FREE JOE 
 
 GEORGIAN 
 SKETCHES 
 
 BY 
 
 JOEL 
 
 CHANDLER 
 
 IV^RIS
 
 x-
 
 "Den I tell him bout de man down dar in de gully" 
 
 Free Joe
 
 FREE JOE 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER GEORGIAN SKETCHES 
 
 BY 
 
 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 AUTHOR or "UNCLE REMUS," ETC., ETC. 
 
 ILLUSTRA TED 
 
 P. F. COLLIER & SON 
 NEW YORK
 
 Copyright 1887 by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 1-. T PAGE 
 
 FREE JOE 
 
 " * o 
 
 LITTLE COMPTON 
 
 AUNT FOUNTAIN S PRISONER .... og 
 
 TROUBLE ON LOST MOUNTAIN I37 
 
 AZALIA 183 
 
 VOL. 3
 
 FREE JOE AND THE REST 
 OF THE WORLD 
 
 THE name of Free Joe strikes humorously 
 upon the ear of memory. It is impossible to 
 say why, for he was the humblest, the simplest, 
 and the most serious of all God s living crea 
 tures, sadly lacking in all those elements that 
 suggest the humorous. It is certain, moreover, 
 that in 1850 the sober-minded citizens of the 
 little Georgian village of Hillsborough were not 
 inclined to take a humorous view of Free Joe, 
 and neither his name nor his presence provoked 
 a smile. He was a black atom, drifting hither 
 and thither without an owner, blown about by 
 all the winds of circumstance, and given over to 
 shiftlessness. 
 
 The problems o f one generation are the para 
 doxes of a succeeding one, particularly if war, 
 or some such incident, intervenes to clarify the 
 
 3
 
 4 Free Joe 
 
 atmosphere and strengthen the understanding. 
 Thus, in 1850, Free Joe represented not only a 
 problem of large concern, but, in the watchful 
 eyes of Hillsborough, he was the embodiment 
 of that vague and mysterious danger that seemed 
 to be forever lurking on the outskirts of slavery, 
 ready to sound a shrill and ghostly signal in the 
 impenetrable swamps, and steal forth under the 
 midnight stars to murder, rapine, and pillage 
 a danger always threatening, and yet never as 
 suming shape; intangible, and yet real; impos 
 sible, and yet not improbable. Across the serene 
 and smiling front of safety, the pale outlines of 
 the awful shadow of insurrection sometimes fell. 
 With this invisible panorama as a background, 
 it was natural that the figure of Free Joe, sim 
 ple and humble as it was, should assume undue 
 proportions. Go where he would, do what he 
 might, he could not escape the finger of obser 
 vation and the kindling eye of suspicion. His 
 lightest words were noted, his slightest actions 
 marked. 
 
 Under all the circumstances it was natural 
 that his peculiar condition should reflect itself
 
 And the Rest of the World 5 
 
 in his habits and manners. The slaves laughed 
 loudly day by day, but Free Joe rarely laughed. 
 The slaves sang at their work and danced at 
 their frolics, but no one ever heard Free Joe 
 sing or saw him dance. There was something 
 painfully plaintive and appealing in his atti 
 tude, something touching in his anxiety to 
 please. He was of the friendliest nature, and 
 seemed to be delighted when he could amuse 
 the little children who had made a playground 
 of the public square. At times he would please 
 them by making his little dog Dan perform all 
 sorts of curious tricks, or he would tell them 
 quaint stories of the beasts of the field and birds 
 of the air; and frequently he was coaxed into 
 relating the story of his own freedom. That 
 story was brief, but tragical. 
 
 In the year of our Lord 1840, when a negro 
 speculator of a sportive turn of mind reached 
 the little village of Hillsborough on his way to 
 the Mississippi region, with a caravan of likely 
 negroes of both sexes, he found much to interest 
 him. In that day and at that time there were a 
 number of young men in the village who had
 
 6 Free Joe 
 
 not bound themselves over to repentance for the 
 various misdeeds of the flesh. To these young 
 men the negro speculator (Major Frampton was 
 his name) proceeded to address himself. He 
 was a Virginian, he declared; and, to prove the 
 statement, he referred all the festively inclined 
 young men of Hillsborough to a barrel of peach- 
 brandy in one of his covered wagons. In the 
 minds of these young men there was less doubt 
 in regard to the age and quality of the brandy 
 than there was in regard to the negro trader s 
 birthplace. Major Frampton might or might 
 not have been born in the Old Dominion that 
 was a matter for consideration and inquiry 
 but there could be no question as to the mellow 
 pungency of the peach-brandy. 
 
 In his own estimation, Major Frampton was 
 one of the most accomplished of men. He had 
 summered at the Virginia Springs; he had been 
 to Philadelphia, to Washington, to Richmond, 
 to Lynchburg, and to Charleston, and had accu 
 mulated a great deal of experience which he 
 found useful. Hillsborough was hid in the 
 woods of Middle Georgia, and its general as-
 
 And the Rest of the World 7 
 
 pect of innocence impressed him. He looked 
 on the young men who had shown their readi 
 ness to test his peach-brandy as overgrown 
 country boys who needed to be introduced to 
 some of the arts and sciences he had at his com 
 mand. Thereupon the major pitched his tents, 
 figuratively speaking, and became, for the time 
 being, a part and parcel of the innocence that 
 characterized Hillsborough. A wiser man 
 would doubtless have made the same mistake. 
 The little village possessed advantages that 
 seemed to be providentially arranged to fit the 
 various enterprises that Major Frampton had in 
 view. There was the auction block in front of 
 the stuccoed court-house, if he desired to dispose 
 of a few of his negroes; there was a quarter- 
 track, laid out to his hand and in excellent 
 order, if he chose to enjoy the pleasures of horse- 
 racing; there were secluded pine thickets within 
 easy reach, if he desired to indulge in the ex 
 citing pastime of cock-fighting; and variously 
 lonely and unoccupied rooms in the second story 
 of the tavern, if he cared to challenge the 
 chances of dice or cards.
 
 8 Free Joe 
 
 Major Frampton tried them all with vary 
 ing luck, until he began his famous game of 
 poker with Judge Alfred Wellington, a stately 
 gentleman with a flowing white beard and mild 
 blue eyes that gave him the appearance of a 
 benevolent patriarch. The history of the game 
 in which Major Frampton and Judge Alfred 
 Wellington took part is something more than 
 a tradition in Hillsborough, for there are still 
 living three or four men who sat around the 
 table and watched its progress. It is said thaf 
 at various stages of the game Major Frampton 
 would destroy the cards with which they were 
 playing, and send for a new pack, but the re 
 sult was always the same. The mild blue eyes 
 of Judge Wellington, with few exceptions, con 
 tinued to overlook "hands" that were invincible 
 a habit they had acquired during a long and 
 arduous course of training from Saratoga to 
 New Orleans. Major Frampton lost his money, 
 his horses, his wagons, and all his negroes but 
 one, his body-servant. When his misfortune 
 had reached this limit, the major adjourned the 
 game. The sun was shining brightly, and all
 
 And the Rest of the World 9 
 
 nature was cheerful. It is said that the major 
 also seemed to be cheerful. However this may 
 be, he visited the court-house, and executed the 
 papers that gave his body-servant his freedom. 
 This being done, Major Frampton sauntered 
 into a convenient pine thicket, and blew out his 
 brains. 
 
 The negro thus freed came to be known as 
 Free Joe. Compelled, under the law, to choose 
 a guardian, he chose Judge Wellington, chiefly 
 because his wife Lucinda was among the negroes 
 won from Major Frampton. For several years 
 Free Joe had what may be called a jovial time. 
 His wife Lucinda was well provided for, and 
 he found it a comparatively easy matter to pro 
 vide for himself; so that, taking all the circum 
 stances into consideration, it is not matter for 
 astonishment that he became somewhat shiftless. 
 
 When Judge Wellington died, Free Joe s 
 troubles began. The judge s negroes, including 
 Lucinda, went to his half-brother, a man named 
 Calderwood, who was a hard master and a 
 rough customer generally a man of many ec 
 centricities of mind and character. His neigh-
 
 io Free Joe 
 
 bors had a habit of alluding to him as "Old 
 Spite"; and the name seemed to fit him so com 
 pletely that he was known far and near as 
 "Spite" Calderwood. He probably enjoyed the 
 distinction the name gave him, at any rate he 
 never resented it, and it was not often that he 
 missed an opportunity to show that he deserved 
 it. Calderwood s place was two or three miles 
 from the village of Hillsborough, and Free Joe 
 visited his wife twice a week, Wednesday and 
 Saturday nights. 
 
 One Sunday he was sitting in front of Lu- 
 cinda s cabin, when Calderwood happened to 
 pass that way. 
 
 "Howdy, marster?" said Free Joe, taking off 
 his hat. 
 
 "Who are you?" exclaimed Calderwood 
 abruptly, halting and staring at the negro. 
 
 "I m name Joe, marster. I m Lucindy s ole 
 
 man." 
 
 "Who do you belong to?" 
 "Marse John Evans is my gyardeen, marster." 
 "Big name gyardeen. Show your pass." 
 Free Joe produced that document, and Cal-
 
 And the Rest of the World II 
 
 derwood read it aloud slowly, as if he found it 
 difficult to get at the meaning: 
 
 "7"o whom it may concern: This is to certify 
 that the boy Joe Frampton has my permission 
 to visit his wife Lucinda." 
 
 This was dated at Hillsborough, and signed 
 "John W. Evans." 
 
 Calderwood read it twice, and then looked at 
 Free Joe, elevating his eyebrows, and showing 
 his discolored teeth. 
 
 "Some mighty big words in that there. Evans 
 owns this place, I reckon. When s he comin 
 down to take hold?" 
 
 Free Joe fumbled with his hat. He was 
 badly frightened. 
 
 "Lucindy say she speck you wouldn t min 
 my comin , long ez I behave, marster." 
 
 Calderwood tore the pass in pieces and flung 
 it away. 
 
 "Don t want no free niggers round here," he 
 exclaimed. "There s the big road. It ll carry 
 you to town. Don t let me catch you here no 
 more. Now, mind what I tell you." 
 
 Free Joe presented a shabby spectacle as he
 
 12 Free Joe 
 
 moved off with his little dog Dan slinking at his 
 heels. It should be said in behalf of Dan, how 
 ever, that his bristles were up, and that he 
 looked back and growled. It may be that the 
 dog had the advantage of insignificance, but it 
 is difficult to conceive how a dog bold enough 
 to raise his bristles under Calderwood s very 
 eyes could be as insignificant as Free Joe. But 
 both the negro and his little dog seemed to give 
 a new and more dismal aspect to forlornness as 
 they turned into the road and went toward Hills- 
 borough. 
 
 After this incident Free Joe appeared to have 
 clearer ideas concerning his peculiar condition. 
 He realized the fact that though he was free he 
 was more helpless than any slave. Having no 
 owner, every man was his master. He knew 
 that he was the object of suspicion, and there 
 fore all his slender resources (ah! how pitifully 
 slender they were!) were devoted to winning, 
 not kindness and appreciation, but toleration; 
 all his efforts were in the direction of mitigating 
 the circumstances that tended to make his con 
 dition so much worse than that of the negroes
 
 And the Rest of the World 13 
 
 around him negroes who had friends because 
 they had masters. 
 
 So far as his own race was concerned, Free 
 Joe was an exile. If the slaves secretly envied 
 him his freedom (which is to be doubted, con 
 sidering his miserable condition), they openly 
 despised him, and lost no opportunity to treat 
 him with contumely. Perhaps this was in some 
 measure the result of the attitude which Free 
 Joe chose to maintain toward them. No doubt 
 his instinct taught him that to hold himself aloof 
 from the slaves would be to invite from the 
 whites the toleration which he coveted, and 
 without which even his miserable condition 
 would be rendered more miserable still. 
 
 His greatest trouble was the fact that he was 
 not allowed to visit his wife ; but he soon found 
 a way out of his difficulty. After he had been 
 ordered away from the Calderwood place, he 
 ,was in the habit of wandering as far in that 
 direction as prudence would permit. Near the 
 Calderwood place, but not on Calderwood s 
 land, lived an old man named Micajah Staley 
 and his sister Becky Staley. These people were
 
 14 Free Joe 
 
 old and very poor. Old Micajah had a palsied 
 arm and hand; but, in spite of this, he managed 
 to earn a precarious living with his turning- 
 lathe. 
 
