
 
 " But, Madame Coon, she kip on gromble, 
 gromble, gromble, an' she say to him: 
 
 " ' You fils too slippy an' tired to talk wid me. 
 Yo' feets is tired, yas, but not wid walkin' so far 
 to hont an' fish an' stil for yo' familee, dey fatigue' 
 wid dancin' so long at dat Possum ball! You bes' 
 put away dose t'ing' you bring home an' come on 
 to bed.' 
 
 " Mr. Coon he go to bed quick, yas, widout losin' 
 de tarn to ondress, he so slippy. W'en de Madame 
 she stop her gromblin' talk, he go to slip soon, yas ; 
 but, also soon, de dawn come red ; an' den : 
 
 " ' Cheer! br-r-r-r-room,' come loud an' knock 
 hard on dat hollow hoak tree where Mr. Coon come 
 home so late an' he slip so soun': 'Cheer! 
 br-r-r-room ! ' 
 
 " Inside dat hollow tree dat drom soun' de same 
 lak t'under, yas. 
 
 " Mr. Coon, he turn over in his bed, he stretch
 
 242 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 all his leg', he open one eye; an', wid his head full 
 o' slip, he ax: 
 
 "'Who dat knock at my do'? Who dat? ' 
 
 " ' Dat me; Mr. Woodpeck; tarn for you to git 
 up, Mr. Coon; dawn come red an' day come soon,' 
 answer Mr. Peekbois: 
 
 " ' Cheer! br-r-r-r-r-room! ' 
 
 " ' Stop dat fool knockin' at my do', an' go away 
 f'om dere! Lemme slip, I tell you, I been travel 
 all night an' I too tired to git up so soon in de 
 mawnin',' calls Mr. Coon out to Mr. Peekbois. 
 
 " ' Yas, you been dance all night wid dose yo'ng 
 gal' at dat Possum ball ! ' gromble Madame Coon. 
 
 "'Cheer! br-r-r-r-oom ! ' go Mr. Woodpeck. 
 
 " Dose HT Coons dey all wakes up an' begins to 
 cry, Madame Coon, she kip on scold, scold, scold, 
 an' Mr. Peekbois, he kip on beat dat drom; so no 
 mo' slip for Mr. Coon; he go mos' crazy, yas; he 
 jomp out de bed an' jomp out de do' to grab Mr. 
 Woodpeck'; but Mr. Peekbois he dodge quick 
 behine dat big tree, an' he fly fas' away till to-mor- 
 row. 
 
 " Well, t'ing' kip on dat way for many day',
 
 How Mr. Woodpecker Got His Red Head 243 
 
 yas; but, bimeby, Mr. Coon, he fix one good plan 
 for to stop Mr. Woodpeck's drom; he make him 
 one back do' in his house an' he hide dat do' wid 
 some bark. 
 
 " De nex' tarn w'en Mr. Peekbois come 'long 
 bef o' de sun, an' call ' cheer ' an' beat * br-r-oom,' 
 on de front do', Mr. Coon he wake up quick an' he 
 ax: 
 
 "'Dat you Mr. Woodpeck?' an' w'en Mr. 
 Woodpeck he answer : * Yas dat me. Cheer 
 br-r-oom,' Mr. Coon he say: 'All right, Mr. 
 Woodpeck, t'ank you for wakin' me op so early. 
 I done res' well las' night an' I gwine to git up in 
 one minnit.' 
 
 " Den, w'ile Mr. Woodpeck' make his ' cheer ' 
 an' beat his drom, Mr. Coon he git op out o' de 
 bed, an' he pass sof out dat new back do' w'at he 
 hide behine de bark, an' he crip slow roun' dat big 
 tree to reach Mr. Peekbois while he so busy wid 
 his noise, an' ketch him wid his paw'. 
 
 " Biff ! he hit Mr. Woodpeck in de back o' de 
 head wid his hard han'. Mr. Coon's sharp claw' 
 skin' Mr. Peekbois' head till he bal' same lak one
 
 244 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 buzzard, yas. De blood come red all over de back 
 o' Mr. Woodpeck's head, an' he fall to de groun* 
 lak he been kill' dead. 
 
 " Den Mr. Coon, he grin back to his ear', an' he 
 go quick down de tree to de groun' to finish Mr. 
 Woodpeck an' his beatin' drom; but befo' he git 
 to him Mr. Woodpeck he git back his sense' an' he 
 fly away far, yas. An' he never knock at Mr. 
 Coon' do' no mo'; an' now Mr. Coon he kin walk 
 in de wood all night an' slip in his bed all day. 
 
 " Wen de f edders dey grow out on de back o* 
 Mr. Woodpeck' head, dey come red lak de blood 
 w'at Mr. Coon bring w'en he skin' it at dat tarn so 
 long pas'. An' sence dat tarn dey stay red, lak dat 
 one up dere you see on de roof, w'at go : 
 
 " ' Cheer! br-r-r-r-r-r-oom ! ' "
 
 XVII 
 
 antr lLon&fato 
 
 IN the early twilight of an evening in the latter 
 part of Spring the Birdland Boy and one 
 of his school friends returned from a fishing 
 trip they had taken a few hours before to a pond 
 in the back part of the plantation. The visiting 
 boy brought home their conjoint " string " of 
 many perch and a few green bass, while the lad of 
 Birdland bore home a muddy young snapping- 
 turtle, which dangled from the further end of a 
 stout stick swung carefully over its carrier's right 
 shoulder. 
 
 245
 
 246 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 The boys had found the turtle on the bank of 
 the pond too far from the water to get away from 
 them. Somehow, without the loss of any of their 
 fingers, they had managed to tie the dangerous 
 little monster to the stick by one of its crooked 
 hindlegs. Although it was not much larger than 
 a soup-plate, that very ugly young creature had 
 a temper even uglier than its looks and a fierce 
 way of showing it when given a good chance to do 
 so. 
 
 At the foot of the front steps of the mansion 
 this savage prize was proudly shown to the family 
 group and the young Doctor, seated with them on 
 the gallery or porch above. To back his astonish- 
 ing claims as to how hard this particular turtle 
 could bite, the Birdland Boy laid his captive on the 
 lawn before the steps and poked the thinner end of 
 the stick near the front of its rough, mud-stained 
 shell. Thus provoked the vicious reptile-beast 
 would shoot forth its hidden head with a stroke 
 faster than the eye could follow, its hard sharp 
 jaws would click together with the sound of a 
 closing steel-trap, and the stick would be cleanly
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Long jaw 247 
 
 chiseled a little shorter at every ferocious 
 snap. 
 
 While the governess and the little Birdland Girl 
 did not enjoy that show as much as the delighted 
 boys thought they might have done, it amused the 
 Doctor to the full degree desirable and expected; 
 and when he had laughed at it more than enough 
 to satisfy the turtle's excited young captors he 
 said: 
 
 " Now, boys, when you get tired of that fun and 
 take your turtle away I will tell you a tale of a 
 turtle I once saw, in one of my hunts away down 
 in the coast-marsh, that could bite much harder 
 than yours and hold on till it thundered." 
 
 Then, promptly closing their show, the young 
 fishermen carried their sullen and snappish trophy 
 off to a juvenile " zoo " in a remote corner of the 
 mansion grounds. There they had a friendly old 
 raccoon, which was chained for the safety of the 
 chickens, a fragrant musk-rat in a solitary cage, a 
 few wild rabbits penned within woven wire, and 
 several tiny alligators in the water of a washtub 
 sunken to the level of the ground.
 
 248 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 After the boys had added this last fierce speci- 
 men of the Louisiana wilds to their collection they 
 ran back to the house, had a hurried and, perhaps, 
 incomplete wash-up, and enjoyed a family supper 
 hearty enough even for their hunger. Then 
 they and the little girl, with Mademoiselle the 
 Creole governess, gathered on the gallery around 
 the young Doctor to listen to his promised tale of 
 a turtle of the Louisiana sea-marsh. 
 
 " All of you know," began the Doctor, " that on 
 this side of the river, opposite the upper or north- 
 ern end of New Orleans, a canal starts at the levee, 
 and, after leaving the suburban town where it be- 
 gins, and leading through outlying vegetable gar- 
 dens and cow pastures, and then a waste of 
 swampy jungle, enters the head waters of the 
 Bayou Barataria. That canal was dug a long time 
 since as a water route to New Orleans for the red- 
 sailed luggers of the Gulf-Coast islands, and the 
 boats of the nearer sugar-planters of Barataria. 
 Through that same bayou, very many years before, 
 the famous pirate or freebooter, Jean Lafitte, car- 
 ried in his barges and batteaux from the sea to the
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Long jaw 249 
 
 edge of the swamp west of the city, rich bales of 
 silk, fat casks of wine and numbers of negroes 
 taken from the slave-ships that sailed into the Gulf 
 from Africa. 
 
 " The dark waters of the Bayou Barataria flow 
 sluggishly back or forth, as the Gulf -tide rises or 
 falls, between banks covered with ancient liveoaks, 
 where once were flourishing sugar plantations and 
 green cattle ranges, all of which have long been 
 abandoned by men and reclaimed by Nature for 
 the growth of its crops of tangled thicket, trailing 
 vine and coarse jungle grass. Then the Bayou 
 leaves that wooded wilderness and enters the wide, 
 tide-sodden sea-marsh to finish its long winding 
 course to the Gulf. 
 
 " Some miles below the last of its bordering live- 
 oaks a shallow and narrow little creek enters the 
 bayou's wide and deep channel. As crooked and 
 black as a serpent, that creek winds and crawls be- 
 neath rank reeds, and mangroves with roots like 
 intertwined water-snakes, from a shoal marsh-pool 
 a mile from its mouth. That pool, which is acces- 
 sible to the lone hunter in his little pirogue only at
 
 250 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 the highest tide, is filled with fetid black water 
 mixed with bubbling marsh-mud. It is surrounded 
 by low noxious-looking banks covered with matted 
 masses of rough grass flattened to the ground all 
 around it, as if it formed the bedding for heavy 
 beasts or reptiles. 
 
 " Several years since, as I have seen for myself, 
 that hidden pool was the home of a huge snapping 
 turtle that had also sometimes, but very seldom, 
 been seen by the half -wild market-hunters of the 
 marshes. That monster was big and hideous 
 enough to make the few of those solitary hunters 
 who had seen him more than willing to neglect 
 him, particularly as he was worthless as fish, game 
 or meat. His shell was as large as the half of a 
 wine hogshead sawn in two lengthwise ; and it was 
 thickly overgrown with green water-moss, and 
 rough with rows and ridges of hard knobs, like the 
 back of a big bull-alligator. It was scarred with 
 three deep parallel marks and numerous lesser ir- 
 regular gashes. 
 
 " From the front of this enormous turtle's roof 
 of armor plate, at the end of a long mottled neck,
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Long jaw 251 
 
 protruded a python-like head whose jaws were 
 powerful enough to cut through the shank of a 
 shark-hook. An overlong serpentine tail, which 
 was notched above like that of an alligator, trailed 
 from the back of his shell, and thick bowed legs 
 stretched from under its eaves. His scaly feet 
 were as wide as a man's hand, and his toes were 
 armed with talons as cruel and crooked as those of 
 an eagle. 
 
 " When the tiger-like temper of that immense 
 Turtle was roused he would stand up on his stif- 
 fened legs until the top of his back was higher 
 than a tall man's knee. Then, with his horrible 
 head lifted at the end of his long extended neck 
 ready for his dangerous lunge, he could match in 
 looks the fiercest dragon ever described in fable 
 or myth. When his rough wrinkled neck was thus 
 raised it showed a smooth yellow scar just behind 
 the back of his hard and horny head. 
 
 " After his night ramblings in the surrounding 
 marshes and waters for food, the Turtle would re- 
 turn to his home-pool; and, when the sun rose, 
 he would crawl up on the bank to bask and sleep
 
 252 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 in the warm sunshine until the day was done and 
 it was time to prowl and prey again. One Summer 
 morning as he was thus dozing ashore he was 
 awakened by the sound of something coming up 
 the shoal creek toward his home. As usual at any 
 noise signifying the approach of a possible enemy, 
 or trespasser on his domain, he stood up on his 
 taloned toes and lifted his head its highest to look 
 and listen. 
 
 " It was surely something large, probably a 
 pirogue pushed by a man, which was slowly ap- 
 proaching through the shallow water and slushy 
 mud. The noise grew louder and very near. Then 
 a great knobby head and neck, together a yard 
 long, pushed out of the creek into the pool, and 
 five yards more of the broad ridged back and ser- 
 rated tail of the biggest Alligator in all the Bara- 
 taria marshes followed his intruding head. 
 
 " That musky old reptile crawled on across the 
 pool, with much grunting and groaning making his 
 way through the sucking mud, and climbed ashore 
 at a convenient distance from the Turtle, with his 
 head warily and wisely turned turtle-ward.
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Long jaw 253 
 
 " ' Good morning, Brother Hardshell,' he 
 saluted in a husky voice, as he landed. Then he 
 stretched himself comfortably at full length, and 
 yawned so widely and pointedly that the jaw-teeth 
 of his two-foot mouth could be seen just as plainly 
 as his long overlapping fore-tusks. 
 
 " Old Brother Hardshell, seeing it was only an 
 Alligator that had made the noise which disturbed 
 his morning nap, hissed a short * pshaw,' and but 
 gruffly returned the visitor's greeting in a wheezy 
 whispering voice like that of some very, very old 
 man who was toothless and had a bad attack of 
 asthma. Then he settled back in his bed again and 
 started to tuck in his head for another nice doze; 
 but he happened to note that the Alligator had but 
 an empty and sore-looking socket where his left 
 eye had fiercely shone the last time they had met, 
 which was many years before. Therefore, with 
 more short wheezing and rather cold indifference 
 he questioned: 
 
 1 * Brother Long jaw, you seem to have been in 
 some quarrel or other trouble of late, for when I 
 saw you last you looked hungry out of both
 
 254 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 eyes. May I enquire how you have lost one of 
 them?' 
 
 " ' Oh, Brother Hardshell, it was from the hor- 
 rible cruelty of man! ' the Alligator hoarsely 
 grunted and gargled up from his great thick 
 throat. ' He has hunted me half of my life, and 
 he hunts me to the death still, although now I am 
 beginning to grow old; therefore, with your kind 
 permission, I have come to hide myself in your 
 home where he would not think to find me.' 
 
 " * Stay so long as you disturb me not,' shortly 
 replied Brother Hardshell; then, pretending to 
 feel some curiosity about his visitor's affairs, he 
 asked: * But why do you not kill and feed in the 
 late darkness, like me, when man sleeps? ' 
 
 " * Alas ! thus have I done for very many years,' 
 grunted and groaned back the Alligator, * even I 
 have long avoided the light of the full moon in my 
 hunting. But no more than one dark moon since, 
 when I could have sworn that the moon then also 
 was dark, as I hunted in a lagoon far from here, 
 I beheld at midnight a very bright and round moon 
 rising above the water. It was new to me, old as
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Longjaw 255 
 
 I am, to see a round moon rise in the middle of the 
 night and then to see it grow larger and larger, 
 instead of smaller and smaller, as it rose higher 
 and gave much more light on the water. Wonder- 
 ing at the very great brightness of this round mid- 
 night moon I stopped my hunting to watch it, 
 when it burst with the loud noise and the burning 
 fire of the thunder-iron, breaking the bone around 
 my eye and destroying it. I was stunned by the 
 blow for a little time ; then, when life came back to 
 me, as I turned to escape, I saw a Man who came 
 from that lost moon standing up in a dark boat 
 near me; and, in great terror and pain, I sank to 
 the bottom of the water and crawled far away. 
 Brother Hardshell, the brightness of that moon of 
 the midnight was so great as to hide that Man and 
 his boat from even my keen sight/ 
 
 1 * Humph ! ' doubtingly hissed Brother Hard- 
 shell ; * this is a very strange tale you tell, Brother 
 Long jaw; I, who have known all the ways and 
 changes of the moon longer than you, have never 
 seen it rise round and full in the middle of the 
 night; and, as for the Man you saw coming from
 
 256 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 the moon, how could there be a Man in the moon 
 when the moon is very much smaller than Man? ' 
 
 ' ' But, 'tis true, Brother Hardshell, as my blind 
 eye and broken brow bear witness,' protested 
 Brother Long jaw, ' and I, who once boldly hunted 
 by day, now hardly dare hunt by night, because 
 merciless man can bring his bright moon to find 
 me in the midst of the darkness ! ' 
 
 " Still doubting Brother Long jaw's strange 
 story, and deriding him for his cowardice, Brother 
 Hardshell scornfully exclaimed: 
 
 ''Look at me, Brother Longjaw; Man calls 
 me Snapping Turtle; but 1 trouble none who 
 troubles not me ; if any try I bite hard, and I hold 
 until I hear thunder. As for you, your jaws are 
 very long and your tusks very strong; and might 
 you not slay where you fear Being slain? ' 
 
 " * I would slay him! ' hoarsely bellowed the de- 
 rided Alligator, heavily lashing the ground with 
 his long tail in violent rage, clashing his great jaws 
 of hard bone, and hissing between his interlocked 
 tusks: 'I would slay him, but his cruel thunder- 
 iron strikes far and strikes hard, and I would live
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Longjaw 257 
 
 long; and hear, Brother Hardshell, how happy 
 much of my life has been in bygone times. 
 
 " ' Sixty years back, when the green fields of the 
 sweet-cane grew by the bayou above us, such fields 
 were full of singing black people. There were 
 also many fat cattle and hogs to feed those people. 
 From a hidden hole burrowed by me under the 
 water far beneath the bank I would come forth in 
 the noon or night, when those people were feeding 
 or sleeping, and, going to the unguarded drinking 
 places, I would take my small share of such good 
 meat as I could get there. For the little I thus 
 borrowed of the abundance of Man he sometimes 
 hunted me in the day with his thunder-iron; but 
 for many years while I remained there fairly fed 
 and content he never thought to harm me by night. 
 ' ' But the time came when I was blamed for 
 growing too fond of the small blackfolk who 
 played on the banks of the bayou, and paddled or 
 waded in the edge of the water when the full- 
 grown people were working in the fields of the 
 sweet-cane. But the few of those little ones they 
 saw no more might have fallen into deep water and
 
 258 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 been drowned had not I prevented their thus dy- 
 ing. Then white Man and black Man gave me no 
 rest by day or by night, until I had to flee far 
 away. 
 
 : ' Now there are no more fields of the green 
 sweet-cane and singing black folk and swine and 
 cattle, all with their fat and tender young. The 
 land there is grown wild again; its wild things are 
 too watchful at the drinking places; and I must 
 hide myself in the marsh from the face of man, and 
 feed like the nimble otter on mudfish and frogs, or 
 the miserable muskrat on the roots of water- weeds, 
 or starve and die.' 
 
 " Still ridiculing his strong and fierce visitor's 
 foolish terror of Man, Brother Hardshell wheezed 
 him this advice: 
 
 " ' Toward friend or foe, why not be guided by 
 my first and only rule: " Snapped at, snap back? " 
 
 " Grunting testily at being twitted about his 
 lack of courage so much, the man-hunted Croco- 
 dile hotly cried: 
 
 ; c It is all veiy well, Brother Hardshell, for you 
 to talk thus; for yew are safe because Man does
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Longjaw 259 
 
 not count you worth the cost of killing; you have 
 no hide fit for his use; and, as to his food, you are 
 too musky and tough, and old 
 
 " ' Old ! ' hissed Brother Hardshell, rising in hot 
 wrath on his stiff crooked legs and lunging out his 
 head to the full length of his neck with his snaky 
 eyes blazing. * Old? You, a mere youth of two 
 hundred Summers, dare call me old! If you 
 mean to insult me, come on and try me and see if 
 I am not still in my prime 
 
 " Here Brother Hardshell had to hold up a little 
 to regain his asthmatic breath. Settling back into 
 his steaming bed, after a minute of sullen silence 
 he mumbled with less excitement: 
 
 " 'I old? Question me and learn how clear is 
 my mind and how fine is my memory/ Then, 
 gradually calming down, he wheezed on: 'I also 
 have suffered much from the cruelty of Man, 
 Brother Longjaw; but, methinks, I have paid it 
 back in good measure. Only an hundred years 
 agone, when I was feeding on a shoal in the bayou 
 out there, a heavily-laden longboat chanced to pass 
 near me in the channel. It was moved with oars
 
 260 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 by men with bared white arms and hairy brown 
 hands and bearded faces. In that boat, sitting 
 still and sorrowful, were many black men and 
 women, such as we both have seen later working 
 and singing in the fields of the sweet-cane. As the 
 boat was passing slowly by me one of its many 
 rowers, beholding me, dropped his long oar, picked 
 up a thing of three prongs, which were longer and 
 sharper than your tusks, Brother Long jaw, and 
 struck at me hard. You may yet find the three 
 scars on my shell where those sharp prongs cut 
 down to the raw flesh of my back. When the Man 
 who had thrown the thing reached down in the 
 water to recover the long handle of wood, which 
 held those hurtful prongs, he left his hairy hand 
 with me as a small token of our meeting; and I 
 took it down with me deep in the mud to finish my 
 morning meal when the misery in my back ceased. 
 I was sorry that I could not understand the many 
 loud words of lament shouted at our parting by 
 that Man.' 
 
 "After stopping a few more minutes to catch 
 his breath Brother Hardshell continued :
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Long jaw 261 
 
 " ' Again, if I remember dates, and I am sure 
 I do very well, a hundred years before I met the 
 hairy white Man-friend who left his hand with me, 
 I had another like meeting with a red Man; and 
 then all of the Men I saw were red, and none were 
 white or black. When that first of my adventures 
 with Man took place I was not more than two hun- 
 dred years of age; but was well-grown and quite 
 strong for my early turtlehood. One bright morn- 
 ing, when the time of the crawfish had come, I was 
 feeding on them in a shallow lake a month's travel 
 toward the place where the sun sets. 
 
 ' * A young red Man, with several others of his 
 kind, soon came wading into the same lake with 
 things pointed with the sharpened shin-bones of 
 deer to spear large fish and turtles. Those men 
 wore only the feathers which were on their heads. 
 He with the most feathers found me and struck at 
 my head with all of his strength. His sharp bone 
 spear made this yellow scar on my neck. As that 
 Man of many feathers struck he uttered a loud 
 whoop of joy to inform his wading friends near 
 and far that he had captured a great Turtle. In
 
 262 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 quick return of his spear-stroke I took hold of one 
 of his heels, when he whooped very much louder 
 for his companions to come and help to get him 
 away from his great Turtle. As I heard them 
 splashing up toward me in great haste, and I cared 
 not for the company of more than one Man at a 
 time, I took half of the heel which I held and went 
 far off into the deepest water to rest alone on the 
 bottom where Man could not disturb me. When 
 I chanced to see that young Man who had made 
 my life-scar again, he was the Chief of his Tribe 
 and the red Men in their talk called the lame Man 
 " Young-Man-with-the-Sign-of-the-Turtle ; " and 
 he wore my sign for life just as I wear his scar. 
 
 " ' So much for my fear of Man, Brother Long- 
 jaw, and if I were not growing so very sleepy in 
 this pleasant mid-day sunshine, I might tell you 
 much more about these other scars and scratches 
 on my shell. Probably some of your former rela- 
 tions could have told all you might care to know of 
 them had they lived long enough to say that they 
 saw them made and helped to make them: but 
 now I must sleep.'
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Long jaw 263 
 
 " Completely tired out with talking at such un- 
 accustomed length, the old Turtle took in all of his 
 neck and head up to his filmy serpent eyes; and, 
 with the baking beams of the noon sun drying his 
 mossy back, dropped into a deep wheezing sleep. 
 
 " The long Alligator-mouth near him gaped 
 with hunger as the single Alligator-eye watched 
 his heavy slumber. But the dangerous Turtle had 
 just plainly hinted that those many scars on his 
 hard shell had been made by the tusks of Alliga- 
 tors who had died in their making. Therefore the 
 biggest reptile of the region could not quite nerve 
 himself to the point of murderous assault, strongly 
 as his hunger moved him to do so. It was hard for 
 him to look at his sleeping companion and feel that 
 his own tusks could never pierce that shell-armor, 
 while the Turtle's grim jaws might cut and crush 
 their way through the plates and scales of the 
 toughest crocodile body or neck. But, hard as it 
 was, the Alligator wisely abandoned the idea of 
 attempting to kill and eat his slumbering host, and 
 decided to go to sleep on an empty stomach rather 
 than dare death to get a full one.
 
 264 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 "So the two monsters of the marshes slept on 
 near each other, with whistling wheeze and hoarse 
 snore, until the sun sank and the long warm twi- 
 light faded away. Then, as the cool dank mists 
 of the night touched their sun-warmed bodies, they 
 both awoke at the same moment; and, feeling that 
 it was time to find their suppers, after stretching 
 and yawning, like other beasts of prey, they slid 
 into the dark pool. With the Turtle leading and 
 the Alligator following close behind they took 
 their tortuous and slimy way down the little creek 
 leading into the wide bayou. The full darkness of 
 the night had fallen when they reached the silent 
 star-sprinkled bayou. There the Turtle went one 
 way off to a favorite shoal for his fishing, while the 
 Alligator, taking the opposite direction, stole 
 slowly and stealthily in the still water, near the 
 bank covered by his single eye, on the lookout for 
 some drinking animal. 
 
 "Without raising a ripple, and silent as the 
 black night itself, the great reptile had gone only 
 a short distance when good luck came to his hunt- 
 ing.
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Longjaw 265 
 
 " On the bank near and abreast of him there was 
 a sudden rush in the reeds, and the fierce scream 
 of a baffled marsh-lynx pierced the stillness of the 
 night; and a spotted fawn bounded from the bank 
 into the bayou to escape the second spring of its 
 ferocious furred assailant. 
 
 " In fleeing from that danger the poor fugitive 
 fell into the very jaws of death. As the fawn 
 struck out, swimming swiftly to escape the dreaded 
 Lynx of the marshes, the ready Alligator turned 
 and lunged after it in one tremendous leap, lifting 
 his great body clear of the water. With that one 
 rush he reached the young deer, grasped its 
 head between his hard jaws, and crushed it to 
 a pulp; and the ravenous demon-reptile com- 
 menced at once to tear the quivering body 
 of his victim and devour it in great greedy 
 gulps. 
 
 " The hungry Turtle, hearing the first loud 
 clash of the closing crocodile mouth and the fol- 
 lowing splashing of water made by the death con- 
 vulsions of the deer, hurried up to the scene of 
 slaughter and claimed his share of the feast. From
 
 266 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 a mouth stuffed with fresh venison the Alligator 
 mumbled : 
 
 " * Mister Hardshell, you did none of this kill- 
 ing and shall have none of the meat.' 
 