 When he was a slave Free Joe would have 
 scorned these representatives of a class known as 
 poor white trash, but now he found them sym 
 pathetic and helpful in various ways. From the 
 back door of their cabin he could hear the Cal- 
 derwood negroes singing at night, and he some 
 times fancied he could distinguish Lucinda s 
 shrill treble rising above the other voices. A 
 large poplar grew in the woods some distance 
 from the Staley cabin, and at the foot of this 
 tree Free Joe would sit for hours with his face 
 turned toward Calderwood s. His little dog 
 Dan would curl up in the leaves near by, and 
 the two seemed to be as comfortable as possible. 
 
 One Saturday afternoon Free Joe, sitting at 
 the foot of this friendly poplar, fell asleep. 
 How long he slept, he could not tell ; but when 
 he awoke little Dan was licking his face, the 
 moon was shining brightly, and Lucinda his 
 wife stood before him laughing. The dog, see-
 
 And the Rest of the World i$ 
 
 ing that Free Joe was asleep, had grown some 
 what impatient, and he concluded to make an 
 excursion to the Calderwood place on his own 
 account. Lucinda was inclined to give the in 
 cident a twist in the direction of superstition. 
 
 "I uz settn down front er de fireplace," she 
 said, "cookin me some meat, w en all of a sud 
 den I year sumpin at de do scratch, scratch. 
 I tuck n tu n de meat over, en make out I ain t 
 year it. Bimeby it come dar gin scratch, 
 scratch. I up en open de do , I did, en, bless 
 de Lord! dar wuz little Dan, en it look like ter 
 me dat his ribs done grow terge er. I gin im 
 some bread, en den, w en he start out, I tuck n 
 foller im, kaze, I say ter myse f, maybe my 
 nigger man mought be some rs roun . Dat ar 
 little dog got sense, mon." 
 
 Free Joe laughed and dropped his hand 
 lightly on Dan s head. For a long time after 
 that he had no difficulty in seeing his wife. 
 He had only to sit by the poplar tree until little 
 Dan could run and fetch her. But after a while 
 the other negroes discovered that Lucinda was 
 meeting Free Joe in the woods, and information
 
 1 6 Free Joe 
 
 of the fact soon reached Calderwood s ears. 
 Calderwood was what is called a man of action. 
 He said nothing; but one day he put Lucinda in 
 his buggy, and carried her to Macon, sixty miles 
 away. He carried her to Macon, and came back 
 without her; and nobody in or around Hillsbor- 
 ough, or in that section, ever saw her again. 
 
 For many a night after that Free Joe sat in 
 the woods and waited. Little Dan would run 
 merrily off and be gone a long time, but he 
 always came back without Lucinda. This hap 
 pened over and over again. The "willis-whis- 
 tlers" would call and call, like fantom huntsmen 
 wandering on a far-off shore; the screech-owl 
 would shake and shiver in the depths of the 
 woods; the night-hawks, sweeping by on noise 
 less wings, would snap their beaks as though 
 they enjoyed the huge joke of which Free Joe 
 and little Dan were the victims; and the whip- 
 poor-wills would cry to each other through the 
 gloom. Each night seemed to be lonelier than 
 the preceding, but Free Joe s patience was proof 
 against loneliness. There came a time, how 
 ever, when little Dan refused to go after Lu-
 
 And the Rest of the World 17 
 
 cinda. When Free Joe motioned him in the 
 direction of the Calderwood place, he would 
 simply move about uneasily and whine; then he 
 would curl up in the leaves and make himself 
 comfortable. 
 
 One night, instead of going to the poplar tree 
 to wait for Lucinda, Free Joe went to the Staley 
 cabin, and, in order to make his welcome good, 
 as he expressed it, he carried with him an arm 
 ful of fat-pine splinters. Miss Becky Staley had 
 a great reputation in those parts as a fortune 
 teller, and the schoolgirls, as well as older peo 
 ple, often tested her powers in this direction, 
 some in jest and some in earnest. Free Joe 
 placed his humble offering of light-wood in the 
 chimney corner, and then seated himself on the 
 steps, dropping his hat on the ground outside. 
 
 "Miss Becky," he said presently, "whar in de 
 name er gracious you reckon Lucindy is?" 
 
 "Well, the Lord he p the nigger!" exclaimed 
 Miss Becky, in a tone that seemed to reproduce, 
 by some curious agreement of sight with sound, 
 her general aspect of peakedness. "Well, the 
 Lord he p the nigger! hain t you been a-seein
 
 1 8 Free Joe 
 
 her all this blessed time? She s over at old 
 Spite Calderwood s, if she s anywheres, I 
 reckon." 
 
 "No m, dat I ain t, Miss Becky. I ain t 
 seen Lucindy in now gwine on mighty nigh a 
 mont ." 
 
 "Well, it hain t a-gwine to hurt you," said 
 Miss Becky, somewhat sharply. "In my day an 
 time it wuz allers took to be a bad sign when 
 niggers got to honeyin roun an gwine on." 
 
 "Yessum," said Free Joe, cheerfully assenting 
 to the proposition "yessum, dat s so, but me an 
 my ole oman, we uz raise terge er, en dey ain t 
 bin many days w en we uz way fum one n er 
 like we is now." 
 
 "Maybe she s up an took up wi some un 
 else," said Micajah Staley from the corner. 
 "You know what the sayin is: New master, 
 new nigger. 
 
 "Dat s so, dat s de sayin , but tain t wid my. 
 ole oman like tis wid yuther niggers. Me en 
 her wuz des natally raise up terge er. Dey s 
 lots likelier niggers dan w at I is," said Free Joe, 
 viewing his shabbiness with a critical eye, "but
 
 And the Rest of the World 19 
 
 I knows Lucindy mos good ez I does little Dan 
 dar dat I does." 
 
 There was no reply to this, and Free Joe 
 continued: 
 
 "Miss Becky, I wish you please, ma am, take 
 en run yo kyards en see sump n n er bout Lu 
 cindy; kaze ef she sick, I m gwine dar. Dey 
 ken take en take me up en gimme a stropping 
 but I m gwine dar." 
 
 Miss Becky got her cards, but first she picked 
 up a cup, in the bottom of which were some 
 coffee-grounds. These she whirled slowly round 
 and round, ending finally by turning the cup 
 upside down on the hearth and allowing it to 
 remain in that position. 
 
 "I ll turn the cup first," said Miss Becky, 
 "and then I ll run the cards and see what they 
 say." 
 
 As she shuffled the cards the fire on the 
 hearth burned low, and in its fitful light the 
 gray-haired, thin-featured woman seemed to 
 deserve the weird reputation which rumor and 
 gossip had given her. She shuffled the cards 
 for some moments, gazing intently in the dying
 
 2O Free Joe 
 
 fire ; then, throwing a piece of pine on the coals, 
 she made three divisions of the pack, disposing 
 them about in her lap. Then she took the first 
 pile, ran the cards slowly through her fingers, 
 and studied them carefully. To the first she 
 added the second pile. The study of these was 
 evidently not satisfactory. She said nothing, 
 but frowned heavily; and the frown deepened 
 as she added the rest of the cards until the en 
 tire fifty-two had passed in review before her. 
 Though she frowned, she seemed to be deeply 
 interested. Without changing the relative posi 
 tion of the cards, she ran them all over again. 
 Then she threw a larger piece of pine on the 
 fire, shuffled the cards afresh, divided them into 
 three piles, and subjected them to the same care 
 ful and critical examination. 
 
 "I can t tell the day when I ve seed the cards 
 run this a-way," she said after a while. "What 
 is an what ain t, I ll never tell you; but I know 
 what the cards sez." 
 
 "Wat does dey say, Miss Becky?" the negro 
 inquired, in a tone the solemnity of which was 
 heightened by its eagerness.
 
 And the Rest of the World 21 
 
 "They er runnin quare. These here that I m 
 a-lookin at," said Miss Becky, "they stan for 
 the past. Them there, they er the present; and 
 the t others, they er the future. Here s a bun 
 dle" tapping the ace of clubs with her thumb 
 "an here s a journey as plain as the nose on 
 a man s face. Here s Lucinda " 
 
 "Whar she, Miss Becky?" 
 
 "Here she is the queen of spades." 
 
 Free Joe grinned. The idea seemed to please 
 him immensely. 
 
 "Well, well, well!" he exclaimed. "Ef dat 
 don t beat my time! De queen er spades! Wen 
 Lucindy year dat hit ll tickle er, sho !" 
 
 Miss Becky continued to run the cards back 
 and forth through her ringers. 
 
 "Here s a bundle an a journey, and here s 
 Lucinda. An here s ole Spite Calderwood." 
 
 She held the cards toward the negro and 
 touched the king of clubs. 
 
 "De Lord he p my soul!" exclaimed Free Joe 
 with a chuckle. "De faver s dar. Yesser, dat s 
 him ! Wat de matter long wid all un um, Miss 
 Becky?"
 
 22 Free Joe 
 
 The old woman added the second pile of 
 cards to the first, and then the third, stiK. run 
 ning them through her fingers slowly and criti 
 cally. By this time the piece of pine in the 
 fireplace had wrapped itself in a mantle of 
 flame, illuminating the cabin and throwing into 
 strange relief the figure of Miss Becky as she 
 sat studying the cards. She frowned ominously 
 at the cards and mumbled a few words to her 
 self. Then she dropped her hands in her lap 
 and gazed once more into the fire. Her shadow 
 danced and capered on the wall and floor be 
 hind her, as if, looking over her shoulder into 
 the future, it could behold a rare spectacle. 
 After a while she picked up the cup that had 
 been turned on the hearth. The coffee-grounds, 
 shaken around, presented what seemed to be a 
 most intricate map. 
 
 "Here s the journey," said Miss Becky, pres 
 ently; "here s the big road, here s rivers to cross, 
 here s the bundle to tote." She paused and 
 sighed. "They hain t no names writ here, an 
 what it all means I ll never tell you. Cajy, I 
 wish you d be so good as to ban me my pipe."
 
 And the Rest of the World 23 
 
 "I hain t no hand wi the kyards," said Cajy, 
 as b handed the pipe, "but I reckon I can patch 
 out your misinformation, Becky, bekaze the 
 other day, whiles I was a-finishin up Mizzers 
 Perdue s rollin -pin, I hearn a rattlin in the 
 road. I looked out, an Spite Calderwood was 
 a-drivin by in his buggy, an thar sot Lucin da 
 by him. It d in-about drapt out er my min ." 
 
 Free Joe sat on the door-sill and fumbled at 
 his hat, flinging it from one hand to the other. 
 
 "You ain t see um gwine back, is you, Mars 
 Cajy?" he asked after a while. 
 
 "Ef they went back by this road," said Mr. 
 Staley, with the air of one who is accustomed to 
 weigh well his words, "it must a bin endurin 
 of the time whiles I was asleep, bekaze I hain t 
 bin no furder from my shop than to yon bed." 
 
 "Well, sir!" exclaimed Free Joe in an awed 
 tone, which Mr. Staley seemed to regard as a 
 tribute to his extraordinary powers of statement. 
 
 "Ef it s my beliefs you want," continued the 
 old man, "I ll pitch em at you fair and free. 
 My beliefs is that Spite Calderwood is gone an 
 took Lucindy outen the county. Bless your
 
 24 Free Joe 
 
 heart and soul! when Spite Calderwood meets 
 the Old Boy in the road they ll be a tuiyible 
 scuffle. You mark what I tell you." 
 
 Free Joe, still fumbling with his hat, rose and 
 leaned against the door-facing. He seemed to 
 be embarrassed. Presently he said: 
 
 "I speck I better be gittin long. Nex time 
 I see Lucindy, I m gwine tell er w at Miss 
 Becky say bout de queen er spades dat I is. 
 Ef dat don t tickle er, dey ain t no nigger oman 
 never bin tickle ." 
 
 He paused a moment, as though waiting for 
 some remark or comment, some confirmation of 
 misfortune, or, at the very least, some endorse 
 ment of his suggestion that Lucinda would be 
 greatly pleased to know that she had figured as 
 the queen of spades; but neither Miss Becky nor 
 her brother said anything. 
 
 "One minnit ridin in the buggy longside er 
 Mars Spite, en de nex highfalutin roun play- 
 in de queen er spades. Mon, deze yer nigger 
 gals gittin up in de pictur s; dey sholy is." 
 
 With a brief "Good night, Miss Becky, Mars 
 Cajy," Free Joe went out into the darkness, fol-
 
 And the Rest of the World 25 
 
 lowed by little Dan. He made his way to the 
 poplar, where Lucinda had been in the habit of 
 meeting him, and sat down. He sat there a long 
 time; he sat there until little Dan, growing rest 
 less, trotted off in the direction of the Calder- 
 wood place. Dozing against the poplar, in the 
 gray dawn of the morning, Free Joe heard Spite 
 Calderwood s fox-hounds in full cry a mile 
 away. 
 