 " ' Mister Long jaw, as we have begun to share 
 the same home, we might just as well begin to 
 share our meals also,' angrily hissed back the 
 Turtle. 
 
 " They had many more hot words, hissed and 
 bellowed at each other, until the Turtle, to settle 
 the question of his claim for a share of the prey, 
 finally took hold of the dead fawn to bite off a 
 mouthful. 
 
 " Then the greedy Alligator made a fatal mis- 
 take. He stopped his gorging to gnash furiously 
 with all of the mighty force of his powerful jaws 
 at the disputing Turtle. The terrible crocodile- 
 tusks glanced harmlessly off the great shell shield. 
 
 " The Turtle's python-like neck shot forth with 
 its serpent-stroke at the other's reptile throat, and 
 his steely jaws cut down deep and locked together 
 in that dreadful relentless thunder-hold. The 
 throttled Alligator, desperate at this horrible
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Longjaw 267 
 
 clutch of death, struggled wildly in futile rage 
 and fear. With his long flat tail, once so fatal to 
 wallowing pigs and wading pickaninnies of the 
 Barataria plantations, he lashed the water into 
 foaming waves, and wasted his mighty strength in 
 vain struggles to shake himself free from the 
 death-grip of his foe. 
 
 "In all of that furious struggle the old Turtle 
 never, after his first stroke, moved limb nor claw. 
 Tossed above the water, dashed beneath, savagely 
 swung back and forth, he put his full faith in his 
 fastened jaws and hung on, waiting for the fore- 
 doomed end. 
 
 " In the midst of this raging one-sided battle 
 that weird, moving full moon of the midnight, told 
 of by Brother Longjaw in his tale of woe to 
 Brother Hardshell, rose over the dark waters once 
 more. A broad circle of its bright radiance flashed 
 over the glistening wet bodies of the two battling 
 monsters and the foamy turbulence of the water 
 surrounding them. 
 
 " A boat, silently moved by muffled oars, and, 
 bearing a man standing with a long gun behind a
 
 268 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 luminous jacklight in her bow, arrived on the scene 
 just as the Alligator gave up the long fight, and 
 lay exhausted on the surface of the water, gasping 
 and gurgling, throttled by death. 
 
 " From the muzzle of an Alligator-hunter's gun 
 held but a few feet distant from the back of the 
 monster's head, death came faster in the leaden 
 bullets that smashed his skull. And the days and 
 nights of the biggest and most famous Alligator 
 of the Barataria sea-marsh were done. 
 
 " Too wild and wary for successful pursuit, that 
 brute had long become noted by the professional 
 hunters of two generations in the bayous and 
 lagoons of the Barataria coast-marsh. At last he 
 came to be known among them as the ' One-eye- 
 Alligator/ And it was only through his having 
 been * held-up ' by that huge Snapping-Turtle they 
 were able to take his hide at last. 
 
 "When Brother Long jaw was thus slain 
 Brother Hardshell, perhaps regretting that Man's 
 thunder-iron had needlessly interfered with the 
 finish of his own good work, sulkily loosed his 
 thunder-hold and sunk to the bottom of the bayou
 
 Brothers Hardshell and Longjaw 269 
 
 to seek the dead fawn that had gone down 
 there in the beginning of that reptilian battle. 
 Probably after he had his solitary supper he 
 quietly returned to his home-pool; and, for all I 
 know, he is living there still with a fair prospect of 
 surviving the flight of a few more centuries."
 
 XVIII 
 
 H?twt0 JHorc 
 
 PASSING the plantation stable on some 
 pleasure bent, in the middle of an after- 
 noon, the Birdland Boy saw old Jason 
 seated on a bench against the wall of the harness- 
 room in the Winter-sunshine. The purpose he 
 
 had in view was quickly forgotten; and, avoiding 
 270
 
 Mr. Lynx Hunts More Trouble 271 
 
 the delay of going further to the gate of the stable 
 yard, he actively climbed the panel of its fence 
 nearest him and ran over to join the old man, who 
 was too busily occupied on some small job to see 
 him until he reached the bench. 
 
 "Hello, Uncle Jason! What are you doing?" 
 greeted and asked the boy, together, as he seated 
 himself on the same bench, not too near to inter- 
 fere with the work in hand, but close enough for 
 him to watch and admire the wonderful dexterity 
 of the wrinkled black fingers as they plied and 
 plaited eight separate strands of rawhide into the 
 single round and long serpent-like coil of a cart- 
 whip. 
 
 Looking up with surprise and delight at seeing 
 the boy, whose coming he had not heard in the 
 deep absorption devoted to his work, the old man 
 laughed and exclaimed: 
 
 "Hi! dat you, Little Mahster? What I 
 doin'? Well, I's done wored out my ole whup 
 on Ole Abe sence dis Winter sot in, an' dat mean 
 mule is gittin' lazy enough to need a whole steer- 
 hide to keep him gwine a righteous gait f'om one
 
 272 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 New Years to de nex' dese days; but I'll be boun' 
 dis new whup I's makin' now is gwine to hit him 
 whar de hyar grows short, an' make him go like a 
 good mule ought to go." 
 
 The old negro worked and talked on after he 
 had thus gotten well started as only colored folk 
 can talk the most and toil their best at the same 
 time. It was some time before the Birdland Boy 
 could break in with an interruption. Two or three 
 hours before at the dinner-table he had been listen- 
 ing to his father telling about the rapid approach 
 of a great comet which was called after some man 
 whose name the son had forgotten. Much inter- 
 ested in that subject, he asked: 
 
 " Uncle Jason, did you ever see a comet? " 
 
 "What? a comick? one o' dem fiery things 
 like a gre't shootin'-star run agroun' in de sky? 
 Why, Mon, I's seed more'n a hundred comicks 
 befo' you was bawned! " 
 
 After a considerable pause to untwist with his 
 teeth a tangle in the strands of the half -finished 
 whip, the venerable seer of so many comets con- 
 tinued:
 
 Mr. Lynx Hunts More Trouble 273 
 
 " But de bigges' an' de wusses'-lookin' comick 
 I ever did see come along about two yeah befo' yo' 
 gran'paw tuk his company o' soldiers back to Ole 
 Verginny to fought de Confederal War. Com- 
 icks ! Mon, dat bef o'-de-war comick was de boss 
 o' de breed ! At sundown dat comick spit fire f 'om 
 de Wes' mos' into de face o' de moon risin' in de 
 Eas', an' it switched out stars wid its tail I 
 
 "What dat? You axes me ef I wasn't 
 skeered? Well I was a little, mo* or less; but, 
 bein' des' a growed up boy, I was too biggity a 
 young fool to be af eared o' much. 'Ligion got a 
 good strong holt on most of us colored folks whilst 
 dat comick kep' a growin' bigger'n' bigger; but 
 when it stopped growin' an' faded an' faded till it 
 was no lurger nor no brighter'n a little Jack-o'- 
 mah-lantern hangin' low over de ma'sh, dat holt 
 slacked up to about what it was befo' de comick 
 look like 'twere gwine to set de sky afire. 
 
 " But, all dis comick-talk don't mix up well wid 
 makin' whips here, you take dis slim hickory 
 saplin' I cut in de woods soon dis mawnin' an' 
 whittle it down to a whupstaff wid dat sharp new
 
 274 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 pocket knife you showed me yistid'y, whilst I fin- 
 ishes my part o' de job." 
 
 That suited the Birdland Boy perfectly, and 
 while he was, with careful eye and busy hand, 
 shaving the bark from the hickory shoot before 
 trimming the wood, the old man stopped his work 
 to fill and light a corncob pipe as black as his face ; 
 then, as he puffed contentedly, he resumed his 
 plaiting, and started on a new subject as if by mere 
 chance, saying: 
 
 " Along about de fus' dark las' night Ole Mr. 
 Wilecat walked right by de root o' dat little saplin' 
 you's whittlin' into a whupstaff. I seed his tracks 
 dar des' atter sun-up when I cut de saplin' ; an* he 
 sho'ly was lookin' for mo' trouble." 
 
 " I wonder what new mischief Mr. Wilecat was 
 up to," observed the boy, confident that his re- 
 mark would lead the old woodsman into a new tale. 
 
 " Well," replied Uncle Jason, " I sees yo' han' 
 stops trimmin' dat staff when yo' tongue starts 
 talkin'; now, ef you'll wuk an' lissen I'll wuk an' 
 talk." 
 
 The boy promised to follow that advice the best
 
 Mr. Lynx Hunts More Trouble 275 
 
 he could, and began again to diligently ply his 
 knife. After looking at him with a smiling glance 
 of approval the old man turned back to his own 
 work and began his story about Mr. Wilecat's 
 hunt for more trouble, which was this: 
 
 " I done tole you dat tale o' how Mr. Wilecat 
 got tricked by Mr. Otter an' Mr. Mink into losin' 
 his long tail ; an' o' how he was fooled by Mr. Fox 
 into ketchin' rabbits for Madam Fox an' de chil- 
 luns; an' now I's gwine to tell you how he run 
 afoul o' ole Jedge B'ar's co'te. In dem times 
 Jedge B'ar hilt co'te in de woods to settle all de 
 'sputes an' cases o' sich varmints as ha' to come to 
 law or be tuk up, an' sentence' 'urn for fightin' an' 
 'sturbin' de peace an' stealin' an' sich doin's; an', 
 I tell you, he kep' 'urn moughty, moughty straight, 
 Jedge B'ar did. 
 
 "All de yuther varmints, in 'ticular dem 
 smaller 'n him, hated Mr. Wilecat wusser'n p'izen. 
 He was de bully o' de woods; he'd boss 'um an' 
 'buse 'um an' cuss 'um meaner'n a steamboat-mate 
 does a gang o' roustabouts rollin' sugar aboa'd de 
 boat in de night-time.
 
 276 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " Well, one evenin' late, whilst Mr. Wilecat was 
 prowlin' in de woods, lookin' for somebody to 
 pester an' some kind o' trouble dat he ain't foun' 
 yit, de smell o' fresh hawg-meat hit him in de nose 
 all on a sudden. He stopped right off to find out 
 whar' dat good smell come f 'om. Says he to hisse'f, 
 * dat meat would come in moughty handy for my 
 supper/ 
 
 " He sniffed an' he snuffed ag'in to ketch de 
 scent on de win'; an' he licked his mouf on bofe 
 sides wid his rough red tongue ; den he turned his 
 big yaller eyes every way in de woods to see if no- 
 body was nigh ; an' den he stooped low an' croped 
 an' crawled todes a pile o' dry bresh an' dead leaves 
 he spied by a big rotten lawg. When he come to 
 dat breshpile he gazed all aroun' an' aroun' de 
 woods ag'in to make sho' nobody was lookin' at 
 him. Den he raked off de leaves an' bresh an' on- 
 kivered de ham of a fat yearlin' shoat whar Mr. 
 Pant'er had hid it under de rubbish he scraped up. 
 Try hard as he could Mr. Pant'er couldn' eat de 
 whole o' dat hawg for dinner, so he'd hid de lef- 
 over ham for to-morrow's breakfas', an' den he'd
 
 Mr. Lynx Hunts More Trouble 277 
 
 gone way back home to a lonesome cane-ridge in 
 de big swamp behine de woods. 
 
 " Mr. Wilecat grabbed up dat fine fat ham an' 
 toted it home fas' as he could go. It lasted him till 
 midnight, but along todes daybreak he begin to 
 feel moughty hongry. But he was af eared to stir 
 f 'om home, knowin' ef he happen to meet up wid 
 Mr. Pant'er he'd ha' to settle de butcher-bill wid 
 some o' his own hide. Mr. Wilecat was moughty 
 big, hisse'f, an' moughty handy wid his teefs an' 
 clawses. But Mr. Pant'er was as big ag'in as him, 
 an' could whup de hyar off o' him in a fa'r 
 stand-up, roll-over fight; so Mr. Wilecat hilt 
 down his appetite as long as he could, an' staid 
 home wid his door shot tight till an hour befo' 
 dark, when he got so tormentin' hongry he des' ha' 
 to go out in de woods ag'in to hunt him up a 
 supper. 
 
 " Soon in de mawnin', when Mr. Pant'er went to 
 git his ham for breakfas', he foun' his meat gone, 
 an* seed de tracks o' de thief. He stopped dar 
 awhile an' laid back his ears an' switched his tail, 
 studyin' how to ketch de thief. De trail was too
 
 278 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 cole to foller, an' Mr. Wilecat had too long a start 
 to chase him den, so Mr. Pant'er made up his mine 
 to leave him alone dat time an' lay for him till he 
 got him good some day or night comin' on. So he 
 went away huntin' up sumpen'else for breakfas'; 
 atter which he looked up Jedge B'ar an' had a talk 
 wid him about Mr. Wilecat's doin's. 
 
 " In de dusk o' dat same day Mr. Pant'er 
 chanced to come across Mr. Wilecat's right fresh 
 tracks. At dat good luck he lifted up his head an' 
 laid back his ears an' hollered: 
 
 "'Whoo-ee-yowP 
 
 " A steamboat whissle couldn't 'a' whooped no 
 louder'n dat. 
 
 "'Whoo-ee-yowP 
 
 "Mon, when Mr. Wilecat hearn dat waul' he 
 bounced up in de air, wid all his feets at once, 
 higher'n a man kin reach; de fur riz straight over 
 all his body, an' all de hyar on his tail stood out 
 like a cobweb-bresh. 
 
 " * Whoo-ee-yow! ' yells Mr. Pant'er ag'in, 
 startin' on de hot trail; an' Mr. Wilecat put out 
 for home so fas' he raised a whirl o' dead leaves an'
 
 Mr. Lynx Hunts More Trouble 279 
 
 trash aroun' him like a slycoon o' win' was tearin' 
 thew de woods. 
 
 " Whoo-ee-yow! Mr. Pant'er's gittin' nigher, 
 wid Mr. Wilecat doin' his bestes'. 
 
 "Whoo-ee-ow! Mr. Pant'er is still a gainin', 
 an* Mr. Wilecat knows he ain't got no time to 
 reach home an' bang de door an' shoot de bolt. 
 What he gwine to do he dunno, an* he ain't got 
 time to stop an' study no plan, an' Mr. Pant'er kin 
 outrun him an' outclamb him. 
 
 " Whilst he was lettin' out his las' licks o' run- 
 nin', lookin' back over his shoulder, Mr. Wilecat 
 butted smack into Jedge Ba'r whar he was settin' 
 down on de roots of a gre't holler tree wid a 
 big hole in it about twenty foot or so f'om de 
 groun'. 
 
 ' Woof! what you in sich a fool hurry about 
 dat you got to run so hard into hones' folks befo' 
 you sees 'um? ' grunts Jedge B'ar. 
 
 ' ' Oh, Jedge, good Jedge, please, Jedge, save 
 me f'om Mr. Pant'er; he's close behine me an' 
 gwine to murder me, ef you won't save me ! ' 
 squalls Mr. Wilecat.
 
 280 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " ' What makes Mr. Pant'er want to kill you? ' 
 growls Jedge B'ar. 
 
 ' ' I only borrowed a small ham o' shoat-meat 
 f 'om him las' night an' I was gwine to pay it right 
 back when my hawg-killin' time comes aroun',' 
 yowls Mr. Wilecat. 
 
 " ' Well, ef you done dat,' says Jedge B'ar, ' de 
 onlies' way I kin save you f om Mr. Pant'er is to 
 hide you in my house till he passes on by; so you 
 better clamb up dar quick as you kin an' jump in 
 de door.' 
 
 " Mr. Wilecat, who could see as well in day, 
 dusk, or dark, looked up befo' clammin' an' axed: 
 
 " ' What dat honey doin' on yo' doorsill, 
 Jedge? ' 
 
 ' * Oh, I offen goes bee-huntin' an' brings home 
 a heap o' honey in de comb, an' a little of it draps 
 in my doorway sometimes,' answers Jedge B'ar. 
 
 " Whar dat hummin' come f'om? ' nex* axes Mr. 
 Wilecat oneasylike. 
 
 " ' Dat's des' de leaves rustlin' in de risin' 
 breeze,' grunts Jedge B'ar, sort o' put out by so 
 many questions.
 
 A BUCKETFUL O MAD BEES WAS SPR1XKLED ALL OVER HIM.
 
 Mr. Lynx Hunts More Trouble 281 
 
 " ' Whoo-ee-yow! ' sounded so close it made de 
 tree-limbs trimble; an' Mr. Wilecat clattered up 
 de bark an' jumped in dat big hole in de trunk in 
 a hurry. But he jumped out in a hurrier. He 
 had hit on a hive o' wile bees ; an' when he bounced 
 back out o' dat holler about a bucketful o' mad 
 bees was sprinkled all over him f om nose to tail. 
 He yelled his own ' moo-roo-ow ' f a'rly loud whilst 
 he rolled over an' over on de grass fightin' de busy 
 bees. 
 
 " In de midst o' de racket Mr. Pant'er bounded 
 up, wid his big eyes flashin' an' his long tail 
 flickin'; an' he stops 'stonished an' 'sclaims: 
 
 " ' I see, Jedge, you's cotched de thief befo' I 
 could do it.' 
 
 " ' Yas,' grunts Jedge B'ar, wid a solemn sort o' 
 grin. * I's cotched de rogue, myself, an' I's tried 
 him, foun' him guilty, an' sentenced him to de Bee- 
 tree all in a few minnits; an' I guess de bees has 
 about collected to cost o' co'te out o' him, so I'll 
 turn him -loose now an' see ef he ain't cured o' 
 stealin' shoat-meat.' 
 
 "'All right, Jedge/ says Mr. Pant'er; * but ef
 
 282 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 he robs me any mo' he's gwine to git bit by sumpen' 
 a heap wusser'n honey-bees.' 
 
 " Mr. Wilecat got up an' slunked on home wid 
 his heart hatin' Jedge B'ar wusser'n he feared Mr. 
 Pant'er, an' his hide burnin' all over wid so many 
 bee-stings. 
 
 " Den Mr. Pant'er an' Jedge B'ar shuk han's 
 an' bofe said good night, an' Mr. Pant'er tuk his 
 own back-track an' went off to his huntin'. 
 
 " Ef I'd 'a' been dar when dem two beas'es 
 parted I'd 'a' felt like shakin' han's wid Jedge B'ar 
 myself for de way he fixed Mr. Wilecat ; bekase, a 
 long time back, he sarved me mos' like he sarved 
 Mr. Pant'er, but only much wusser. It was 
 dis: 
 
 " I had de fattes' little shoat I ever seed ready 
 to roas' for Christmas; but two nights befo' 
 Christmas Mr. Wilecat come an' stoled him. 
 When I tole yo' Paw about it de nex' mawnin' he 
 gimme anudder one out o' de plantation lot right 
 off. But, as I was gwine to ax him ' Christmas- 
 gift ! ' de nex' day he'd 'a' gimme dat pig nohow ; 
 an' I'd V had one for New Year; so I was out a
 
 Mr. Lynx Hunts More Trouble 283 
 
 cl'ar whole shoat by Mr. Wilecat, an' I's never 
 gwine to forgit it ag'inst him." 
 
 The old man got up from his bench, knocked 
 the ashes from his burnt-out pipe, pocketed it, 
 squinted at the nearly descended sun, and said: 
 
 " Time we's knocldn' off work, Little Mahster, 
 gimme dat fine handle you's finished makin' an' 
 lemme fasten on de whup-collar; run to de yard- 
 stable an' git yo' pony whilst I saddles up Ole 
 Abe, an' we'll ride out to de pastur' an' bring de 
 cows home to de milkin'."
 
 XIX 
 
 Host 
 
 NEAR the close of a raw and windy day in 
 the beginning of March, the coldest ever 
 known in that part of the country, the 
 Birdland Girl was racing about on the lawns and 
 through the winding hedges of the front grounds, 
 enjoying a kind of game of tag with her little 
 black-and-tan terrier. They were having a very 
 
 284 *
 
 How Mr. Wolf Lost His Spring Lamb 285 
 
 good time, 'specially the nimble dog, chasing and 
 dodging each other in turn, and the cunning ter- 
 rier seemed to understand the points of the game 
 just as well as his mistress did. In the midst of 
 their romp they were joined by Mademoiselle, the 
 governess, who was usually only a grown-up girl, 
 herself, out of doors. Mademoiselle almost out- 
 played, and really outran, her younger companion. 
 The bloom of health on their cheeks was much 
 heightened by their active exercise and by the bliz- 
 zard that was blowing about them. 
 
 Shortly before sunset their young friend, the 
 Doctor, happened along and caught the somewhat 
 disheveled girls at their lively game. He begged 
 them to let him join in it and share their great 
 fun; but Mademoiselle firmly declared that it was 
 time for her to stop and go indoors. So, after 
 seeing her safely into the house, the Doctor de- 
 cided to remain with her in the delightfully warm 
 sitting-room for an hour or two. 
 
 Left alone with her terrier, and resisting his 
 pleading barks and persuading tugs to continue 
 their exciting pastime, the Birdland Girl walked
 
 286 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 to the front gate of the grounds to take a parting 
 look for the day over the public road at any of the 
 passing world outside. As she stood there, and 
 was about to return to the house, a butcher's cart, 
 laden with spring lambs, jolted by on the river 
 road. Just before the gate of the grounds its 
 rough-looking redfaced driver picked up a poor 
 little perishing lamb, and, with cruel force, threw 
 ft on the road, uttering a loud expression of com- 
 plaint at his loss as he did so. 
 
 The watching girl quickly ran out to the middle 
 of the road, lifted up the little creature, which had 
 almost had its last breath knocked out by the hard 
 fall; and then she called to the driver of the 
 cart: 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Butcher, I don't know your name, 
 are you going to leave this little sick lamb here 
 on the road to die in the cold night coming? " 
 
 " Yes, Miss, I am. 'Tain't no earthly use to 
 me ! " gruffly answered the driver. 
 
 "May I have it and try to save it?" eagerly 
 asked the more merciful girl. 
 
 " Yes, take it and do what you please with it,
 
 How Mr. Wolf Lost His Spring Lamb 287 
 
 but it'll be no use, as it is as good as dead now," 
 called back the driver as his cart jolted on. 
 
 Huddling the helpless little lamb closely under 
 her cloak, beneath which its limp legs dangled 
 downward, the girl ran to the house as rapidly as 
 she could bearing such a burden. When she 
 reached the mansion she rushed around to the 
 playroom in the basement, laid the half-frozen 
 lamb on the floor near the fire, and ran out and off 
 to her " Black Mammy's " room for help to save 
 the dying creature. As she burst in that old 
 woman's door she was greeted with: 
 
 " Laws-a-mussy, Little Honey, you does look a 
 sight ! Yo' frock is all rumpled, yo* hyar is all 
 tumblin' down, yo' face is redder'n fire, an' you's 
 blowin' like a hard-runnin' boy: no wonder, 
 you's always at some sort o* boy-play, des' like you 
 nebber had been bawned to be a gal: 
 
 " Oh, Mammy, stop your scolding and listen to 
 me! " broke in the panting girl. " I've just car- 
 ried a poor little dying lamb into the playroom and 
 laid it by the fire; and please come and help me 
 with it and we'll save its life, if we can."
 
 288 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 After a few words of wonder and of warm pro- 
 test at this latest freak of her dearly beloved Maid 
 of Birdland, whom she had called " Little Honey " 
 since the day of her birth, the old negress willingly 
 hurried toward the playroom as fast as she could 
 behind the quickly returning girl to take a look at 
 the forlorn lamb, and see what she might do for it. 
 As soon as she saw it she shook her head, consider- 
 ing its case hopeless. But, going at once to the 
 lumber-room, after a short search for what she 
 wanted, she brought back a wicker clothes-basket, 
 and a long-unused baby blanket. Then she deftly 
 padded and lined the large basket with the soft 
 blanket, and bedded the little animal in a cradle 
 fit for any human baby. Then she went off to the 
 pantry and soon came back with a bowl of milk 
 and a dessert-spoon, and, showing her young as- 
 sistant-nurse how to hold the lamb's head in the 
 right position, she poured half of the milk in 
 spoonfuls down its throat. Revived by the warmth 
 and nourishment, which were all it needed, their 
 little patient, in a short time was able to hold up 
 its own head and bleat for more.
 
 How Mr. Wolf Lost His Spring Lamb 289 
 
 Finishing that first relief work, they snugly 
 covered up the lamb, and it quickly fell asleep, 
 when its two nurses went to their suppers. The 
 girl hastened back to her charge immediately after 
 supper, bringing her brother with her, as, of 
 course, he had become greatly interested in the 
 new pet as soon as she told him of it. They found 
 the lamb still asleep, and their old Black Mammy, 
 who had returned a minute before them, seated 
 musing before the fire, while its flames merrily 
 leaped and danced over the wood-sticks with which 
 it had just been fed by the warmth-loving old 
 woman. 
 
 When the Birdland Boy lifted the blanket, after 
 having taken a long satisfactory look at the lamb, 
 he confidently declared that it would be all right 
 in the morning. At that remark the ancient 
 nurse of numerous Birdland babies sharply ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Of co'se he'll be all right, my young Mr. Doc- 
 tor-man. I's missed you an' too many mo' baby- 
 f olkses not to know what to do wid a hongry baby- 
 sheep ! By mawnin' dat little critter '11 be as strong
 
 290 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 an' pyert as de one what skipped away f'om ole 
 Mr. Wolf dat time." 
 
 The Twins were silent, and all ears at once. 
 They feared to break in on their ancient nurse's 
 train of thought with any unwelcome questions, 
 and drive the tale of Mr. Wolf, and the lamb that 
 was lucky enough to skip away from him, en- 
 tirely out of her mind past recalling before bed- 
 time. 
 
 After a spell of meditative silence, the old 
 woman hitched her chair still nearer the blazing 
 fire, and began: 
 
 "Away back in de good ole times dar' was a 
 wide green sheep-pastur', 'mos' half as big as dis 
 plantation, not so fur away in dis part o' de coun- 
 try ; an' it had a moughty fine flock o' sheep on it. 
 All along de back aidge o' dat lurge pastur' was a 
 big dark woods, whar lots an' lots o' wile varmints 
 lived. Most of 'um was afeared to bodder much 
 wid mens an* deir belongin's; but Mr. Wolf, he 
 lived dar', too, an' he use to be de boss-beas' of 'um 
 all. He was big an' black, wid bright shinin' eyes, 
 an' a long red mouf full o' rows o' tearin' white
 
 How Mr. Wolf Lost His Spring Lamb 291 
 
 teefs, 'zackly like de ole Wolf yo' Maw use to read 
 you 'bout in dat Red Ridin' Hood tale when you 
 was a heap littler 'n you is now : only my Wolf, 
 what was bigger an' wusser'n dat Red Ridin' 
 Hood Wolf, dassent to try to eat any good little 
 gal, ef she did clamb trees, an' ef she did run aroun' 
 whoopin' an' hollerin' playin' wile Injun, an* ef 
 she did run pony-races, an' ef she did do a heap 
 mo' o' sich boy-frolics an' foolishness, like her name 
 should ha' been Tawm instid o' de pretty gal-name 
 it is. 
 