 "Shool" he exclaimed, scratching his head, 
 and laughing to himself, "dem ar dogs is des 
 a-warmin dat old fox up." 
 
 But it was Dan the hounds were after, 
 and the little dog came back no more. Free 
 Joe waited and waited, until he grew tired of 
 waiting. He went back the next night and 
 waited, and for many nights thereafter. His 
 waiting was in vain, and yet he never regarded 
 it as in vain. Careless and shabby as he was, 
 Free Joe was thoughtful enough to have his 
 theory. He was convinced that little Dan had 
 found Lucinda, and that some night when the 
 moon was shining brightly through the trees, 
 the dog would rouse him from his dreams as he 
 
 VOL. 3 2
 
 26 Free Joe 
 
 sat sleeping at the foot of the poplar tree, and 
 he would open his eyes and behold Lucinda 
 standing over him, laughing merrily as of old; 
 and then he thought what fun they would have 
 about the queen of spades. 
 
 How many long nights Free Joe waited at 
 the foot of the poplar tree for Lucinda and little 
 Dan no one can ever know. He kept no account 
 of them, and they were not recorded by Micajah 
 Staley nor by Miss Becky. The season ran into 
 summer and then into fall. One night he went 
 to the Staley cabin, cut the two old people an 
 armful of wood, and seated himself on the door 
 steps, where he rested. He was always thank 
 ful and proud, as it seemed when Miss Becky 
 gave him a cup of coffee, which she was some 
 times thoughtful enough to do. He was espe 
 cially thankful on this particular night. 
 
 "You er still layin off for to strike up wi Lu- 
 cindy out thar in the woods, I reckon," said 
 Micajah Staley, smiling grimly. The situation 
 was not without its humorous aspects. 
 
 "Oh, dey er comin , Mars Cajy, dey er comin , 
 sho," Free Joe replied. "I boun you dey ll
 
 And the Rest of the World 27 
 
 come; en w en dey does come, I ll des take en 
 fetch um yer, whar you kin see um wid you own 
 eyes, you en Miss Becky." 
 
 "No," said Mr. Staley, with a quick and em 
 phatic gesture of disapproval. "Don t! don t 
 fetch em anywheres. Stay right wi em as long 
 as may be." 
 
 Free Joe chuckled, and slipped away into the 
 night, while the two old people sat gazing in 
 the fire. Finally Micajah spoke. 
 
 "Look at that nigger; look at im. He s 
 pine-blank as happy now as a killdee by a 
 mill-race. You can t faze em. I d in- 
 about give up my t other hand ef I could 
 stan flat-footed, an grin at trouble like that 
 there nigger." 
 
 "Niggers is niggers," said Miss Becky, smil 
 ing grimly, "an you can t rub it out; yit I lay 
 I ve seed a heap of white people lots meaner n 
 Free Joe. He grins an that s nigger but 
 I ve ketched his under jaw a-tremblin when 
 Lucindy s name uz brung up. An I tell you," 
 she went on, bridling up a little, and speaking 
 with almost fierce emphasis, "the Old Boy s
 
 28 Free Joe 
 
 done sharpened his claws for Spite Calderwood. 
 You ll see it." 
 
 "Me, Rebecca?" said Mr. Staley, hugging his 
 palsied arm; "me? I hope not." 
 
 "Well, you ll know it then," said Miss 
 Becky, laughing heartily at her brother s look 
 of alarm. 
 
 The next morning Micajah Staley had occa 
 sion to go into the woods after a piece of timber. 
 He saw Free Joe sitting at the foot of the poplar, 
 and the sight vexed him somewhat. 
 
 "Git up from there," he cried, "an go an arn 
 your livin . A mighty purty pass it s come to, 
 when great big buck niggers can lie a-snorin in 
 the woods all day, when t other folks is got to 
 be up an a-gwine. Git up from there!" 
 
 Receiving no response, Mr. Staley went to 
 Free Joe, and shook him by the shoulder; but 
 the negro made no response. He was dead. 
 His hat was off, his head was bent, and a smile 
 was on his face. It was as if he had bowed and 
 smiled when death stood before him, humble to 
 the last. His clothes were ragged; his hands 
 were rough and callous; his shoes were literally
 
 And the Rest of the World 29 
 
 tied together with strings; he was shabby in the 
 extreme. A passer-by, glancing at him, could 
 have no idea that such a humble creature had 
 been summoned as a witness before the Lord 
 God of Hosts.
 
 LITTLE COMPTON 
 
 VERY few Southern country towns have been 
 more profitably influenced by the new order of 
 things than Hillsborough in Middle Georgia. 
 At various intervals since the war it has had 
 what the local weekly calls "a business boom." 
 The old tavern has been torn down, and in its 
 place stands a new three-story brick hotel, man 
 aged by a very brisk young man, who is shrewd 
 enough to advertise in the newspapers of the 
 neighboring towns that he has "special accom 
 modations and special rates for commercial 
 travelers." Although Hillsborough is compara 
 tively a small town, it is the centre of a very pro 
 ductive region, and its trade is somewhat impor 
 tant. Consequently, the commercial travelers, 
 with characteristic energy, lose no opportunity 
 of taking advantage of the hospitable invitation 
 of the landlord of the Hillsborough hotel. 
 
 30
 
 Little Compton 31 
 
 Not many years ago a representative of this 
 class visited the old town. He was from the 
 North, and, being much interested in what he 
 saw, was duly inquisitive. Among other things 
 that attracted his attention was a little one- 
 armed man who seemed to be the life of the 
 place. He was here, there, and everywhere; 
 and wherever he went the atmosphere seemed 
 to lighten and brighten. Sometimes he was 
 flying around town in a buggy; at such times he 
 was driven by a sweet-faced lady, whose smiling 
 air of proprietorship proclaimed her to be his 
 wife : but more often he was on foot. His cheer 
 fulness and good humor were infectious. The 
 old men sitting at Perdue s Corner, where they 
 had been gathering for forty years and more, 
 looked up and laughed as he passed; the ladies 
 shopping in the streets paused to chat with him; 
 and even the dry-goods clerks and lawyers, play 
 ing chess or draughts under the China trees that 
 shaded the sidewalks, were willing to be inter 
 rupted long enough to exchange jokes with him. 
 
 "Rather a lively chap that," said the observ 
 ant commercial traveler.
 
 32 Free Joe 
 
 "Well, I reckon you won t find no livelier in 
 these diggin s," replied the landlord, to whom 
 the remark was addressed. There was a sug 
 gestion of suppressed local pride in his tones. 
 "He s a little chunk of a man, but he s monst us 
 peart." 
 
 "A colonel, I guess," said the stranger, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Oh, no," the other rejoined. "He ain t no 
 colonel, but he d a made a prime one. It s 
 mighty curious to me," he went on, "that them 
 Yankees up there didn t make him one." 
 
 "The Yankees?" inquired the commercial 
 traveler. 
 
 "Why, yes," said the landlord. "He s a Yan 
 kee; and that lady you seen drivin him around, 
 she s a Yankee. He courted her here and he 
 married her here. Major Jimmy Bass wanted 
 him to marry her in his house, but Captain Jack 
 Walthall put his foot down and said the weddin 
 had to be in his house; and there s where it was, 
 in that big white house over yander with the 
 hip roof. Yes, sir." 
 
 "Oh," said the commercial traveler, with a
 
 Little Compton 33 
 
 cynical smile, "he stayed down here to keep out 
 of the army. He was a lucky fellow." 
 
 "Well, I reckon he was lucky not to get 
 killed," said the landlord, laughing. "He 
 fought with the Yankees, and they do say that 
 Little Compton was a rattler." 
 
 The commercial traveler gave a long, low 
 whistle, expressive of his profound astonish 
 ment. And yet, under all the circumstances, 
 there was nothing to create astonishment. The 
 lively little man had a history. 
 
 Among the genial and popular citizens of 
 Hillsborough, in the days before the war, none 
 were more genial or more popular than Little 
 Compton. He was popular with all classes, 
 with old and with young, with whites and with 
 blacks. He was sober, discreet, sympathetic, 
 and generous. He was neither handsome nor 
 magnetic. He was awkward and somewhat 
 bashful, but his manners and his conversation 
 had the rare merit of spontaneity. His sallow 
 face was unrelieved by either mustache or 
 whiskers, and his eyes were black and very 
 small, but they glistened with good-humor and
 
 34 Free Joe 
 
 sociability. He was somewhat small in stature, 
 and for that reason the young men about Hills- 
 borough had given him the name of Little 
 Compton. 
 
 Little Compton s introduction to Hillsbor- 
 ough was not wholly without suggestive inci 
 dents. He made his appearance there in 1850, 
 and opened a small grocery store. Thereupon 
 the young men of the town, with nothing better 
 to do than to seek such amusement as they could 
 find in so small a community, promptly pro 
 ceeded to make him the victim of their pranks 
 and practical jokes. Little Compton s forbear 
 ance was wonderful. He laughed heartily when 
 he found his modest signboard hanging over an 
 adjacent barroom, and smiled good-humoredly 
 when he found the sidewalk in front of his door 
 barricaded with barrels and dry-goods boxes. 
 An impatient man would have looked on these 
 things as in the nature of indignities, But Little 
 Compton was not an impatient man. 
 
 This went on at odd intervals, until at last 
 the fun-loving young men began to appreciate 
 Little Compton s admirable temper; and then
 
 Little Compton 35 
 
 for a season they played their jokes on other 
 citizens, leaving Little Compton entirely unmo 
 lested. These young men were boisterous, but 
 good-natured, and they had their own ideas of 
 what constituted fair play. They were ready 
 to fight or to have fun, but in neither case would 
 .hey willingly take what they considered a mean 
 advantage of a man. 
 
 By degrees they warmed to Little Compton. 
 His gentleness won upon them; his patient 
 good-humor attracted them. Without taking 
 account of the matter, the most of them became 
 his fiiends. This was demonstrated one day 
 when one of the Pulliam boys from Jasper 
 County made some slurring remark about "the 
 little Yankee." As Pulliam was somewhat in 
 his cups, no attention was paid to his remark; 
 whereupon he followed it up with others of a 
 more seriously abusive character. Little Comp 
 ton was waiting on a customer; but Pulliam was 
 standing in front of his door, and he could not 
 fail to hear the abuse. Young Jack Walthall 
 was sitting in a chair near the door, whittling 
 a piece of white pine. He put his knife in his
 
 36 Free Joe 
 
 pocket, and, whistling softly, looked at Little 
 Compton curiously. Then he walked to where 
 Pulliam was standing. 
 
 "If I were you, Pulliam," he said, "and 
 wanted to abuse anybody, I d pick out a bigger 
 man than that." 
 
 "I don t see anybody," said Pulliam. 
 
 "Well, d- - you!" exclaimed Walthall, "if 
 you are that blind, I ll open your eyes for you!" 
 
 Whereupon he knocked Pulliam down. At 
 this Little Compton ran out excitedly, and it 
 was the impression of the spectators that he in 
 tended to attack the man who had been abusing 
 him; but, instead of that, he knelt over the pros 
 trate bully, wiped the blood from his eyes, and 
 finally succeeded in getting him to his feet. 
 Then Little Compton assisted him into the store, 
 placed him in a chair, and proceeded to ban 
 dage his wounded eye. Walthall, looking on 
 with an air of supreme indifference, uttered an 
 exclamation of astonishment, and sauntered 
 carelessly away. 
 
 Sauntering back an hour or so afterward, he 
 found that Pulliam was still in Little Compton s
 
 Little Compton 37 
 
 store. He would have passed on, but Little 
 Compton called to him. He went in prepared 
 to be attacked, for he knew Pulliam to be one 
 of the most dangerous men in that region, and 
 the most revengeful ; but, instead of making an 
 attack, Pulliam offered his hand. 
 
 "Let s call it square, Jack. Your mother and 
 my father are blood cousins, and I don t want 
 any bad feelings to grow out of this racket. I ve 
 apologized to Mr. Compton here, and now I m 
 ready to apologize to you." 
 
 Walthall looked at Pulliam and at his prof 
 fered hand, and then looked at Little Compton. 
 The latter was smiling pleasantly. This ap 
 peared to be satisfactory, and Walthall seized 
 his kinsman s hand, and exclaimed: 
 
 "Well, by George, Miles Pulliam! if you ve 
 apologized to Little Compton, then it s my turn 
 to apologize to you. Maybe I was too quick 
 with my hands, but that chap there is such a 
 
 d clever little rascal that it works me up to 
 
 see anybody pester him." 
 