 " But, to git back to Mr. Wolf, he was greedy- 
 fond o' growed mutton, yit he hankered atter 
 Spring lamb still mo', an' wusser'n nuttin' else in 
 de worl'. F'om his hidin'-place in de skirt o' de 
 woods he would peep out at dat sheep-flock, ram- 
 blin' over de pastur' baahin' an* browsin' all day 
 long; an' he would prowl aroun' de sheep-pen 
 nigh as he da'st to prowl mos' all night in de dark 
 o' de moon. 
 
 " But de man what owned dem sheeps watched 
 'um all day hisse'f ; an', besides dat, he had a whole 
 pack o' dem big sheep-dogs wid long hyar air'
 
 292 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 p'inted heads an' sharp noses to holp him mind his 
 sheeps. 
 
 " Well, de fus' lamb bawned in dat sheep-flock, 
 in de late wintertime, got jfco be moughty fine an' 
 fat an' fresky by the middle o' de springtime. But 
 he got to be moughty foolish an' hard-headed, too ; 
 an' dat's how I come to hear dis story 'bout him. 
 He'd skip an' race aroun' de pastur', dodgin' his 
 mahster an' de sheep-dogs, an' break away todes 
 de woods like he was gwine to leave de pastur' an' 
 go an' live in de wildernis wid de varmints. 
 
 " When he'd do dat away Mr. Wolf was always 
 dar' at de very skirt-hem o' de woods waitin' for 
 him to come on de las' few skips fur enough for 
 him to reach dem woods an' stay wid him. But, as 
 good luck would have it, de sheep-dogs headed dat 
 contrairy lamb always des' in time. 
 
 "Dat lamb's gittin' so close to Mr. Wolf so 
 off'en, an' Mr. Wolf's des' missin' him every time 
 when he was sho' he had him at las', made Mr. 
 Wolf so hongry he des' pined for him an' got lean, 
 lookin' at him an' waitin' for him so long, an' he 
 grieved hisse'f mos' sick over him.
 
 How Mr. Wolf Lost His Spring Lamb 293 
 
 " Well, bimeby, sheep - shearin' time come 
 aroun', an' de shepherd-man and de sheep-dogs, 
 an' some mo' hired mens, rounded up all de growed 
 sheeps in a flock an' all de lambs in a bunch by! a 
 nice clear pawnd o' water not so very fur f om de 
 woods. Dar dey washed all de sheeps an' dey 
 dried 'um, an' den dey clipped off deir winter-wool 
 an' stuffed it into big bags wid de mouf lef ' wide 
 open. When dey got de fus' bag full dey drug it 
 well out o' de way an' lef it out in de sunshine 
 lia'fways betwixt de wash-pawnd an' de woods. 
 
 " Whilst all dat was gwine on, an' everybody 
 was too busy to bodder wid de bunch o' lambs, 
 what does Mr. Smarty-lamb do, when he seed 
 nuther mens nor dogs was watchin' him, but skip 
 away f'om de bleatin' bunch an' run off to de bag 
 o' wool an' bounce behine it clean out o' sight an' 
 out o' mine. Dar he butts at de bag an' he butts 
 at it, an' he has his own little fun till he gits tired 
 an* sleepy in de warm sunshine. Den down he lays 
 on de sof green grass an' draps to sleep right off, 
 sounder'n our little lamb sleepin' so nice in de 
 willow basket dar'.
 
 294 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 " " Mr. Wolf, watchin', like he always was, at de 
 aidge o' de woods, seed all dat little frolic. He 
 seed de lamb run away an' hide behine de wool- 
 bag; he seed him bounce aroun' an' butt an' butt, 
 an' he seed him drap off to sleep. But he looked, 
 somehows, harder, wid wonder in his eyes an' hon- 
 ger in his mouf, at de wool-bag dan he looked at 
 de lamb. 
 
 " ' Now's my chance ! ' says Mr. Wolf to hisse'f, 
 seem* everybody so busy at de sheep-shearin'. So 
 he crouch' down to de groun' till his breast teched 
 it, an' he crawl' out todes de wool-bag, what had 
 its mouf open todes de woods an' him. When he 
 got nigh enough for de las' leap he look' fust at de 
 little sleepin' lamb, den longer at de big bag 
 stuffed full o j fresh wool. 
 
 "Says he to hisse'f: 'Bar's my fine fat little 
 lamb ready an' waitin' for my dinner-time ; but 
 dar's de bigges' fattes' sheep I ever did see in dat 
 bag already kilt for me.' 
 
 " Wid dat he jumps at de wool-bag, an' grabs 
 it in his greedy mouf, an' bumps it over de sleepin' 
 lamb, an' runs his bestes' back to de woods wid it.
 
 How Mr. Wolf Lost His Spring Lamb 295 
 
 " When de lamb got woked up quick by de 
 bump o' dat bag, he gits one good look at Mr. 
 Wolf; an', seein' how big an' black an' fearsome 
 he is, he des' flies back to de flock, bleatin' all de 
 way an' skeered almos' to deaf. De mens, hearin' 
 him a-hollerin' an' seein' him a-comin', happens to 
 look todes de wool-bag. Of co'se dey misses it, 
 an' dey wonders how dat bag o' wool got away. 
 When de shearin' was done dey tracked it wid de 
 sheep-dogs an' foun' it in de woods wid de foot- 
 prints o' Mr. Wolf, de robber who stole it, but he 
 were gone too fur an' away to foller. 
 
 "When Mr. Wolf stop' to eat dat ' bigges' 
 sheep he ever did see ' he foun' out he'd been sich 
 a fool to leave de lamb an' steal de wool, dat he 
 shet up his big mouf an' low r ered his bushy tail an' 
 slunked away an' hid hisse'f in de darkes' hole he 
 could find in de woods, an' he let sheeps an' lambs 
 alone f'om dat day to dis. 
 
 " But Mr. Possum, who was nappin' in a bushy 
 tree nigh, woked up in time to see all dem doin's an' 
 how Mr. Wolf fooled hisse'f wid dat fat wool-bag; 
 an* Mr. Possum gadded about all night in de
 
 296 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 woods tellin' all de varmints he could find dat 
 funny tale on Mr. Wolf. Dey all larf ed an' larfed 
 at it like dey'd bust deir ribs, even down to de bull- 
 frawgs; an', whenever Mr. Wolf passed a pawnd 
 in de woods, or stopped at it to drink, de teensy 
 weensy little frawgs would cheep at him: ' Spring 
 la-a-a-amb ! Spring la-a-a-amb ! ' an' de gre't 
 big bull-frawgs would holler: ' Bag-o'-wool! 
 Bag-o'-wool! ' till Mr. Wolf got so worried he ha' 
 to leave dem woods. 
 
 " When de lamb what had tried so hard wid his 
 oontrairy ways to run hisse'f into trouble got dat 
 one close look at what trouble was, an' he seed how 
 big it was, an' how black it was, an' what a wide 
 mouf an' long teefs it had, he stopped all his 
 triflin' pranks an' his stubborn tricks right off. 
 Dat wakin'-up at de wool-bag 1'arnt him moughty 
 well how to behave hisse'f ; an' atter dat he change' 
 his foolish ways, an' he growed up in time to be a 
 sensable 'spectable sheep, what got so good an* 
 steady dat in two or free yeah his Mahster let him 
 w'ar de bell an' lead de flock." 
 
 As soon as she had finished her story the old
 
 How Mr. Wolf Lost His Spring Lamb 297 
 
 woman woke up the sleeping lamb, gave him the 
 remainder of the milk in the bowl, tucked him in 
 as tenderly as if he were one of her former more 
 precious charges, and, after covering the burnt 
 down wood-fire carefully with ashes, she exclaimed : 
 
 " It's time for ole folks like me an' young folks 
 like you to be gwine to bed; " then she started off 
 to set the good example, which was cheerfully fol- 
 lowed by the Twins, after one last look at the re- 
 stored lamb. 
 
 The brother's confidence in the lamb's complete 
 recovery, which had been expressed at his first sight 
 of it, was fully justified, as the lamb was all right 
 in the morning. After spending several months 
 of happy lambhood near the house as a special pet 
 of the lass who had saved its life, it was reluctantly 
 sent forth to the pastures to join the Birdland 
 flock, where, like the lamb of the old Black 
 Mammy's story, in time it became the leader of 
 the sheep.
 
 XX 
 
 JFtntrins of tfj* Wtyit* 
 
 THE brother and sister were enjoying an 
 afternoon ride in the fields of Birdland in 
 the midst of the haymaking season when 
 they saw an interesting novelty in bird-life, which 
 later led to the telling of two long bedtime tales of 
 the forest and prairies of their native State. That 
 afternoon they cantered and raced over the planta- 
 tion roads or stopped to watch the gangs of negro 
 
 298
 
 The Finding of the White Dove 299 
 
 haymakers at work in the fields. As that toil was 
 performed with much loud and merry talk, with 
 now and then a quaint harvest song breaking forth 
 from some busy black squad, it was well worth see- 
 ing to most young folk, or grown people either, 
 who happened to pass that way. 
 
 The haymaking on the sugar plantations is 
 largely done on fields in which cow-peas were 
 planted during the preceding May or June. Just 
 before the thick growth of peavines is ready to 
 shed its green leaves in the autumn some of it is 
 plowed under to enrich the soil, but much of it is 
 cut and cured for hay, and hauled out of the fields 
 to large haybarns by the big cane-wagons, which 
 about two months, or rather less, later begin to 
 haul the harvested sugar-cane to the huge mills 
 there to be turned into Louisiana sugar and mo- 
 lasses. 
 
 It might prove interesting to young people who 
 have never visited nor lived near the Louisiana 
 sugar district to learn that it is probably the only 
 kind of farming in this country which requires con- 
 tinuous work all of the year around. The cane
 
 300 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 crop is planted in the winter and partly in the pre- 
 ceding autumn and cultivated during the spring 
 and most of the summer; the accompanying corn 
 crop is gathered in the late summer up to the mid- 
 dle of September, then the busy haymaking sea- 
 son sets in, to be immediately succeeded by the fall- 
 planting of cane ; and that stops only for the start- 
 ing of the harder night and day work of harvesting 
 and grinding the cane, which lasts until the first or 
 middle of January, when the whole annual round 
 of toil must be gone over again. 
 
 When cut for hay the peavines are covered with 
 nearly matured or fully ripe pods of cow-peas; 
 many of these are shattered out of the pods in the 
 rough handling and raking of the vines for curing 
 or hauling; and this aftermath of peas on the 
 ground is left for the gleaning of countless num- 
 bers of different kinds of birds from early autumn 
 until midwinter. 
 
 As the Twins were, with their ponies abreast, 
 passing one of the recently harvested pea fields, a 
 flock of more than a hundred turtle-doves flew up 
 from the ground near them, where they had been
 
 The Finding of the White Dove 301 
 
 feeding on the shattered peas. As the rising doves 
 stirred the air with the musical beat of their many 
 wings the Birdland Girl eagerly exclaimed: 
 
 " Oh, look! Brother, look! See the white dove 
 in the middle of the flock!" 
 
 While the flock was hovering in the air a few 
 moments, as if hesitating over in what direction to 
 fly, the boy, also, had a close look at the same re- 
 markable bird. The Twins stopped their ponies 
 so as to disturb the flock as little as possible; and 
 it flew only a short distance from them and again 
 settled in the field near the roadside. 
 
 The young riders then started slowly on, and, 
 as they were passing abreast of the flock, it rose 
 again, fearlessly hovering near them, before flying 
 a little further and settling again. Very close to 
 the birds, as they were, the Twins could see their 
 soft dark eyes and note the shifting iris sheen on 
 their necks. And, near the middle of the flock flew 
 the white dove. That bird had the pink feet, the 
 pathetic eyes, and the exact form of its dove- 
 colored fellows, but, without visible spot, stain, or 
 tint on its plumage, it was white as snow.
 
 302 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 Returning to the house in the beginning of the 
 twilight the Twins met old Uncle Jason at the rear 
 gate of the grounds as they were about to enter 
 them to send their tired ponies stableward, and thej' 
 told him all about the dove with the snow-white 
 feathers they had seen on their ride. Like many of 
 the most venerable plantation negroes Jason prided 
 himself on being a weather-prophet. If the squir- 
 rel's fur came out thick in the autumn, or the down 
 on the goose's breast began to grow denser, he 
 would solemnly, as well as safely, predict " we's 
 sho'ly gwine to have cole wedder dis comin' winter." 
 Anything unusual in bird ways or animal habits 
 claimed his close attention at once, and he always 
 had some omen or portent to offer about them. 
 
 But, as ancient as he was, the black woodsman 
 had never seen a snow-white dove, and this story 
 about one stumped him. He furrowed his brow 
 with many wrinkles and severely frowned, study- 
 ing out some self-satisfying deduction from this 
 strange story of a new miracle in bird-life; and at 
 last he declared: 
 
 " Well, I hearn de preacher say once dat de
 
 The Finding of the White Dove 303 
 
 scriptur's had it, de comin' o' white doves were a 
 sign o' peace an' blessin's comin' to dis bad worl', 
 an' I 'spects yo' white dove means de beginnin' of 
 a big sugar crap for ole Birdland next mont'." 
 