 "Why, Jack," said Compton, his little eyes 
 glistening, "I m not such a scrap as you make
 
 38 Free Joe 
 
 out. It s just your temper, Jack. Your temper 
 runs clean away with your judgment." 
 
 "My temper! Why, good Lord, man! don t 
 I just sit right down, and let folks run over me 
 whenever they want to? Would I have done 
 anything if Miles Pulliam had abused me?" 
 
 "Why, the gilded Queen of Sheba!" ex 
 claimed Miles Pulliam, laughing loudly, in 
 spite of his bruises; "only last sale day you 
 mighty nigh jolted the life out of Bill-Tom 
 Saunders, with the big end of a hickory stick." 
 
 "That s so," said Walthall reflectively; "but 
 did I follow him up to do it? Wasn t he dog 
 ging after me all day, and strutting around 
 bragging about what he was going to do? 
 Didn t I play the little stray lamb till he rubbed 
 his fist in my face?" 
 
 The others laughed. They knew that Jack 
 Walthall wasn t at all lamblike in his disposi 
 tion. He was tall and strong and handsome, 
 with pale classic features, jet-black curling 
 hair, and beautiful white hands that never 
 knew what labor was. He was something of 
 a dandy in Hillsborough, but in a large, manly,
 
 Little Compton 39 
 
 generous way. With his perfect manners, 
 stately and stiff, or genial and engaging, as 
 occasion might demand, Mr. Walthall was just 
 such a romantic figure as one reads about in 
 books, or as one expects to see step from behind 
 the wings of the stage with a guitar or a long 
 dagger. Indeed, he was the veritable original 
 of Cyrille Brandon, the hero of Miss Amelia 
 Baxter s elegant novel entitled "The Haunted 
 Manor; or, Souvenirs of the Sunny Southland." 
 If those who are fortunate enough to possess a 
 copy of this graphic book, which was printed in 
 Charleston for the author, will turn to the de 
 scription of Cyrille Brandon, they will get a 
 much better idea of Mr. Walthall than they can 
 hope to get in this brief and imperfect chron 
 icle. It is true, the picture there drawn is 
 somewhat exaggerated to suit the purposes of 
 fictive art, but it shows perfectly the serious 
 impression Mr. Walthall made on the ladies 
 who were his contemporaries. 
 
 It is only fair to say, however, that the real 
 Mr. Walthall was altogether different from the 
 ideal Cyrille Brandon of Miss Baxter s power-
 
 4-O Free Joe 
 
 fully written book. He was by no means igno 
 rant of the impression he made on the fair sex, 
 and he was somewhat proud of it; but he had 
 no romantic ideas of his own. He was, in fact, 
 a very practical young man. When the Wal- 
 thall estate, composed of thousands of acres of 
 land and several hundred healthy, well-fed ne 
 groes, was divided up, he chose to take his por 
 tion in money; and this he loaned out at a fair 
 interest to those who were in need of ready cash. 
 This gave him large leisure; and, as was the 
 custom among the young men of leisure, he 
 gambled a little when the humor was on him, 
 having the judgment and the nerve to make the 
 game of poker exceedingly interesting to those 
 who sat with him at table. 
 
 No one could ever explain why the handsome 
 and gallant Jack Walthall should go so far 
 as to stand between his own cousin and Little 
 Compton; indeed, no one tried to explain it. 
 The fact was accepted for what it was worth, 
 and it was a great deal to Little Compton in 
 a social and business way. After the row which 
 has just been described, Mr. Walthall was usu-
 
 Little Compton 41 
 
 ally to be found at Compton s store in the 
 summer sitting in front of the door under 
 the grateful shade of the China trees, and in 
 the winter sitting by the comfortable fire that 
 Compton kept burning in his back room. As 
 Mr. Walthall was the recognized leader of the 
 young men, Little Compton s store soon became 
 the headquarters for all of them. They met 
 there, and they made themselves at home there, 
 introducing their affable host to many queer 
 antics and capers peculiar to the youth of that 
 day and time, and to the social organism of 
 which that youth was the outcome. 
 
 That Little Compton enjoyed their company 
 is certain; but it is doubtful if he entered 
 heartily into the plans of their escapades, which 
 they freely discussed around his hearth. Per 
 haps it was because he had outlived the folly 
 of youth. Though his face was smooth and 
 round, and his eye bright, Little Compton bore 
 the marks of maturity and experience. He used 
 to laugh, and say that he was born in New Jer 
 sey, and died there when he was young. What 
 significance this statement possessed no one ever
 
 42 Free Joe 
 
 knew; probably no one in Hillsborough cared 
 to know. The people of that town had their 
 own notions and their own opinions. They 
 were not unduly inquisitive, save when their in- 
 quisitiveness seemed to take a political shape; 
 and then it was somewhat aggressive. 
 
 There were a great many things in Hillsbor 
 ough likely to puzzle a stranger. Little Comp- 
 ton observed that the young men, no matter how 
 young they might be, were absorbed in politics. 
 They had the political history of the country 
 at their tongues ends, and the discussions they 
 carried on were interminable. This interest 
 extended to all classes: the planters discussed 
 politics with their overseers; and lawyers, mer 
 chants, tradesmen, and gentlemen of elegant 
 leisure discussed politics with each other. 
 Schoolboys knew all about the Missouri Com 
 promise, the fugitive slave law, and States 
 rights. Sometimes the arguments used were 
 more substantial than mere words, but this was 
 only when some old feud was back of the dis 
 cussion. There was one question, as Little 
 Compton discovered, in regard to which there
 
 Little Compton 43 
 
 was no discussion. That question was slavery. 
 It loomed up everywhere and in everything, 
 and was the basis of all the arguments, and yet 
 it was not discussed: there was no room for dis 
 cussion. There was but one idea, and that was 
 that slavery must be defended at all hazards, 
 and against all enemies. That was the temper 
 of the time, and Little Compton was not long 
 in discovering that of all dangerous issues sla 
 very was the most dangerous. 
 
 The young men, in their free-and-easy way, 
 told him the story of a wayfarer who once came 
 through that region preaching abolitionism to 
 the negroes. The negroes themselves betrayed 
 him, and he was promptly taken in charge. His 
 body was found afterward hanging in the woods, 
 and he was buried at the expense of the county. 
 Even his name had been forgotten, and his grave 
 was all but obliterated. All these things made 
 an impression on Little Compton s mind. The 
 tragedy itself was recalled by one of the pranks 
 of the young men, that was conceived and car 
 ried out under his eyes. It happened after he 
 had become well used to the ways of Hillsbor-
 
 44 Free Joe 
 
 ough. There came a stranger to the town, 
 whose queer acts excited the suspicions of a 
 naturally suspicious community. Professedly 
 he was a colporteur; but, instead of trying to 
 dispose of books and tracts, of which he had a 
 visible supply, he devoted himself to arguing 
 with the village politicians under the shade of 
 the trees. It was observed, also, that he would 
 frequently note down observations in a memo 
 randum book. Just about that time the contro 
 versy between the slaveholders and the abolition 
 ists was at its height. John Brown had made his 
 raid on Harper s Ferry, and there was a good 
 deal of excitement throughout the State. It was 
 rumored that Brown had emissaries traveling 
 from State to State, preparing the negroes for 
 insurrection; and every community, even Hills- 
 borough, was on the alert, watching, waiting, 
 suspecting. 
 
 The time assuredly was not auspicious for the 
 stranger with the ready memorandum book. 
 Sitting in front of Compton s store, he fell into 
 conversation one day with Uncle Abner Lazen- 
 berry, a patriarch who lived in the country, and
 
 Little Compton 45 
 
 who had a habit of coming to Hillsborough at 
 least once a week "to talk with the boys." 
 Uncle Abner belonged to the poorer class of 
 planters; that is to say, he had a small farm and 
 not more than half a dozen negroes. But he 
 was decidedly popular, and his conversation 
 somewhat caustic at times was thoroughly en 
 joyed by the younger generation. On this occa 
 sion he had been talking to Jack Walthall, when 
 the stranger drew a chair within hearing dis 
 tance. 
 
 "You take all your men," Uncle Abner was 
 saying "take all un em, but gimme Hennery 
 Clay. Them abolishioners, they may come an 
 git all six er my niggers, if they ll jess but 
 lemme keep the ginnywine ole Whig docterin . 
 That s me up an down that s wher your Uncle 
 Abner Lazenberry Stan s, boys." By this time 
 the stranger had taken out his inevitable note 
 book, and Uncle Abner went on: "Yes, siree! 
 You may jess mark me down that away. Come, 
 sez I, an take all my niggers an the ole gray 
 mar , sez I, but lemme keep my Whig doc 
 terin , sez I. Lord, I ve seed sights wi them
 
 46 Free Joe 
 
 niggers. They hain t no manner account. They 
 won t work, an I m ablidge to feed em, else 
 they d whirl in an steal from the neighbors. 
 Hit s in-about broke me for to maintain em in 
 the r laziness. Bless your soul, little children! 
 I m in a turrible fix a turrible fix. I m that 
 bankruptured that when I come to town, ef I 
 fine a thrip in my britches-pocket for to buy me 
 a dram I m the happiest mortal in the county. 
 Yes, siree! hit s got down to that." 
 
 Here Uncle Abner Lazenberry paused and 
 eyed the stranger shrewdly, to whom, presently, 
 he addressed himself in a very insinuating 
 tone: 
 
 "What mought be your name, mister?" 
 
 "Oh," said the stranger, taken somewhat 
 aback by the suddenness of the question, "my 
 name might be Jones, but it happens to be 
 Davies." 
 
 Uncle Abner Lazenberry stared at Davies a 
 moment as if amazed, and then exclaimed: 
 
 "Jesso! Well, dog my cats ef times hain t 
 a-changin an a-changin .tell bimeby the natchul 
 world an all the hummysp eres 11 make the r
 
 Little Compton 47 
 
 disappearance een -uppermost. Yit, whiles they 
 er changin an a-disappearin , I hope they ll 
 leave me my ole Whig docterin , an my name, 
 which the fust an last un it is Abner Lazen- 
 berry. An more n that," the old man went on, 
 with severe emphasis "an more n that, they 
 hain t never been a day sence the creation of the 
 world an the hummysp eres when my name 
 mought er oeen anything else under the shinin 
 sun but Abner Lazenberry; an ef the time s 
 done come when any mortal name mought er 
 been anything but what hit reely is, then we jess 
 better turn the nation an the federation over 
 to demockeracy an giner l damnation. Now 
 that s me, right pine-plank." 
 
 By way of emphasizing his remarks, Uncle 
 Abner brought the end of his hickory cane 
 down upon the ground with a tremendous 
 thump. The stranger reddened a little at the 
 unexpected criticism, and was evidently ill at 
 ease, but he remarked politely: 
 
 "This is just a saying I ve picked up some 
 where in my travels. My name is Davies, and 
 I am traveling through the country selling a
 
 few choice books, and picking up information 
 as I go." 
 
 "I know a mighty heap of Davises," said 
 Uncle Abner, "but I disremember of anybody 
 named Davies." 
 
 "Weil, sir," said Mr. Davies, "the name is 
 not uncommon in my part of the country. I 
 am from Vermont." 
 
 "Well, well!" said Uncle Abner, tapping the 
 ground thoughtfully with his cane. "A mighty 
 fur ways Vermont is, tooby shore. In my day 
 an time I ve seed as many as three men folks 
 from Vermont, an one un em, he wuz a wheel 
 wright, an one wuz a tin-pedler, an the yuther 
 one wuz a clock-maker. But that wuz a long 
 time ago. How is the abolishioners gittin on 
 up that away, an when in the name er patience 
 is they a-comin arter my niggers? Lord! if 
 them niggers wuz free, I wouldn t have to slave 
 for em." 
 
 "Well, sir," said Mr. Davies, "I take little or 
 no interest in those things. I have to make a 
 humble living, and I leave political questions 
 to the politicians."
 
 Little Compton 49 
 
 The conversation was carried an at some 
 length, the younger men joining in occasionally 
 to ask questions ; and nothing could have been 
 friendlier than their attitude toward Mr. 
 Davies. They treated him with the greatest 
 consideration. His manner and speech were 
 those of an educated man, and he seemed to 
 make himself thoroughly agreeable. But that 
 night, as Mr. Jack Walthall was about to go 
 to bed, his body-servant, a negro named Jake, 
 began to question him about the abolitionists. 
 
 "What do you know about abolitionists?" Mr. 
 Walthall asked with some degree of severity. 
 
 "Nothin tall, Marse Jack, cep in w at dish 
 yer new w ite man down dar at de tavern 
 say." 
 
 "And what did he say?" Mr. Walthall in 
 quired. 
 
 "I ax im, I say, Marse Boss, is dese yer bobo- 
 litionists got horns en huffs? en he low, he did, 
 dat dey ain t no bobolitionists, kaze dey er babo- 
 litionists, an dey ain t got needer horns ner 
 huffs." 
 
 "What else did he say?" 
 
 VOL. 3 3
 
 50 Free Joe 
 
 Jake laughed. It was a hearty and humorous 
 laugh. 
 
 "Well, sir," he replied, "dat man des 
 preached. He sholy did. He ax me ef de 
 niggers roun yer wouldn all like ter be free, 
 en I tole im I don t speck dey would, kaze all 
 de free niggers w at I ever seed is de mos 
 no- countes niggers in de Ian ." 
 
 Mr. Walthall dismissed the negro somewhat 
 curtly. He had prepared to retire for the night, 
 but apparently thought better of it, for he re 
 sumed his coat and vest, and went out into the 
 cool moonlight. He walked around the public 
 square, and finally perched himself on the stile 
 that led over the court-house enclosure. He sat 
 there a long time. Little Compton passed by, 
 escorting Miss Lizzie Fairleigh, the schoolmis 
 tress, home from some social gathering; and 
 finally the lights in the village went out one by 
 one all save the one that shone in the window 
 of the room occupied by Mr. Davies. Watch 
 ing this window somewhat closely, Mr. Jack 
 Walthall observed that there was movement in 
 the room. Shadows played on the white win-
 
 Little Compton 51 
 
 dow-curtains human shadows passing to and 
 fro. The curtains, quivering in the night wind, 
 distorted these shadows, and made confusion of 
 them; but the wind died away for a moment, 
 and, outlined on the curtains, the patient watcher 
 saw a silhouette of Jake, his body-servant. Mr. 
 Walthall beheld the spectacle with amazement. 
 It never occurred to him that the picture he saw 
 was part the beginning indeed of a tremen 
 dous panorama w r hich would shortly engage the 
 attention of the civilized world, but he gazed 
 at it with a feeling of vague uneasiness. 
 
 The next morning Little Compton was some 
 what surprised at the absence of the young men 
 who were in the habit of gathering in front of 
 his store. Even Mr. Jack Walthall, who could 
 be depended on to tilt his chair against the China 
 tree and sit there for an hour or more after 
 breakfast, failed to put in an appearance. After 
 putting his store to rights, and posting up some 
 accounts left over from the day before, Little 
 Compton came out on the sidewalk, and walked 
 up and down in front of the door. He was in 
 excellent humor, and ae he walked he hummed
 
 52 Free Joe 
 
 a tune. He did not lack for companionship, for 
 his cat, Tommy Tinktums, an extraordinarily 
 large one, followed him back and forth, rub 
 bing against him and running between his legs; 
 but somehow he felt lonely. The town was very 
 quiet. It was quiet at all times, but on this par 
 ticular morning it seemed to Little Compton 
 that there was less stir than usual. There was 
 no sign of life anywhere around the public 
 square save at Perdue s Corner. Shading his 
 eyes with his hand, Little Compton observed a 
 group of citizens apparently engaged in a very 
 interesting discussion. Among them he recog 
 nized the tall form of Mr. Jack Walthall and 
 the somewhat ponderous presence of Major 
 Jimmy Bass. Little Compton watched the 
 group because he had nothing better to do. He 
 saw Major Jimmy Bass bring the end of his 
 cane down upon the ground with a tremendous 
 thump, and gesticulate like a man laboring 
 under strong excitement; but this was nothing 
 out of the ordinary, for Major Jimmy had been 
 known to get excited over the most trivial dis 
 cussion; on one occasion, indeed, he had even
 
 Little Compton 53 
 
 mounted a dry-goods box, and, as the boys ex 
 pressed it, "cussed out the town." 
 
 Still watching the group, Little Compton saw 
 Mr. Jack Walthall take Buck Ransome by the 
 arm, and walk across the public square in the 
 direction of the court-house. They were fol 
 lowed by Mr. Alvin Cozart, Major Jimmy Bass, 
 and young Rowan Wornum. They went to the 
 court-house stile, and formed a little group, 
 while Mr. Walthall appeared to be explaining 
 something, pointing frequently in the direction 
 of the tavern. In a little while they returned to 
 those they had left at Perdue s Corner, where 
 they were presently joined by a number of other 
 citizens. Once Little Compton thought he 
 would lock his door and join them, but by the 
 time he had made up his mind the group had 
 dispersed. 
 
 A little later on, Compton s curiosity was 
 more than satisfied. One of the young men, 
 Buck Ransome, came into Compton s store, 
 bringing a queer-looking bundle. Unwrapping 
 it, Mr. Ransome brought to view two large 
 pillows. iWhistling a gay tune, he ran his keen
 
 54 Free Joe 
 
 knife into one of these, and felt of the feathers. 
 His manner was that of an expert. The exami 
 nation seemed to satisfy him; for he rolled the 
 pillows into a bundle again, and deposited them 
 in the back part of the store. 
 
 "You d be a nice housekeeper, Buck, if you 
 did all your pillows that way," said Compton. 
 
 "Why, bless your great big soul, Compy," 
 said Mr. Ransome, striking an attitude, "I m 
 the finest in the land." 
 
 Just then Mr. Alvin Cozart came in, bearing 
 a small bucket, which he handled very care 
 fully. Little Compton thought he detected the 
 odor of tar. 
 
 "Stick her in the back room there," said Mr. 
 Ransome; "she ll keep." 
 
 Compton was somewhat mystified by these 
 proceedings; but everything was made clear 
 when, an hour later, the young men of the town, 
 reenforced by Major Jimmy Bass, marched into 
 his store, bringing with them Mr. Davies, the 
 Vermont colporteur, who had been flourishing 
 his note-book in the faces of the inhabitants. 
 Jake, Mr. Walthall s body-servant, was promi-
 
 Little Compton $$ 
 
 nent in the crowd by reason of his color and his 
 frightened appearance. The colporteur was 
 very pale, but he seemed to be cool. As the last 
 one filed in, Mr. Walthall stepped to the front 
 door and shut and locked it. 
 
 Compton was too amazed to say anything. 
 The faces before him, always so full of hu 
 mor and fun, were serious enough now. As 
 the key turned in the lock, the colporteur found 
 his voice. 
 
 "Gentlemen!" he exclaimed with some show 
 of indignation, "what is the meaning of this? 
 What would you do?" 
 
 "You know mighty well, sir, what we ought 
 to do," cried Major Bass. "We ought to hang 
 you, you imperdent scounderl! A-comin down 
 here a-pesterin an a-meddlin with t other peo 
 ple s business." 
 
 "Why, gentlemen," said Davies, "I m a peace 
 able citizen; I trouble nobody. I am simply 
 traveling through the country selling books to 
 those who are able to buy, and giving them 
 away to those who are not." 
 
 "Mr. Davies," said Mr. Jack Walthall, lean-
 
 56 Free Joe 
 
 ing gracefully against the counter, "what kind 
 of books are you selling?" 
 
 "Religious books, sir." 
 
 "Jake!" exclaimed Mr. Walthall somewhat 
 sharply, so sharply, indeed, that the negro 
 jumped as though he had been shot. "Jake! 
 stand out there. Hold up your head, sir! Mr. 
 Davies, how many religious books did you sell 
 to that nigger there last night?" 
 
 "I sold him none, sir; I " 
 
 "How many did you try to sell him?" 
 
 "I made no attempt to sell him any books; I 
 knew he couldn t read. I merely asked him to 
 give me some information." 
 
 Major Jimmy Bass scowled dreadfully; but 
 Mr. Jack Walthall smiled pleasantly, and turned 
 to the negro. 
 
 "Jake! do you know this man?" 
 
 "I seed im, Marse Jack; I des seed im; dat s 
 all I know bout im." 
 
 "What were you doing sasshaying around in 
 his room last night?" 
 
 Jake scratched his head, dropped his eyes, 
 and shuffled about on the floor with his feet.
 
 Little Compton , 57 
 
 All eyes were turned on him. He made so long 
 a pause that Alvin Cozart remarked in his 
 drawling tone: 
 
 "Jack, hadn t we better take this nigger over 
 to the calaboose?" 
 
 "Not yet," said Mr. Walthall pleasantly. "If 
 I have to take him over there I ll not bring him 
 back in a hurry." 
 
 "I wuz des up in his room kaze he tole me fer 
 ter come back en see im. Name er God, Marse 
 Jack, w at ail you all w ite folks now?" 
 
 "What did he say to you?" asked Mr. Wal 
 thall. 
 
 "He ax me w at make de niggers stay in 
 slave y," said the frightened negro; "he ax me 
 w at de reason dey don t git free deyse f." 
 
 "He was warm after information," Mr. Wal 
 thall suggested. 
 
 "Call it what you please," said the Vermont 
 colporteur. "I asked him those questions and 
 more." He was pale, but he no longer acted 
 like a man troubled with fear. 
 
 "Oh, we know that, mister," said Buck Ran- 
 some. "We know what you come for, and we
 
 58 Free Joe 
 
 know what you re goin away for. We ll excuse 
 you if you ll excuse us, and then there ll be no 
 hard feelin s that is, not many; none to growl 
 about. Jake, hand me that bundle there on the 
 barrel, and fetch that tar-bucket. You ve got 
 the makin of a mighty fine bird in you, mister," 
 Ransome went on, addressing the colporteur; 
 "all you lack s the feathers, and we ve got oodles 
 of em right here. Now, will you shuck them 
 duds?" 
 
 For the first time the fact dawned on Little 
 Compton s mind that the young men were about 
 to administer a coat of tar and feathers to the 
 stranger from Vermont; and he immediately be 
 gan to protest. 
 
 "Why, Jack," said he, "what Has the man 
 done?" 
 
 "Well," replied Mr. Walthall, "you heard 
 what the nigger said. We can t afford to have 
 these abolitionists preaching insurrection right 
 in our back yards. We just can t afford it, that s 
 the long and short of it. Maybe you don t un 
 derstand it; maybe you don t feel as we do; but 
 that s the way the matter stands. We are in a
 
 Little Compton 59 
 
 sort of a corner, and we are compelled to pro 
 tect ourselves." 
 
 "I don t believe in no tar and feathers for this 
 chap," remarked Major Jimmy Bass, assuming 
 a judicial air. "He ll just go out here to the 
 town branch and wash em off, and then he ll go 
 
 on through the plantations raising h among 
 
 the niggers. That ll be the upshot of it now, 
 you mark my words. He ought to be hung." 
 
 "Now, boys," said Little Compton, still pro 
 testing, "what is the use? This man hasn t done 
 any real harm. He might preach insurrection 
 around here for a thousand years, and the nig 
 gers wouldn t listen to him. Now, you know 
 that yourselves. Turn the poor devil loose, and 
 let him get out of town. Why, haven t you got 
 any confidence in the niggers you ve raised your 
 selves?" 
 
 "My dear sir," said Rowan Wornum, in his 
 most insinuating tone, "we ve got all the con 
 fidence in the world in the niggers, but we can t 
 afford to take any risks. Why, my dear sir," he 
 went on, "if we let this chap go, it won t be 
 six months before the whole country ll be full
 
 60 Free Joe 
 
 of this kind. Look at that Harper s Ferry 
 business." 
 
 "Well," said Compton somewhat hotly, "look 
 at it. What harm has been done? Has there 
 been any nigger insurrection?" 
 
 Jack Walthall laughed good-naturedly. "Lit 
 tle Compton is a quick talker, boys. Let s give 
 the man the benefit of all the arguments." 
 
 "Great God! You don t mean to let this 
 
 d rascal go, do you, Jack?" exclaimed 
 
 Major Jimmy Bass. 
 
 "No, no, sweet uncle; but I ve got a nicer 
 dose than tar and feathers." 
 
 The result was that the stranger s face ancl 
 hands were given a coat of lampblack, his arms 
 were tied to his body, and a large placard was 
 fastened to his back. The placard bore this 
 inscription: 
 
 ABOLITIONIST! 
 PASS HIM ON, BOYS 
 
 Mr. Davies was a pitiful-looking object after 
 the young men had plastered his face and hands
 
 Little Compton 61 
 
 with lampblack and oil, and yet his appear 
 ance bore a certain queer relation to the humor 
 ous exhibitions one sees on the negro minstrel 
 stage. Particularly was this the case when he 
 smiled at Compton. 
 