 That was quite non-committal in the old man, 
 and his prophecy was more than likely to be veri- 
 fied, as there was one of the finest cane crops ever 
 seen on the fields of Birdland plantation that sea- 
 son, then almost ready for the mill. 
 
 When the Twins told the after-supper family 
 gathering about this new wonder of bird-life seen 
 by them on their afternoon ride its mystery was 
 removed, much to their disappointment at the time, 
 although later their find led to two new bedtime 
 stories. 
 
 It was their father who accounted for the bird's 
 rare plumage. He told them that he had seen a 
 white cock-partridge or quail, a white cardinal, 
 or red-bird, and an almost white blackbird, and 
 that the white dove they had seen, and those other 
 birds he had mentioned, were what the naturalists 
 called albino birds, whose feathers had lost their 
 coloring, through some defect or fault in their
 
 304 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 body-glands which gave them, when in perfect 
 condition, their natural colors. 
 
 Noting the disappointment of the Twins at 
 learning that the very interesting dove they had 
 seen was not so much of a mystery or even a rarity 
 among birds, their good mother tried to turn their 
 thoughts to another direction by proposing to tell 
 them a story; said she: 
 
 " Your telling us about that beautiful white dove 
 you found in the fields this afternoon reminds me 
 of an Indian legend, or rather a double-story that 
 I heard when I was younger than you. That tale 
 has been handed down to different sets of children 
 in our family for a great many years. It first 
 came from one of your great-great-grandfathers, 
 who was a French officer and had much to do with 
 the Indians when this State was a French colony. 
 In those almost ancient times all of this part of the 
 State was practically one great forest from the 
 mouth of the Red River down to the immense 
 marsh of the Gulf coast, and from the Mississippi 
 River over to the Atchafalaya. To give an idea of 
 the extent of that forest it was larger than the two
 
 The Finding of the White Dove 305 
 
 least of the New England States combined. It 
 was sparsely inhabited on this side of the Atchafa- 
 laya river by several small tribes of forest Indians, 
 while all of the prairie country in the State was 
 populated by a greater tribe of prairie Indians, 
 which will be described in the two stories about the 
 hunting of a White Doe, which I hope to begin 
 to-morrow night. It is too late to begin those long 
 tales now as it is nearly bedtime."
 
 XXI 
 
 Host $wnter0 of tlje 2TOjftr Hot 
 
 NO man living knows, or is likely to ever 
 learn, how many hundreds of years old 
 may be the following connected legends of 
 one of our Louisiana Indian tribes, which has long 
 been scattered, completely lost, and gone to the
 
 The Lost Hunters of the White Doe 307 
 
 happy hunting grounds to be the spirit-hunters of 
 spectral herds of the vanished Buffalo, and, after 
 the chase, find the welcome rest of home in their 
 phantom lodges. 
 
 Long before Bienville, the knightly young 
 French- Canadian who founded Xew Orleans, was 
 born, adventurous Spanish explorers from Mexico 
 had reached and claimed the green prairie region 
 which now forms the Southwestern fourth of the 
 State of Louisiana. There the Spaniards found a 
 numerous tribe of Indians calling themselves At- 
 takapas, who had probably emigrated ages before 
 from the plains and mountains of Mexico. That 
 name, Attakapas, means Eaters of Men. But they 
 must have been cannibals in the very remote past, 
 for they were not when discovered by white men, 
 or from time almost beyond their own tradi- 
 tion. 
 
 The lands where the Attakapas lived lay from 
 the wooded West bank of the Atchafalaya river 
 over the rolling prairie country to the Texas border. 
 They called that stream in their tongue Atchafa- 
 laya, or " The Long River," because it was then
 
 308 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 the lower part of the Red river, which was not con- 
 nected with the Mississippi river. Later the Red 
 cut into the Mississippi ninety miles above its own 
 former mouth; and in these modern times our 
 national government has spent millions of dollars 
 to prevent the rampant old Mississippi from leav- 
 ing its own bed and rushing madly to the sea down 
 the two-hundred-mile shorter channel of the an- 
 cient Red. 
 
 The Attakapas Indians thought, perhaps like 
 some other natives of America, that the river near 
 which they lived, which was fifteen hundred miles 
 long, must, of course, be the longest river of all the 
 world. Probably they had never seen the mighty 
 Father of Waters, which was about three times the 
 length of their own Long River, and refused to be- 
 lieve the romances told them about the bigger 
 stream by visitors from other tribes who dwelt on 
 its banks. 
 
 The verdant prairies of the Attakapas country 
 were full of buffalo and deer, and the great forest 
 on the West bank contained bears, timber-wolves, 
 wildcats without number, and reptiles and serpents
 
 The Lost Hunters of the White Doe 309 
 
 of monstrous size, according to the legendary lore 
 of the lost tribe. 
 
 At the time of this particular legend the Attaka- 
 pas Indians were ruled by a chief named Notonka, 
 who was the father of the finest looking woman in 
 all their tribe. Sartartia, she was called, which is 
 the Indian name for the flower of the pumpkin 
 vine. Her face of reddish gold was almost as bril- 
 liant as the flaunting bloom of the flower for which 
 she was named. She was a tall, lithe and flaming 
 beauty, with big flashing eyes, and with raven hair 
 flowing over her rounded form and falling to the 
 beaded fringe of her short fawn-skin skirt. 
 
 But Sartartia, who had then reached the full 
 ripeness of twenty summers, with all of her beauty 
 of face and form, possessed a heart which was, 
 strange to say, as indifferent to the love of man as 
 the golden fruit of the pumpkin vine. Ponies, 
 blankets and bottles of rum being then unknown 
 to the tribe, her parents had never put her up in the 
 young squaw market, and she was permitted to 
 make her own free choice of a mate. 
 
 But that cold and haughty daughter of a chief
 
 310 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 had suitors from near and far, as she was very 
 beautiful and desirable according to the standard 
 of savage taste. And she was as cruel as she was 
 cold. Conscious of the great power of her charms, 
 her chief pleasure was in employing them for the 
 torment of men. She would lead her lovers on and 
 on, to the very verge of consent, deluding them 
 with fair hopes and fond dreams, then she would 
 lightly throw them over that verge into the dark 
 depths of despair. Or she would set them impossi- 
 ble tasks, promising herself as the prize of their ac- 
 complishment. Finally, rinding that the many 
 suitors for her favor were disheartened and cooled 
 by continual failure, she seemed to become less ex- 
 acting and made this promise: 
 
 " He who brings me the heart of the White Doe 
 that lives in the forest of the Long River may win 
 mine and wed me." 
 
 Sartartia secretly knew that this was the most 
 difficult ordeal to which her wooers could be sub- 
 jected, for Metumka, the very wise old Medicine- 
 Man of the tribe, had told her why it was so. De- 
 spite his many years, Metumka had been bewitched
 
 The Lost Hunters of the White Doe 311 
 
 by her beauty, and he had informed her, and her 
 alone, in the sacred confidence of his craft, that the 
 White Doe, which had been sometimes, although 
 very rarely, seen during many years by truthful 
 hunters of the tribe, was really a spirit-deer beyond 
 the power of death or harm from human hand. 
 
 The numerous ardent lovers who went forth into 
 the great forest to hunt its haunting White Doe 
 found that fleet female deer even more elusive than 
 the young woman who had sent them on its weary- 
 ing quest; and, one by one, they gave up their 
 hopeless chase of the wild doe and the chief's 
 daughter. Then, some time after the last of her 
 own tribesmen had abandoned this futile double 
 chase, a stranger came, a moon's march from the 
 North, to try his hand and skill in the hunting of 
 both prizes; for the fame of The Pumpkin 
 Flower's beauty and the terms of its winning had 
 traveled to the lands of far tribes. 
 
 The name of this new suitor was Loosa, who was 
 a young chief of the Tusca-Loosas, or Black War- 
 riors. As his name implied, he was black in out- 
 ward appearance as well as in character. His lim-
 
 312 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 ited raiment, the skin of a black wolf with the hair 
 outside, was worn over his shoulders and back, ter- 
 minating at the bottom in the original brute's 
 bushy tail. Hooded over his head was the neck- 
 skin of the wolf, with its less evil-looking stuffed 
 head and gleaming fangs peaked over the human 
 savage's brow. Fastened above this wolfish head- 
 gear was a hideous crest formed of the lifted wings 
 of the black vulture. Loosa's moccasins were 
 made of the skin of the venomous black serpent of 
 the same name; the large extent of his own bare 
 skin was painted black; and he bore in his hand a 
 black bow, and at his waist a quiver of black ar- 
 rows. All of this selection of black was to signify 
 the spirit of black Hate which hopes for death to 
 the hunted in the chase or in war. 
 
 Heralded as the most hopeful son of the chief 
 of another great tribe, and arousing intense ad- 
 miration at his courting costume, Loosa was roy- 
 ally welcomed by his Attakapas hosts. They 
 feasted him by day and honored him by night with 
 three of their most noted tribal dances : that of the 
 Black Wolf, which throttles its prey; that of the
 
 The Lost Hunters of the White Doe 313 
 
 Black Serpent, which stings it to death; and that 
 of the Black Vulture, which devours it dead. In 
 the manner of their remote kinsmen, the Zuni and 
 the Moqui of Mexico, as they leaped and whirled 
 about in the red flare and black smoke of a hundred 
 flaming torches, they simulated the necessary howl- 
 ing, throttling, hissing, stinging, flapping and de- 
 vouring, in horrible chant and hideous pantomime. 
 Deeming Loosa a very big Indian, they gave him a 
 very big time. 
 
 The Pumpkin Flower, who was an honored 
 watcher of the dancing men, became quite gracious 
 toward the Black Warrior in the intervals of rest ; 
 and at the close of the wild dance she bade him go 
 forth quickly and bring her the heart of the 
 White Doe that he might take her back home his 
 bride. 
 
 Then, at midnight, Metumka, the old Medicine- 
 Man, conducted him into the hidden sanctity of his 
 mystic lodge. There he dipped the barbs of 
 Loosa's black arrows in the preserved venom of 
 numerous black snakes, blessed the poisoned shafts, 
 and promised the swarthy bowman the certainty of
 
 314 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 success on his mission of death to the White Doe. 
 Then the cunning old sorcerer privately put a 
 counter-spell of his most powerful magic on the 
 whole proceeding; for the favor shown this 
 stranger by Sartartia had fired his foolish old 
 heart with jealous hatred. Thus when he finished 
 his secret incantations and sped Loosa to his hunt- 
 ing with a smiling farewell, such smiling came 
 from the feeling that the parting would be final. 
 
 Loosa, transposed into the Black Hunter, in the 
 last of the night's darkness, entered the great 
 forest when its sleeping silence was softly broken 
 only by the patter of dew-drops, falling like tears 
 from the living leaves above over the dead leaves 
 lying below. As the first of the dawn-light ap- 
 peared, tautly stringing his black bow, and finger- 
 ing its vulture-feathered arrow, he sought the trail 
 of the doomed White Doe. When the light had 
 grown stronger he found the fresh footprints of a 
 female deer pressing the fallen leaves too lightly to 
 disturb the dew-wet gossamer webs of the ground- 
 spiders in her path. With hunting eyes true as the 
 bloodhound nose, he followed that faint trail for
 
 The Lost Hunters of the White Doe 315 
 
 miles and miles toward the heart of the forest, 
 moving as silent as the shadows of the trees against 
 the rising sun. 
 
 At last, far ahead in the gloom, which still 
 lingered in the forest as if fearing to follow the 
 departed Night beyond, Loosa caught sight of a 
 dim white form. Whether it were merely a fancy 
 of his over-strained vision, or a living object, he 
 could not at first determine. 
 
 Nearer he stole, and still nearer, stopping every 
 few steps to look more closely. The spectral 
 white form, which he might have at first fancied 
 to be but a wisp of mist, became more distinct. 
 The deer figure, the graceful neck and head, 
 and the delicate limbs gradually took definite 
 shape. 
 
 Nearer Loosa silently glided, warily and deadly 
 as had been the way of the sinuous black serpent 
 whose skin covered his noiseless feet. 
 
 The lovely liquid eyes of the hunted animal 
 turned, as if too late, to look wonderingly at the 
 human hunter of its solitude. As the mystified 
 Doe never moved, Loosa, to make sure of his kill,
 
 316 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 stalked her to within short bowshot. Then he bent 
 his black weapon and sped the loosed barb of death 
 on its lightning way. 
 
 The venomed shaft struck the snowy side close 
 behind the shoulder. It rebounded without visible 
 hurt; and the beautiful creature vanished as 
 silently as if it really had been formed of the forest 
 mist for which it had been at first mistaken. 
 
 Loosa, motionless with amazement, vainly 
 looked for the deer in flight, and then another and 
 a greater marvel happened. The darkness of 
 Night returned to the forest, and, rapidly ap- 
 proaching the terrified hunter, there came a 
 mighty noise like the roaring and hissing of an 
 overwhelming tornado. A huge phantom-ser- 
 pent, formed of the winds and their black vapors, 
 lashing leaves, limbs and trees down to the earth 
 in its terrible path, rushed upon the doomed man, 
 and, winding its twisting coils about him, carried 
 him off to some hidden domain of the tempest 
 where no human foot might dare to tread. 
 
 A few moons after the mysterious disappear- 
 ance of Loosa of the Black Warriors, or his taking
 
 '' CARRIED HIM OFF TO SOME HIDDEN DOMAIN OF THE TEMPEST."
 