 "By George, boys!" exclaimed Mr. Buck 
 Ransome, "this chap could play Old Bob Rid 
 ley at the circus." 
 
 When everything was arranged to suit them, 
 the young men formed a procession, and 
 marched the blackened stranger from Little 
 Compton s door into the public street. Little 
 Compton seemed to be very much interested 
 in the proceeding. It was remarked afterward 
 that he seemed to be very much agitated, and 
 that he took a position very near the placarded 
 abolitionist. The procession, as it moved up the 
 street, attracted considerable attention. Rumors 
 that an abolitionist was to be dealt with had ap 
 parently been circulated, and a majority of the 
 male inhabitants of the town were out to view 
 the spectacle. The procession passed entirely 
 around the public square, of which the court 
 house was the centre, and then across the square
 
 62 Free Joe 
 
 to the park-like enclosure that surrounded the 
 temple of justice. 
 
 As the young men and their prisoner crossed 
 this open space, Major Jimmy Bass, fat as he 
 was, grew so hilarious that he straddled his cane 
 as children do broomsticks, and pretended that 
 he had as much as he could do to hold his fiery 
 wooden steed. He waddled and pranced out in 
 front of the abolitionist, and turned and faced 
 him, whereat his steed showed the most violent 
 symptoms of running away. The young men 
 roared with laughter, and the spectators roared 
 with them, and even the abolitionist laughed. 
 All laughed but Little Compton. The proces 
 sion was marched to the court-house enclosure, 
 and there the prisoner was made to stand on the 
 sale-block so that all might have a fair view of 
 him. He was kept there until the stage was 
 ready to go; and then he was given a seat on 
 that swaying vehicle, and forwarded to Rock- 
 ville, where, presumably, the "boys" placed him 
 on the train and "passed him on" to the "boys" 
 in other towns. 
 
 For months thereafter there was peace in
 
 Little Compton 63 
 
 Hillsborough, so far as the abolitionists were 
 concerned; and then came the secession move 
 ment. A majority of the citizens of the little 
 town were strong Union men; but the secession 
 movement seemed to take even the oldest off 
 their feet, and by the time the Republican Presi 
 dent was inaugurated, the Union sentiment that 
 had marked Hillsborough had practically dis 
 appeared. In South Carolina companies of 
 minutemen had been formed, and the entire 
 white male population was wearing blue cock 
 ades. With some modifications, these symptoms 
 were reproduced in Hillsborough. The modi 
 fications were that a few of the old men still 
 stood up for the Union, and that some of the 
 young men, though they wore the blue cockade, 
 did not aline themselves with the minutemen. 
 
 Little Compton took no part in these proceed 
 ings. He was discreetly quiet. He tended his 
 store, and smoked his pipe, and watched events. 
 One morning he was aroused from his slumbers 
 by a tremendous crash a crash that rattled the 
 windows of his store and shook its very walls. 
 He lay quiet a while, thinking that a small
 
 64 Free Joe 
 
 earthquake had been turned loose on the town. 
 Then the crash was repeated; and he knew that 
 Hillsborough was firing a salute from its little 
 six-pounder, a relic of the Revolution, that had 
 often served the purpose of celebrating the na 
 tion s birthday in a noisily becoming manner. 
 
 Little Compton arose, and dressed himself, 
 and prepared to put his store in order. Issuing 
 forth into the street, he saw that the town was 
 in considerable commotion. A citizen who had 
 been in attendance on the convention at Mill- 
 edgeville had arrived during the night, bring 
 ing the information that the ordinance of seces 
 sion had been adopted, and that Georgia was 
 now a sovereign and independent government. 
 The original secessionists were in high feather, 
 and their hilarious enthusiasm had its effect on 
 all save a few of the Union men. 
 
 Early as it was, Little Compton saw two flags 
 floating from an improvised flagstaff on top of 
 the court-house. One was the flag of the State, 
 with its pillars, its sentinel, and its legend of 
 "Wisdom, Justice, and Moderation." The de 
 sign of the other was entirely new to Little
 
 Little Compton 65 
 
 Compton. It was a pine tree on a field of white, 
 with a rattlesnake coiled at its roots, and the in 
 scription, "DON T TREAD ON ME!" A 
 few hours later Uncle Abner Lazenberry made 
 his appearance in front of Compton s store. He 
 had just hitched his horse to the rack near the 
 court-house. 
 
 "Merciful heavens" he exclaimed, wiping his 
 read face with a red handkerchief, "is the Ole 
 Boy done gone an turned hisself loose? I hearn 
 the racket, an I sez to the ole woman, sez I: 
 Til fling the saddle on the gray mar an canter 
 to town an see what in the dingnation the mat 
 ter is. An ef the worl s about to fetch a lurch, 
 I ll git me another dram an die happy, sez I. 
 Whar s Jack Walthall? He can tell his Uncle 
 Abner all about it." 
 
 "Well, sir," said Little Compton, "the State 
 has seceded, and the boys are celebrating." 
 
 "I know d it," cried the old man angrily. 
 "My min tole me so." Then he turned and 
 looked at the flags flying from the top of the 
 court-house. "Is them rags the things they er 
 gwine to fly out n the Union with?" he exclaimed
 
 66 Free Joe 
 
 scornfully. "Why, bless your soul an body, 
 hit ll take bigger wings than them! Well, sir, 
 I m sick; I am that away. I wuz born in the 
 Union, an I d like mighty well to die thar. 
 Ain t it mine? ain t it our n? Jess as shore as 
 you re born, thar s trouble ahead big trouble. 
 You re from the North, ain t you?" Uncle Ab- 
 ner asked, looking curiously at Little Compton. 
 
 "Yes, sir, I am," Compton replied; "that is, 
 I am from New Jersey, but they say New Jersey 
 is out of the Union." 
 
 Uncle Abner did not respond to Comp- 
 ton s smile. He continued to gaze at him 
 significantly. 
 
 "Well," the old man remarked somewhat 
 bluntly, "you better go back where you come 
 from. You ain t got nothin in the roun worl 
 to do with all this hellabaloo. When the pinch 
 comes, as come it must, I m jes gwine to swap 
 a nigger for a sack er flour an settle down ; but 
 you had better go back where you come from." 
 
 Little Compton knew the old man was 
 friendly; but his words, so solemnly and sig 
 nificantly uttered, made a deep impression. The
 
 Little Compton 67 
 
 words recalled to Compton s mind the spectacle 
 of the man from Vermont who had been paraded 
 through the streets of Hillsborough, with his 
 face blackened and a placard on his back. The 
 little Jerseyman also recalled other incidents, 
 some of them trifling enough, but all of them 
 together going to show the hot temper of the 
 people around him; and for a day or two he 
 brooded rather seriously over the situation. H-e 
 knew that the times were critical. 
 
 For several weeks the excitement in Hills- 
 borough, as elsewhere in the South, continued to 
 run high. The blood of the people was at fever 
 heat. The air was full of the portents and pre 
 monitions of war. Drums were beating, flags 
 were flying, and military companies were parad 
 ing. Jack Walthall had raised a company, and 
 it had gone into camp in an old field near the 
 town. The tents shone snowy white in the sun, 
 uniforms of the men were bright and gay, and 
 the boys thought this was war. But, instead of 
 that, they were merely enjoying a holiday. The 
 ladies of the town sent them wagon-loads of pro 
 visions every day, and the occasion was a veri-
 
 68 Free Joe 
 
 table picnic a picnic that some of the young 
 men remembered a year or two later when they 
 were trudging ragged, barefooted, and hungry, 
 through the snow and slush of a Virginia 
 winter. 
 
 But, with all their drilling and parading in 
 the peaceful camp at Hillsborough, the young 
 men had many idle hours, and they devoted 
 these to various forms of amusements. On one 
 occasion, after they had exhausted their ingenu 
 ity in search of entertainment, one of them, 
 Lieutenant Buck Ransome, suggested that it 
 might be interesting to get up a joke on Little 
 Compton. 
 
 "But how?" asked Lieutenant Cozart. 
 
 "Why, the easiest in the world," said Lieu 
 tenant Ransome. "Write him a note, and tell 
 him that the time has come for an English- 
 speaking people to take sides, and fling in a 
 kind of side-wiper about New Jersey." 
 
 Captain Jack Walthall, leaning comfortably 
 against a huge box that was supposed to bear 
 some relation to a camp-chest, blew a cloud of 
 smoke through his sensitive nostrils and laughed.
 
 Little Compton 69 
 
 "Why, stuff, boys!" he exclaimed somewhat im 
 patiently, "you can t scare Little Compton. He s 
 got grit, and it s the right kind of grit. Why, 
 I ll tell you what s a fact the sand in that man s 
 gizzard would make enough mortar to build a 
 fort." 
 
 "Well, I ll tell you what we ll do," said 
 Lieutenant Ransome. "We ll sling him a line 
 or two, and if it don t stir him up, all right; but 
 if it does, we ll have some tall fun." 
 
 Whereupon, Lieutenant Ransome fished 
 around in the chest, and drew forth pen and 
 ink and paper. With some aid from His brother 
 officers he managed to compose the following: 
 
 "LITTLE MR. COMPTON. Dear Sir The time 
 has arrived when every man should show his 
 colors. Those who are not for us are against 
 us. Your best friends, when asked where you 
 stand, do not know what to say. If you are for 
 the North in this struggle, your place is at the 
 North. If you are for the South, your place 
 is with those who are preparing to defend the 
 rights and liberties of the South. A word to 
 the wise is sufficient. You will hear from me 
 again in due time. NEMESIS."
 
 7o Free Joe 
 
 This was duly sealed and dropped in the 
 Hillsborough post-office, and Little Compton 
 received it the same afternoon. He smiled as he 
 broke the seal, but ceased to smile when he read 
 the note. It happened to fit a certain vague feel 
 ing of uneasiness that possessed him. He laid 
 it down on his desk, walked up and down be 
 hind his counter, and then returned and read 
 it again. The sprawling words seemed to pos 
 sess a fascination for him. He read them again 
 and again, and turned them over and over in his 
 mind. It was characteristic of his simple nature 
 that he never once attributed the origin of the 
 note to the humor of the young men with whom 
 he was so familiar. He regarded it seriously. 
 Looking up from the note, he could see in the 
 corner of his store the brush and pot that had 
 been used as arguments on the Vermont aboli 
 tionist. He vividly recalled the time when that 
 unfortunate person was brought up before the 
 self-constituted tribunal that assembled in his 
 store. 
 
 Little Compton thought he had gaged ac 
 curately the temper of the people about him;
 
 Little Compton 71 
 
 and he had, but his modesty prevented him from 
 accurately gaging or even thinking about, the 
 impression he had made on them. The note 
 troubled him a good deal more than he would 
 at first confess to himself. He seated himself 
 on a low box behind his counter to think it over, 
 resting his face in his hands. A little boy who 
 wanted to buy a thrip s worth of candy went 
 slowly out again after trying in vain to attract 
 the attention of the hitherto prompt and friendly 
 storekeeper. Tommy Tinktums, the cat, seeing 
 that his master was sitting down, came forward 
 with the expectation of being told to perform 
 his famous "bouncing" trick, a feat that was at 
 once the wonder and delight of the youngsters 
 around Hillsborough. But Tommy Tinktums 
 was not commanded to bounce; and so he con 
 tented himself with washing his face, pausing 
 every now and then to watch his master with 
 half-closed eyes. 
 
 While sitting thus reflecting, it suddenly oc 
 curred to Little Compton that he had had very 
 few customers during the past several days; 
 and it seemed to him, as he continued to think
 
 72 Free Joe 
 
 the matter over, that the people, especially the 
 young men, had been less cordial lately than 
 they had ever been before. It never occurred 
 to him that the threatened war, and the excite 
 ment of the period, occupied their entire atten 
 tion. He simply remembered that the young 
 men who had made his modest little store their 
 headquarters met there no more. Little Comp- 
 ton sat behind his counter a long time thinking. 
 The sun went down, and the dusk fell, and the 
 night came on and found him there. 
 
 After a while he lit a candle, spread the com 
 munication out on his desk, and read it again. 
 To his mind, there was no mistaking its mean 
 ing. It meant that he must either fight against 
 the Union, or array against himself all the bit 
 ter and aggressive suspicion of the period. He 
 sighed heavily, closed his store, and went out 
 into the darkness. He made his way to the resi 
 dence of Major Jimmy Bass, where Miss Lizzie 
 Fairleigh boarded. The major himself was sit 
 ting on the veranda; and he welcomed Little 
 Compton with effusive hospitality a hospital 
 ity that possessed an old-fashioned flavor.
 
 Little Compton 73 
 
 "I m mighty glad you come yes, sir, I am. 
 It looks like the whole world s out at the camps, 
 and it makes me feel sorter lonesome. Yes, sir; 
 it does that. If I wasn t so plump I d be out 
 there too. It s a mighty good place to be about 
 this time of the year. I tell you what, sir, them 
 boys is got the devil in em. Yes, sir; there ain t 
 no two ways about that. When they turn them 
 selves loose, somebody or something will git 
 hurt. Now, you mark what I tell you. It s a 
 tough lot a mighty tough lot. Lord! wouldn t 
 I hate to be a Yankee, and fall in their hands! 
 I d be glad if I had time for to say my prayers. 
 Yes, sir; I would that." 
 
 Thus spoke the cheerful Major Bass; and 
 every word he said seemed to rime with Little 
 Compton s own thoughts, and to confirm the 
 fears that had been aroused by the note. After 
 he had listened to the major a while, Little 
 Compton asked for Miss Fairleigh. 
 
 "Oho!" said the major. Then he called to a 
 negro who happened to be passing through the 
 hall: "Jesse, tell Miss Lizzie that Mr. Comp 
 ton is in the parlor." Then he turned to Comp- 
 
 VOL. 3 4
 
 74 Free Joe 
 
 ton. "I tell you what, sir, that gal looks mighty 
 puny. She s from the North, and I reckon she s 
 homesick. And then there s all this talk about 
 war. She knows our boys ll eat the Yankees 
 plum up, and I don t blame her for being sorter 
 down-hearted. I wish you d try to cheer her 
 up. She s a good gal if there ever was one on 
 the face of the earth." 
 
 Little Compton went into the parlor, where 
 he was presently joined by Miss Fairleigh. 
 They talked a long time together, but what they 
 said no one ever knew. They conversed in low 
 tones; and once or twice the hospitable major, 
 sitting on the veranda, detected himself trying 
 to hear what they said. He could see them 
 from where he sat, and he observed that both 
 appeared to be profoundly dejected. Not once 
 did they laugh, or, so far as the major could see, 
 even smile. Occasionally Little Compton arose 
 and walked the length of the parlor, but Miss 
 Fairleigh sat with bowed head. It may have 
 been a trick of the lamp, but it seemed to the 
 major that they were both very pale. 
 
 Finally Little Compton rose to go. The major
 
 Little Compton 7$ 
 
 observed with a chuckle that he held Miss Fair- 
 leigh s hand a little longer than was strictly nec 
 essary under the circumstances. He held it so 
 long, indeed, that Miss Fairleigh half averted 
 her face, but the major noted that she w y as still 
 pale. "We shall have a wedding in this house 
 before the war opens," he thought to himself; 
 and his mind was dwelling on such a contin 
 gency when Little Compton came out on the 
 veranda. 
 
 "Don t tear yourself away in the heat of the 
 day," said Major Bass jocularly. 
 
 "I must go," replied Compton. "Good-by!" 
 He seized the major s hand and wrung it. 
 
 "Good night," said the major, "and God bless 
 you!" 
 
 The next day was Sunday. But on Monday 
 it was observed that Compton s store was closed. 
 Nothing was said and little thought of it. Peo 
 ple s minds were busy with other matters. The 
 drums were beating, the flags flying, and the citi 
 zen soldiery parading. It was a noisy and an 
 exciting time, and a larger store than Little 
 Compton s might have remained closed for sev-
 
 76 Free Joe 
 
 eral days without attracting attention. But one 
 day, when the young men from the camp were 
 in the village, it occurred to them to inquire 
 what effect the anonymous note had had on Lit 
 tle Compton; whereupon they went in a body 
 to his store; but the door was closed, and they 
 found it had been closed a week or more. They 
 also discovered that Compton had disappeared. 
 This had a very peculiar effect upon Captain 
 Jack Walthall. He took off his uniform, put 
 on his citizen s clothes, and proceeded to inves 
 tigate Compton s disappearance. He sought in 
 vain for a clue. He interested others to such 
 an extent that a great many people in HillsBor- 
 ough forgot all about the military situation. 
 But there was no trace of Little Compton. His 
 store was entered from a rear window, and 
 everything found to be intact. Nothing had 
 been removed. The jars of striped candy that 
 had proved so attractive to the youngsters of 
 Hillsborough stood in long rows on the shelves, 
 flanked by the thousand and one notions that 
 make up the stock of a country grocery store. 
 Little Compton s disappearance was a mys-
 
 Little Compton 77 
 
 terious one, and under ordinary circumstances 
 would have created intense excitement in the 
 community; but at that particular time the most 
 sensational event would have seemed tame and 
 .commonplace alongside the preparations for 
 war. 
 
 Owing probably to a lack of the faculty of 
 organization at Richmond a lack which, if we 
 are to believe the various historians who have 
 tried to describe and account for some of the 
 results of that period, was the cause of many 
 bitter controversies, and of many disastrous fail 
 ures in the field a month or more passed away 
 before the Hillsborough company received or 
 ders to go to the front. Fort Sumter had been 
 fired on, troops from all parts of the South had 
 gathered in Virginia, and the war was begin 
 ning in earnest. Captain Jack Walthall of the 
 Hillsborough Guards chafed at the delay that 
 kept his men resting on their arms, so to speak; 
 but he had ample opportunity, meanwhile, to 
 wonder what had become of Little Compton. 
 In his leisure moments he. often found himself 
 sitting on the dry-goods boxes in the neighbor-
 
 78 Free Joe 
 
 hood of Little Compton s store. Sitting thus 
 one day, he was approached by his body-servant. 
 Jake had his hat in his hand, and showed by his 
 manner that he had something to say. He 
 shuffled around, looked first one way and then 
 another, and scratched his head. 
 
 "Marse Jack," he began. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" said the other, somewhat 
 sharply. 
 
 "Marse Jack, I hope ter de Lord you ain t 
 gwine ter git mad wid me; yit I mos knows 
 you is, kaze I oughter done tole you a long 
 time ago." 
 
 "You ought to have told me what?" 
 
 " Bout my drivin yo hoss en buggy over ter 
 Rockville dat time dat time what I ain t never 
 tole you bout. But I uz mos blige ter do it. 
 I low ter myse f, I did, dat I oughter come tell 
 you right den, but I uz skeer d you mought git 
 mad, en den you wuz out dar at de camps, long 
 wid dem milliumterry folks." 
 
 "What have you got to tell?" 
 
 "Well, Marse Jack, des bout takin yo hoss 
 en buggy. Marse Compton lowed you wouldn t
 
 Little Campion 79 
 
 keer, en w en he say dat, I des went en hich up 
 de hoss en kyar d im over ter Rockville." 
 
 "What under heaven did you want to go to 
 Rockville for?" 
 
 Who? me, Marse Jack? Twa n t me wantec 
 go. Hit uz Marse Compton." 
 
 "Little Compton?" exclaimed Walthall. 
 
 "Yes, sir, dat ve y same man." 
 
 "What did you carry Little Compton to Rock- 
 viile for?" 
 
 "Fo de Lord, Marse Jack, I dunno w at 
 Marse Compton wanter go fer. I des know d 
 I uz doin wrong, but he tuck n low dat hit d 
 be all right wid you, kaze you bin knowin him 
 so monst us well. En den he up n ax me not to 
 tell you twell he done plum out n yearm ." 
 
 "Didn t he say anything? Didn t he tell you 
 where he was going? Didn t he send any word 
 back?" 
 
 This seemed to remind Jake of something. 
 He clapped his hand to his head, and exclaimed : 
 
 "Well, de Lord he p my soul! Ef I ain t de 
 beatenest nigger on de top side er de yeth! 
 Marse Compton gun me a letter, en I tuck n
 
 80 Free Joe 
 
 shove it un de buggy seat, en it s right dar yit 
 ef somebody ain t tored it up." 
 
 By certain well-known signs Jake knew that 
 his Marse Jack was very mad, and he was hur 
 rying out. But Walthall called him. 
 
 "Come here, sirl" The tone made Jake trem 
 ble. "Do you stand up there, sir, and tell me 
 all this, and think I am going to put up with it?" 
 
 "I m gwine after dat note, Marse Jack, des 
 ez hard ez ever I kin." 
 
 Jake manage d to find the note after some lit 
 tle search, and carried it to Jack Walthall. It 
 was crumpled anH soiled. It had evidently 
 seen rough service under the buggy seat. Wal 
 thall took it from the negro, turned it over and 
 looked at it. It was sealed, and addressed to 
 Miss Lizzie Fairleigh. 
 
 Jack Walthall arrayed himself in his best, 
 and made his way to Major Jimmy Bass s, 
 where he inquired for Miss Fairleigh. That 
 young lady promptly made her appearance. She 
 was pale and seemed to be troubled. Walthall 
 explained his errand, and handed her the note. 
 He thought her hand trembled, but he may
 
 Little Compton 81 
 
 have been mistaken, as he afterward confessed. 
 She read it, and handed it to Captain Walthall 
 with a vague little smile that would have told 
 him volumes if he had been able to read the 
 feminine mind. 
 
 Major Jimmy Bass was a wiser man than 
 Walthall, and he remarked long afterward that 
 he knew by the way the poor girl looked that 
 she was in trouble, and it is not to be denied, 
 at least, it is not to be denied in Hillsborough, 
 where he was known and respected, that Major 
 Bass s impressions were as important as the 
 average man s convictions. This is what Cap 
 tain Jack Walthall read: 
 
 "DEAR Miss FAIRLEIGH When you see this 
 I shall be on my way home. My eyes have re 
 cently been opened to the fact that there is to 
 be a war for and against the Union. I have 
 strong friendships here, but I feel that I owe a 
 duty to the old flag. When I bade you good-by 
 last night, it was good-by forever. I had hoped 
 -I had desired to say more than I did; but 
 perhaps it is better so. Perhaps it is better that
 
 82 "Free Joe 
 
 I should carry with me a fond dream of what 
 might have been than to have been told by you 
 that such a dream could never come true. I 
 had intended to give you the highest evidence 
 of my respect and esteem that man can give to 
 woman, but I have been overruled by fate or 
 circumstance. I shall love you as long as I live. 
 One thing more: should you ever find yourself 
 in need of the services of a friend a friend in 
 whom you may place the most implicit con 
 fidence send for Mr. Jack Walthall. Say to 
 him that Little Compton commended you to his 
 care and attention, and give him my love." 
 
 Walthall drew a long breath and threw his 
 head back as he finished reading this. What 
 ever emotion he may have felt, he managed to 
 conceal, but there was a little color in his usu 
 ally pale face, and his dark eyes shone with a 
 new light. 
 
 "This is a very unfortunate mistake," he ex 
 claimed. "What is to be done?" 
 
 Miss Fairleigh smiled. 
 
 "There is no mistake, Mr. Walthall," she re-
 
 Little Compton 83 
 
 plied. "Mr. Compton is a Northern man, and 
 he has gone to join the Northern army. I 
 think he is right." 
 
 "Well," said Walthall, "he will do what he 
 thinks is right, but I wish he was here to-night." 
 
 "Oh, so do I!" exclaimed Miss Fairleigh, and 
 then she blushed; seeing which, Mr. Jack Wal 
 thall drew his own conclusions. 
 
 "If I could get through the lines," she went 
 on, "I would go home." Whereupon Walthall 
 offered her all the assistance in his power, and 
 offered to escort her to the Potomac. But be 
 fore arrangements for the journey could be 
 made, there came the news of the first battle of 
 Manassas, and the conflict was begun in earnest; 
 so earnest, indeed, that it changed the course of 
 a great many lives, and gave even a new direc 
 tion to American history. 
 
 Miss Fairleigh s friends in Hillsborough 
 would not permit her to risk the journey 
 through the lines; and Captain Walthall s com 
 pany was ordered to the front, where the young 
 men composing it entered headlong into the 
 hurly-burly that goes by the name of war.
 
 84 Free Joe 
 
 There was one little episode growing out of 
 Jack Walthall s visit to Miss Fairleigh that 
 ought to be told. When that young gentleman 
 bade her good evening, and passed out of the 
 parlor, Miss Fairleigh placed her hands to her 
 face and fell to weeping, as women will. 
 