 The Lost Hunters of the White Doe 317 
 
 off by the fabled tornado, came another suitor of 
 Sartartia. 
 
 This was Homa of the Tusca-Homas, the red- 
 dest of the Red Warriors. As Loosa had worn 
 black, Homa's favorite color was red. He was 
 robed, as far as it would go, in the skin of a red 
 fox, crested with the red hawk's wings, and much 
 vermilion paint was wasted in tinting more 
 brightly his tawny red skin. 
 
 This coloring was chosen as the tribal symbol of 
 Cruelty, and by Homa, particularly, to show the 
 admiring natives how ready he was to shed blood 
 whenever and wherever he might find victims to 
 furnish it. 
 
 The appreciative Attakapas duly feasted 
 Homa, also, and honored him further with the 
 tribal dances of the Red Fox, the Red Hawk, and 
 the Coral Serpent, to such vocal music and mim- 
 icry as the bark of the beast, the scream of the bird 
 and the bite of the snake. The fickle Pumpkin 
 Flower greeted the congenial Red Warrior very 
 graciously. At the end of the final snake-dance 
 she softly whispered to him that he might forego
 
 318 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 the hard ordeal of hunting the White Doe, as he 
 had already won her own heart. But Homa felt 
 in honor bound to comply with that condition, and, 
 besides, disliked losing the least chance of spilling 
 blood, even were it but an animal's. 
 
 Thus, at midnight, the red man and the rosy 
 maid parted. And the watchful Metumka, who 
 had overheard those tender whispers to Sartartia's 
 most favored lover, took Homa into his medicine- 
 lodge, poisoned his arrows with the fatal venom 
 of Coral-snakes, incanted over him, applied hitf 
 secret spell of counter-magic, and dismissed the 
 Red Hunter on his errand with a blessing from 
 his mouth and a baleful curse from the bottom of 
 his heart. 
 
 When Homa reached the forest of the Long 
 River the blush of the dawn was as deeply red as 
 if the eastern sky were stained with blood. Its 
 glow bathed all of the upper forest foliage, and, 
 dripping down through openings among the 
 leaves, it sprinkled and splashed the ground below 
 with dark crimson spots. Although this general 
 blood-hue of sky and earth but heralded an angry
 
 The Lost Hunters of the White Doe 319 
 
 day, Homa hailed it as a happy omen of success. 
 He rejoiced that the Great Spirit was good to 
 him in painting the blood-symbol on sky and land ; 
 and he boasted to himself that he, Homa of the 
 Tusca-Homas, was surely going to bring shame 
 to all of the preceding hunters, and tear out the 
 bleeding heart of the White Doe. 
 
 Equally skilled in woodcraft with the lost 
 hunter of the Tusca-Loosa, he quickly found the 
 faint trail he sought and followed it into the 
 depths of the dense forest. 
 
 Again the dim hunted form was found and 
 stealthily stalked until its dark eyes gazed won- 
 dering and wistfully into those of its hunter. And 
 again the whizzing arrow flew from its bow to bite 
 into the heart of the white victim. But, as it 
 struck the spotless side, it broke in twain. And, 
 without the least stain of wound, the spirit-deer 
 bounded silently away. 
 
 As the White Doe suddenly vanished, a rum- 
 bling roar, as of heavy thunder, fell from a lower- 
 ing red cloud directly overhead; and, with rush- 
 ing wings swift as the lightning's bolt, the mighty
 
 320 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 Red Eagle of the Attakapas legends swooped 
 down from the lurid cloud. The great bird 
 grasped the impious hunter's painted body in its 
 talons and bore it high up in the sky in soaring 
 circles. Then the Red Eagle flew straight away 
 to the Southwest to the far land of the Attakapas 
 forefathers, carrying Homa of the Red Warriors 
 to the Father of its mountains, which wears a red 
 crest of flame-feathers rising high over a mighty 
 tribe of mountains. 
 
 The warm season passed away without tidings 
 of Loosa or Homa. Then in the following winter 
 a lone Black Wolf and a Red Coyote, both of fabu- 
 lous size, began howling and wailing mournfully 
 all through the long dark nights beyond the outer 
 lodges of the Attakapas town. The ordinary 
 people wondered why these nightly disturbers of 
 their peace refused to be driven away. But wise 
 old Metumka, listening in his medicine-lodge, was 
 happy to hear them and feel that his magic had 
 worked so effectively. For well he knew that the 
 (Black Wolf and the Red Coyote howling and 
 wailing near the town in the night contained the
 
 The Lost Hunters of the White Doe 321 
 
 spirits of Loosa and Homa, looking vainly for the 
 lost homeward trail back to the far lands of the 
 Tusca-Loosas and the Tuscahomas. 
 
 Other old men of the Attakapas had declared 
 that Loosa must have been destroyed in a twisting 
 spring tornado and Homa been killed by lightning 
 in a fierce Summer thunderstorm; and they main- 
 tained that the spirits of the lost hunters of the 
 White Doe had reached home many moons since. 
 But Metumka knew better.
 
 XXII 
 
 of 
 
 AsFOTHER HOT ^ W^ Spring came to 
 the land of ''Ji /|| the Attakapas, and 
 with it ar- w Jj)]r rived another suitor 
 
 for the hand of the unwon Sartartia. 
 
 This was Pasca, a young chief of the tribe of 
 Pascagoulas, or the Eaters of Corn, who lived a 
 
 322
 
 The Winning of Mist-in- the- Woods 323 
 
 moon's march to the eastward, by the shores of 
 " the Singing Sea." Pasca was taller and more 
 finely formed than the two warrior-hunters of the 
 other strange tribes who had preceded him in the 
 courtship of the Pumpkin Flower. His handsome 
 face was free of paint, as were his hands of blood- 
 stain. He was robed in a richly dyed tunic from 
 neck to knee, which was girdled with a wide belt 
 shining with the shells of his native shore. His 
 raiment awakened the wonder and also the un- 
 bounded admiration of the Attakapas women, 
 from the novelty of its fabric and fashion. It was 
 woven of the fine fibres of a plant which grew in 
 the fields of the Pascagoulas, and which their own 
 tribe had long forgotten that their forefathers had 
 grown. But that glittering belt of wampum most 
 excited the cupidity of both women and men. 
 
 Pasca entered the Attakapas town unheralded, 
 holding in his hand an unstrung bow as a symbol 
 of Peace; and in a pouch slung over his shoulder 
 he carried, as a sign of his tribal plenty, half of the 
 corn with which it had been filled when he started 
 on his long journey.
 
 324 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 The men of the Attakapas received this last 
 visitor with hospitality, but with far less honor 
 than they had shown their two warrior-guests at- 
 tired in the symbolic black of Hate and red of 
 Cruelty. At first the Pumpkin Flower was some- 
 what impressed by his fine figure and handsome 
 face. But, when she learned he was one who pre- 
 ferred peace to war, this first impression gave 
 place to dislike and disdain; and when she bade 
 him bring her the heart of the White Doe as the 
 price of her winning she added scornfully under 
 her breath that he might eat its heart to gain in 
 valor. The old Medicine-Man held this new as- 
 pirant for the Beauty of his tribe as beneath even 
 his contempt. 
 
 Yet the young grower of bread was greater, 
 wiser and braver than them all. His magic was 
 far more potent then Metumka's, for he had 
 learned how to make the Earth, the Sun and the 
 rain-clouds feed and clothe his people. He knew 
 every plant, vine and tree of the fields and forests; 
 and he had discovered a bloom borne by one of 
 the rarest trees on earth, the " Tree of True-
 
 The Winning of Mist-in-the- Woods 325 
 
 Love," in his own tribal tongue, which flower pos- 
 sessed the most marvelous powers of enchantment 
 of any in the world. That wonderful flower, 
 which was held to be emblematic of purity and 
 mercy as well as of love by the gentler Pascagou- 
 las, bloomed far from the haunts of men in the 
 forest of the Attakapas. The fragrant blossom 
 was borne on the top of the central stem of a tall 
 plant, whose girdling of long leaves, as sharp as 
 spears and keen as swords, guarded it from de- 
 spoiling hands. 
 
 Strange to say, Pasca displayed but faint ardor 
 in the wooing of Sartartia, and not the least desire 
 to enter the mystic lodge of the contemptuous Me- 
 tumka. At the midnight hour he quietly left the 
 sleeping Attakapas town and went forth into the 
 forest to seek the Love Flower, which he found in 
 the first light of the dawn, after long searching. 
 When his wonderful plant-lore had thus been re- 
 warded with success he strung his bow, and, draw- 
 ing from his quiver an arrow feathered from the 
 wing of a white dove, lightly shot the shaft 
 through the heart of the single immaculate bios-
 
 326 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 som. The arrow dropped on the ground a short 
 distance away, on the opposite side of the Love- 
 Tree, wet with the magic juice of the pierced 
 flower. There the bowman recovered it and re- 
 placed it in his quiver. 
 
 Then Pasca sought and soon found the trail of 
 the White Doe. Following it swiftly he, too, soon 
 found the snowy deer with the dark wistful eyes. 
 Getting within bowshot he let fly his unerring 
 shaft. The magic arrow pierced the innocent heart 
 at which it was aimed as easily as it had penetrated 
 the flower of enchantment; and the spotless white 
 form fell to the ground. 
 
 The successful hunter ran up to the dying crea- 
 ture and stood over it waiting for its ebbing life to 
 end. It was strange to see that hope was brighten- 
 ing his face despite its looks of pity. Then hope 
 and joy conquered in his countenance and van- 
 quished pity fled. The wide dark eyes were fast 
 losing the pleading look of the fatally wounded 
 Doe, and were lighting with renewed life. As if 
 seen in a vision, with rapidly changing shape, the 
 prostrate deer vanished from view; and, from
 
 The Winning of Mist-in-the- Woods 327 
 
 where it had lain, the loveliest Maiden ever seen 
 timidly arose and stood before the glad archer of 
 the magic arrow. She was arrayed in a snowy 
 robe of swansdown, and her bended head was cov- 
 ered with a hood of the dainty nuptial plumes of 
 white herons ; from the back of that hood her dark 
 tresses rippled in a soft silken cascade over her 
 shoulders and far below her waist. 
 
 That Maiden, as one awakened from a deep 
 sleep, at last appealingly lifted her doe-like eyes 
 to the face of the man who had rescued her from 
 the power of evil sorcery, and asked him his name, 
 and that of the land of her recovery, which was all 
 new and strange to her. When these questions 
 had been but briefly answered, for the while, she 
 told her rescuer that before she had fallen asleep, 
 in what seemed ages since, she had been called 
 Melnabena, or Mist-in-the-Woods, and had dwelt 
 in a land of mountains, but she could remember 
 little of her past or her people, that all of her mem- 
 ory seemed to have been lost in a long, long dream 
 in which she was ever a wandering or hunted 
 White Doe.
 
 328 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 As the noon sun sent its leaf-filtered beams to 
 the ground Pasca picked up his magic arrow, 
 which lay bloodless where the Spirit-Deer had 
 fallen, and, with the woman whose life and love he 
 had won, started on the way to leave the Forest of 
 the Long River. 
 
 But the winning of Mist-in-the-Wood was not 
 yet completed. As Pasca walked by her side he 
 was troubled with the thought that he might soon 
 sorely need more of his plant-magic to save his 
 prize for himself, and perhaps to preserve both of 
 their lives ere they could leave the land of the At- 
 takapas. 
 
 The more the young hunter pondered over this 
 question the more dangerous their position ap- 
 peared. He had outdone the crafty old Medicine- 
 Man of the Attakapas in magic, and beaten the 
 best hunters of the tribe in woodcraft. But, most 
 of all, he dreaded being held to the pledge of be- 
 trothal by Sartartia because he had slain the 
 White Doe. 
 
 That final reckoning with the Pumpkin Flower, 
 he felt, might be the cause of mortal offense to all
 
 The Winning of Mist-in-the- Woods 329 
 
 her tribe. He had not really come to the Attakapas 
 country to seek her, but to solve the mystery of the 
 White Doe, its long and fruitless chase, and the 
 strange loss of its two most noted hunters, the tale 
 of such happenings having reached him and keenly 
 aroused his interest. But, as he had ostensibly 
 visited the Attakapas as a suitor for their chief's 
 daughter, and he had fulfilled the conditions de- 
 manded for her formal winning, if she now chose 
 to lay claim to him as her lawful lord the conse- 
 quences of his refusal to wed her might be tragic 
 indeed. 
 
 The young magician of the plants had to think 
 of some defense against the dangers confronting 
 him and Melnabena. As he walked he searched 
 the surrounding woods with eyes which possessed 
 the Eagle sight by day and the Owl vision by 
 night. After much seeking he found a poisonous 
 vine, the magic of whose venomous juice was just 
 as harmful as that of the Love-Flower was good. 
 This was the vine of the Yellow Death. Like an 
 hundred inter-twining serpents starting from one 
 den in the ground its twisting black stems assailed
 
 330 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 all other forms of plant life. They would crawl 
 and wind about the trunk of any tree, grinding 
 through its bark and crushing deep beneath to suck 
 its life-sap. At last its tawny yellow flowers would 
 breathe and drip poison from their petals over its 
 every limb and leaf, until the doomed tree was 
 killed. Then the clinging Yellow Death vine de- 
 voured it in decay until not even its rottenness re- 
 mained. 
 
 Pasca plucked another arrow from the sheaf in 
 his quiver, and, kneeling where the tap-root of the 
 death-vine entered the ground, forced the barbed 
 shaft far down into that noxious root. When he 
 withdrew the arrow its head was yellow and sticky 
 with a poison passing that of a serpent's tooth. 
 With great care he wrapped the missile closely in 
 large pliant leaves and replaced it in a single 
 socket of his quiver. Then he resumed his way, 
 with Mist-in-the-Woods walking beside him as 
 lightly and silently as the White Doe had formerly 
 wandered over the fallen forest leaves. 
 
 The pair reached the Attakapas town as the 
 sun was red near its setting. On their arrival the
 
 The Winning of Mist-in- the- Woods 331 
 
 people gathered around them in great wonder. 
 The amazing tidings of their coming flew from 
 tepee to tepee, and very soon all of the warriors, 
 hunters, squaws with papooses peering from their 
 panniers, and wide-eyed boys and girls crowded 
 about Pasca and Melnabena with noisy excite- 
 ment, and different degrees of envy or awe as they 
 heard the tale of the rescue of that maiden from the 
 body of the White Doe. 
 
 Howsoever the men of the tribe regarded 
 Pasca's triumph, they were bound by tribal law to 
 openly treat the lucky hunter as a friendly guest. 
 What any of them might do later in secret was a 
 different question. But all of such possible evil 
 inclinations among the men were promptly sup- 
 pressed by Metumka, who was most hearty in his 
 praise of Pasca. He harangued the assembled 
 multitude on the fame that the visitor had won so 
 quickly and well by his magic, which had shown 
 him to be the next to the greatest Medicine-Man 
 ever seen in their country. 
 
 Then this supreme priest of the tribe withdrew 
 the young couple to his lodge for a short private
 
 332 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 conference, after which he brought them forth to 
 hold a further pow-wow with the waiting gather- 
 ing, when the old man, placing Pasca and Melna- 
 bena before him, pronounced them duly mated by 
 the tribal law. Then he declared in the manner 
 of a marriage benediction that, as the Great Spirit 
 had given the stranger his squaw in their forest, all 
 the tribe would please the Great Spirit very much 
 by being good to the wedded couple, and with gifts 
 of food and raiment speeding them as parting 
 guests when they chose the time to leave for the 
 land of the Pascagoulas. 
 
 Metumka's avowed friendship, and his haste in 
 performing this marriage ceremony, were founded 
 on a fear like that felt by Pasca. The madly 
 enamored old man dreaded that a fickle change of 
 fancy might cause Sartartia to hold the successful 
 hunter to the pledge she had once scornfully de- 
 manded and compel him to wed her; and, having 
 hurried up the wedding to forestall any such 
 change of heart in the object of his own infatua- 
 tion, he was mightily pleased at the prospect of the 
 early departure of the mated pair.
 
 The Winning of Mist-in-the- Woods 333 
 
 Sartartia seemed to accept the situation with 
 perfect indifference, which was falsely assumed; 
 for Pasca, the disdained wooer of the day before, 
 was not then the proud winner of a trophy for 
 which many had vainly striven. She saw that the 
 man she had scorned yesterday as a spiritless fool 
 was brave and mighty in magic. Then she had not 
 particularly noted that he was so tall and hand- 
 some, with the stature and the step of a young 
 chief. And, worst of all, a more beautiful woman 
 had taken what she had rejected. 
 
 In that sunset hour of Pasca's return the flame 
 of love was first kindled in her heart, and, blazing 
 with the passion of her full womanhood, it burned 
 all the more fiercely for her jealousy of the 
 woman he had won in doing her own foolish bid- 
 ding. Metumka had betrayed her in giving her no 
 time to prevent the marriage and demand the en- 
 forcement of that compact of honor between her, a 
 chief's daughter, and a visiting chief. And, now 
 that it was done, her own father could not revoke 
 a marriage performed by the prophet of his 
 tribe.
 
 334 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 Thus, enraged by her fancied or real wrongs, 
 and rendered desperate by the first irresistible love 
 of her savage life, Sartartia determined to take 
 matters in her own hands and try to regain the 
 lover she had held too lightly and lost. Counting 
 the crime it involved as nothing compared with the 
 satisfaction of her intense longing, she decided that 
 the first step toward reaching her end should be 
 the sacrifice of the innocent human life which had 
 been released but a few hours from the body of the 
 slain White Doe. 
 
 As the deep darkness of the moonless night cov- 
 ered the town, Sartartia sought in her father's 
 lodge, during his absence at the council-fire dis- 
 cussing the wonders of that day's principal event, a 
 suitable weapon for the foul deed she had in mind. 
 From the Chief's war accoutrements she selected 
 a long and keenly sharp knife with a shining blade 
 of tempered copper and a haft of dull grey metal. 
 Both blade and handle were graven with mystic 
 symbols and figures of long-robed men moving 
 toward a smoking mountain. That knife, accord- 
 ing to tribal traditions, had belonged to uncount-
 
 The Winning of Mist-in-the- Woods 335 
 
 able generations of chiefs ; and it bore the repute of 
 having been made by the most potent and sacred 
 magic the medium of certain death in the hands of 
 its rightful owner. 
 
 Taking that infallible weapon into her adjoin- 
 ing lodge, Sartartia gloated over it with fiendish 
 cruelty as the flames without flickered over its pol- 
 ished blade. When the last red embers before her 
 lodge died in the grey ashes she lay on her couch 
 still fingering the edge of that sacred implement of 
 human sacrifice until the passing of the midnight 
 hour. 
 
 When the town was in its heaviest sleep she 
 arose, tightened her grasp on her weapon's rough 
 graven hilt, and stole noiselessly out into the night 
 on her murderous mission. To avoid the least 
 chance of being seen by any possibly wakeful eye 
 she crouched like an animal with her body low to 
 the ground, and crawled on hands and knees 
 toward the dark and silent lodge of the mated 
 lovers. Moving her limbs with cautious feline 
 stealth, pausing every few paces to look around 
 and listen for danger to herself, she crawled slowly
 
 336 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 on until the skin-covered lodge was near enough 
 for her final fatal rush. 
 
 But, fearing treachery from their very savage 
 hosts, both the young visitors, having just finished 
 their preparations for a midnight flight, were 
 about to leave the lodge, when Pasca, slightly part- 
 ing its deerskin curtains to see if their way was 
 clear of danger, beheld the crouching figure on the 
 ground before its entrance. In the blackness of 
 that dense darkness he could but dimly discern, 
 even with his wonderful eyesight, the human out- 
 lines of its body. Convinced that it was an Attaka- 
 pas brave, on murder bent, he sent forth his second 
 magic arrow, envenomed from the death-vine, into 
 the breast of the midnight assassin. 
 
 A fierce scream, like the enraged cry of some 
 cruel beast balked of its prey, shrilled through the 
 startled town; and where Sartartia had last 
 crouched, a long tawny beast sprang up, bared its 
 wicked fangs, tore' the stinging arrow from its 
 breast, screamed again and bounded away toward 
 the forest. 
 
 Ere the startled town could stir out of its lodges
 
 
 TORE THE STINGING ARROW FROM ITS BREAST.
 
 The Winning of Mist-in-the- Woods 337 
 
 to learn the source of those terrible night-cries, 
 Pasca and Mist-in-the- Wood, as fleet-footed as the 
 White Doe, whence she came, were far on their 
 way to the land of the Pascagoulas, which they 
 reached in safety. 
 
 The next morning Sartartia was missing; and 
 for many moons the Attakapas warriors and 
 braves sought over prairie and forest for their un- 
 returning tribeswoman. But she was never again 
 beheld by human eyes. Timed exactly with the 
 date of her disappearance a new night-cry of a 
 ferocious beast hitherto unknown to the Attakapas 
 hunters came from the great forest of the Long 
 River. The lamenting old Metumka told the tribe 
 with solemn assurance that the same great un- 
 known sorcerer who had imprisoned Melnabena so 
 long in the White Doe's shape had been angered 
 by her deliverance in the land of the Attakapas, 
 and had in punishment for such defiance put the 
 spirit of their Chief's daughter into this new and 
 dangerous night-prowling animal. A little later 
 an adventurous Attakapas hunter, who chanced to 
 see enough of this new bloodthirsty creature to
 
 338 Plantation Stories of Old Louisiana 
 
 learn its ways, foolishly hinted, out of Metumka's 
 hearing, that the strange beast, itself, must have 
 stolen Sartartia in one of her night-strolls, and 
 carried her off into the forest. 
 
 However it might have been, it was just then 
 that the first Cougar came to the greatest forest of 
 Louisiana. And as long afterward as the Attaka- 
 pas remained in the land of their fathers they 
 heard its scream in their great forest at night. 
 They shuddered at its loudest and most wrathful 
 cry, which came when the wild-doe had escaped its 
 death-spring and its murderous fangs, as Melna- 
 bena had escaped the cruel knife of Sartartia. 
 
 THE END.
 
 > BILLY-MARRIED 8 
 
 A Sequel to " Miss Billy" and " Miss ? 
 Billys Decision" 
 
 &y Eleanor H. 
 
 Author of " Pollyanna : " The GLAD Book ( Trade Mark), 
 CurrenU," "The Turn of UM Tide." etc. 
 
 Crow 
 
 I2mo, cloth decorative, with frontispiece tn full color, decorative 
 jacket. 3\et $ 1 .25 ; carriage paid $1 .40 
 
 9 
 
 In which the gifted author of "Pollyanna," the most popular 
 book for the year 1913, scores another success and makes of 
 the married life of adorable Billy Neilson the heroine of the 
 MISS BILLY books and Bertram Henshaw a story of un- 
 usual tenderness and sweetness. There is a deal of delicious 
 humor and common sense, too, in the story, and happiness in 
 abundance, even in the trying days when the young bride finds 
 herself bereft of a cook and burdened with the care of a Bea- 
 con Street household. But whether the weather be fair or 
 threatening, she is "just Billy," happy when making someone's 
 burden lighter, happier still with the advent of Bertram, Jr., 
 and happiest of all when her husband is able to use his strong 
 right arm again, even to paint the dreaded " face of a girl." 
 
 As is the case with all of Mrs. Porter's books, the story is 
 " always life," gracefully and sympathetically presented, carry- 
 ing with it a message of happiness.
 
 ITHE ROSE OF ROSES 
 
 $y JXCn. Henry Backus 
 
 Author of "The Career of Dr. Wearer' 
 
 I2mo, cloth decorative, with frontispiece in full color 
 .25 ; carriage paid $1.40 
 
 A girl of unusual beauty, endowed with a singing voice of rare 
 quality, and possessor of that charm of person which men some- 
 times describe as magnetic, this is Fraulein Antoinette 
 Kroger, whom Conrad Questenberg, a young American archi- 
 tect, visiting abroad, first meets in a Kaffee-haus in Bremen, 
 Germany, where the fair " Toni " entertains every evening. 
 
 Toni has ambitions which lean towards a career in Amerika, 
 as Questenberg learns at what he had intended to be his fare- 
 well meeting with the girl. Very generously he offers a chance 
 of a voyage to the land of the free if Toni will agree to " a 
 trial engagement." Impulsively, she accepts, and then the 
 love game is on. 
 
 The author has achieved a thing unusual in developing a 
 love story which adheres to conventions under unconventional 
 circumstances. She has written a novel out of the ordinary 
 in every way and one of striking brilliance, remarkable for 
 its unaffectedness and human interest appeal.
 
 I MISS MADELYN MACK, 
 DETECTIVE 
 
 In which are solved the mysteries gfv 
 of "The Purple Thumb," or "The White 
 Orchids," "The Man with Nine Lives," "The 
 Missing Bridegroom," " Cinderella's Slipper," etc. 
 
 (By Hugh C Weir 
 
 1 2 mo, cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color, from a 
 painting by Wm. Van Dresser. Net$l. 25; carriage paid $1.40 
 
 No field of fiction is more interesting than that of a detect- 
 ive, or professional investigator of mysteries, and it is easy to 
 predict a popular welcome for this clever story of Mr. Weir's. 
 The reader will be absorbed in following the clues which guided 
 Madelyn Mack, the unique woman detective, in the solution of 
 the strange mystery of " The Purple Thumb." And this is 
 only one of her remarkable cases in a continuous series of 
 adventures which constitute a tale of swift and dramatic action. 
 Clever in plot and effective in style, the author has seized on 
 some of the most sensational features of modern life, and the 
 result is a detective novel that gets away from the beaten track 
 of mystery stories in the first page and never returns to it.
 
 PLANTATION STORIES OF 
 OLD LOUISIANA 
 
 ^? y Andrews Wilkinson S 
 
 1 2 mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull 
 SY>/ $2. 00 ; carriage paid $2.20 
 
 9 
 
 Primarily, these nature and animal stories are for the chil- [ 
 dren's hour, but their underlying philosophy and humor will jj 
 charm every member of the household from the smallest toddler 
 to the old folks. In Old Jason, the author has created a 
 character who will rival the justly famed Uncle Remus. The 
 old fellow's legends, related in the quaint negro dialect of the 
 South of years ago, are remarkable examples of a vanishing 
 folk lore and are certain to entertain even the most blase 
 reader. Nor has the author been satisfied with having created 
 only that delightful character. He has included in his volume 
 stories of birds and animals which will take rank with Kipling's 
 Jungle Books ; he has given us stories in the hitherto little 
 known Creole dialect, and through them all he has maintained 
 an attractive interest which grasps the reader at the very 
 outset and holds him until the last page has been read.
 
 TMs book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below 
 
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