 Major Bass, sitting on the veranda, had been 
 an interested spectator of the conference in the 
 parlor, but it was in the nature of a pantomime. 
 He could hear nothing that was said, but he 
 could see that Miss Fairleigh and Walthall were 
 both laboring under some strong excitement. 
 When, therefore, he saw Walthall pass hur 
 riedly out, leaving Miss Fairleigh in tears in 
 the parlor, it occurred to him that, as the head 
 of the household and the natural protector of 
 the women under his roof, he was bound to take 
 some action. He called Jesse, the negro house- 
 servant, who was on duty in the dining-room. 
 
 "Jess! Jess! Oh, Jess!" There was an insinu 
 ating sweetness in his voice as it echoed through 
 the hall. Jesse, doubtless recognizing the vel 
 vety quality of the tone, made his appearance 
 promptly* u jess," said the major softly, "I wish
 
 Little Compton 8$ 
 
 you d please fetch me my shotgun. Make aste, 
 Jess, and don t make no furse." 
 
 Jesse went after the shotgun, and the major 
 waddled into the parlor. He cleared his throat 
 at the door, and Miss Fairleigh looked up. 
 
 "Miss Lizzie, did Jack Walthall insult you 
 here in my house?" 
 
 "Insult me, sir! Why, he s the noblest gen 
 tleman alive." 
 
 The major drew a deep breath of relief, and 
 smiled. 
 
 "Well, I m mighty glad to hear you say so!" 
 he exclaimed. "I couldn t tell, to save my life, 
 what put it into my mind. Why, I might a 
 know d that Jack Walthall ain t that kind of a 
 chap. Lord! I reckon I must be getting old and 
 weak-minded. .Don t cry no more, honey. Go 
 right along and go to bed." As he turned to go 
 out of the parlor, he was confronted by Jesse 
 with the shotgun. "Oh, go put her up, Jess," 
 he said apologetically; "go put her up, boy. I 
 wanted to blaze away at a dog out there trying 
 to scratch under the palings; but the dog s done 
 gone. Go put her up, Jess."
 
 86 Free Joe 
 
 When Jess carried the gun back, he remarked 
 casually to his mistress: 
 
 "Miss Sa h, you better keep yo eye on Marse 
 Maje. He talkin mighty funny, en he doin 
 mighty quare." 
 
 Thereafter, for many a long day, the genial 
 major sat in his cool veranda, and thought of 
 Jack Walthall and the boys in Virginia. Some 
 times between dozes he would make his way to 
 Perdue s Corner, and discuss the various cam 
 paigns. How many desperate campaigns were 
 fought on that Corner! All the older citizens, 
 who found it convenient or necessary to stay 
 at home, had in them the instinct and emotions 
 of great commanders. They knew how victory 
 could be wrung from defeat, and how success 
 could be made more overwhelming. At Per 
 due s Corner, Washington City was taken not 
 less than a dozen times a week, and occasionally 
 both New York and Boston were captured and 
 sacked. Of all the generals who fought their 
 battles at the Corner, Major Jimmy Bass was 
 the most energetic, the most daring, and the 
 most skilful. As a strategist he had no superior.
 
 Little Compton 87 
 
 He had a way of illustrating the feasibility of 
 his plans by drawing them in the sand with his 
 cane. Fat as he was, the major had a way of 
 "surroundering" the enemy so that no avenue 
 was left for his escape. At Perdue s Corner he 
 captured Scott, and McClellan, and Joe Hooker, 
 and John Pope, and held their entire forces as 
 prisoners of war. 
 
 In spite of all this, however, the war went on. 
 Sometimes word would come that one of the 
 Hillsborough boys had been shot to death. Now 
 and then one would come home with an arm or 
 a leg missing; so that, before many months had 
 passed, even the generals conducting their cam 
 paigns at Perdue s Corner managed to discover 
 that war was a very serious business. 
 
 It happened that one day in July, Captain 
 Jack Walthall and his men, together with quite 
 an imposing array of comrades, were called 
 upon to breast the sultry thunder of Gettysburg. 
 They bore themselves like men ; they went for 
 ward with a shout and a rush, facing the deadly 
 slaughter of the guns; they ran up the hill and 
 to the rock wall. With others, Captain Wai-
 
 88 Free Joe 
 
 thall leaped over the wall. They were met by 
 a murderous fire that mowed down the men like 
 grass. The line in the rear wavered, fell back, 
 and went forward again. Captain Walthall 
 heard his name called in his front, and then 
 some one cried, "Don t shoot!" and Little Comp- 
 ton, his face blackened with powder, and his 
 eyes glistening with excitement, rushed into 
 Walthall s arms. The order not to shoot if 
 it was an order came too late. There was an 
 other volley. As the Confederates rushed for 
 ward, the Federal line retreated a little way, 
 and Walthall found himself surrounded by the 
 small remnant of his men. The Confederates 
 made one more effort to advance, but it was 
 useless. The line was borne back, and finally 
 retreated; but when it went down the slope, 
 Walthall and Lieutenant Ransome had Little 
 Compton between them. He was a prisoner. 
 Just how it all happened, no one of the three 
 could describe, but Little Compton was carried 
 into the Confederate lines. He was wounded 
 in the shoulder and in the arm, and the ball that 
 shattered his arm shattered Walthall s arm.
 
 Little Compton 89 
 
 They were carried to the field hospital, where 
 Walthall insisted that Little Compton s wounds 
 should be looked after first. The result was that 
 Walthall lost his left arm and Compton his 
 right; and then, when by some special interpo 
 sition of Providence they escaped gangrene and 
 other results of imperfect surgery and bad nurs 
 ing, they went to Richmond, where Walthall s 
 money and influence secured them comfortable 
 quarters. 
 
 Hillsborough had heard of all this in a vague 
 way indeed, a rumor of it had been printed in 
 the Rockville "Vade Mecum" but the gen 
 erals and commanders in consultation at Per- 
 due s Corner were astonished one day when the 
 stage-coach set down at the door of the tavern 
 a tall, one-armed gentleman in gray, and a short, 
 one-armed gentleman in blue. 
 
 "By the livin Lord!" exclaimed Major Jim- 
 ray Bass, "if that ain t Jack Walthall! And you 
 may put out my two eyes if that ain t Little 
 Compton! Why, shucks, boys!" he exclaimed, 
 as he waddled across the street, "I d a know d 
 you anywheres. I m a little short-sighted, and
 
 90 Free Joe 
 
 I m mighty nigh took off wi the dropsy, but I d 
 a know d you anywheres." 
 
 There were handshakings and congratulations 
 from everybody in the town. The clerks and the 
 merchants deserted their stores to greet the new 
 comers, and there seemed to be a general jubilee. 
 For weeks Captain Jack Walthall was com 
 pelled to tell his Gettysburg story over and 
 over again, frequently to the same hearers; and, 
 curiously enough, there was never a murmur 
 of dissent when he told how Little Compton had 
 insisted on wearing his Federal uniform. 
 
 "Great Jiminy Craminy!" Major Jimmy Bass 
 would exclaim; "don t we all know Little 
 Compton like a book? And ain t he got a right 
 to wear his own duds?" 
 
 Rockville, like every other railroad town in 
 the South at that period, had become the site 
 of a Confederate hospital; and sometimes the 
 hangers-on and convalescents paid brief visits of 
 inspection to the neighboring villages. On one 
 occasion a little squad of them made their ap 
 pearance on the streets of Hillsborough, and 
 made a good-natured attempt to fraternize with
 
 Little Campion 91 
 
 the honest citizens who gathered daily at Per- 
 due s Corner. While they were thus engaged, 
 Little Compton, arrayed in his blue uniform, 
 passed down the street. The visitors made some 
 inquiries, and Major Bass gave them a very sym 
 pathetic history of Little Compton. Evidently 
 they failed to appreciate the situation; for one 
 of them, a tall Mississippian, stretched himself 
 and remarked to his companions: 
 
 "Boys, when we go, we ll just about lift that 
 feller and take him along. He belongs in An- 
 dersonville, that s where he belongs." 
 
 Major Bass looked at the tall Mississippian 
 and smiled. 
 
 "I reckon you must a been mighty sick over 
 yander," said the major, indicating Rockville. 
 
 "Well, yes," said the Mississippian; "I ve had 
 a pretty tough time." 
 
 "And you ain t strong yet," the major went on. 
 
 "Well, I m able to get about right lively," 
 said the other. 
 
 "Strong enough to go to war?" 
 
 "Oh, well, no not just yet." 
 
 "Well, then," said the major in his bluntest
 
 92 Free Joe 
 
 tone, "you better be mighty keerful of yourself 
 in this town. If you ain t strong enough to go 
 to war, you better let Little Compton alone." 
 
 The tall Mississippian and his friends took 
 the hint, and Little Compton continued to wear 
 his blue uniform unmolested. About this time 
 Atlanta fell; and there were vague rumors in 
 the air, chiefly among the negroes, that Sher 
 man s army would march down and capture 
 Hillsborough, which, by the assembly of gen 
 erals at Perdue s Corner, was regarded as a 
 strategic point. These vague rumors proved to 
 be correct; and by the time the first frosts fell, 
 Perdue s Corner had reason to believe that Gen 
 eral Sherman was marching down on Hillsbor 
 ough. Dire rumors of fire, rapine, and pillage 
 preceded the approach of the Federal army, 
 and it may well be supposed that these rumors 
 spread consternation in the air. Major Bass 
 professed to believe that General Sherman 
 would be "surroundered" and captured before 
 his troops reached Middle Georgia; but the 
 three columns, miles apart, continued their 
 march unopposed.
 
 Little Compton 93 
 
 It was observed that during this period of 
 doubt, anxiety, and terror, Little Compton was 
 on the alert. He appeared to be nervous and 
 restless. His conduct was so peculiar that some 
 of the more suspicious citizens of the region pre 
 dicted that he had been playing the part of a 
 spy, and that he was merely waiting for the 
 advent of Sherman s army in order to point out 
 where his acquaintances had concealed their 
 treasures. 
 
 One fine morning a company of Federal 
 troopers rode into Hillsborough. They were 
 met by Little Compton, who had borrowed 
 one of Jack Walthall s horses for just such an 
 occasion. The cavalcade paused in the public 
 square, and, after a somewhat prolonged con 
 sultation with Little Compton, rode on in the 
 direction of Rockville. During the day small 
 parties of foragers made their appearance. Lit 
 tle Compton had some trouble with these; but, 
 by hurrying hither and thither, he managed to 
 prevent any depredations. He even succeeded 
 in convincing the majority of them that they 
 owed some sort of respect to- that small town.
 
 94 Free Joe 
 
 There was one obstinate fellow, however, who 
 seemed determined to prosecute his search for 
 valuables. He was a German who evidently 
 did not understand English. 
 
 In the confusion Little Compton lost sight of 
 the German, though he had determined to keep 
 an eye on him. It was not long before he heard 
 of him again; for one of the Walthall negroes 
 came running across the public square, showing 
 by voice and gesture that he was very much 
 alarmed. 
 
 "Marse Compton! Marse Compton!" he 
 cried, "you better run up ter Marse Jack s, 
 kaze one er dem mens is gwine in dar whar 
 ole Miss is, en ef he do dat he gwine ter git 
 hurted!" 
 
 Little Compton hurried to the Walthall place, 
 and he was just in time to see Jack rushing the 
 German down the wide flight of steps that led 
 to the veranda. What might have happened, no 
 one can say; what did happen may be briefly 
 told. The German, his face inflamed with pas 
 sion, had seized his gun, which had been left 
 outside, and was aiming at Jack Walthall, who
 
 Little Compton 95 
 
 stood on the steps, cool and erect. An exclama 
 tion of mingled horror and indignation from 
 Little Compton attracted the German s atten 
 tion, and caused him to turn his head. This de 
 lay probably saved Jack Walthall s life; for the 
 German, thinking that a comrade was coming 
 to his aid, leveled his gun again and fired. But 
 Little Compton had seized the weapon near the 
 muzzle and wrested it around. The bullet, in 
 stead of reaching its target, tore its way through 
 Compton s empty sleeve. In another instant the 
 German was covered by Compton s revolver. 
 The hand that held it was steady, and the eyes 
 that glanced along its shining barrel fairly 
 blazed. The German dropped his gun. All 
 trace of passion disappeared from his face; and 
 presently seeing that the crisis had passed, so 
 far as he was concerned, he wheeled in his 
 tracks, gravely saluted Little Compton, and 
 made off at a double-quick. 
 
 "You mustn t think hard of the boys, Jack, 
 on account of that chap. They understand the 
 whole business, and they are going to take care 
 of this town."
 
 96 ^Free Joe 
 
 And they did. The army came march 
 ing along presently, and the stragglers found 
 Hillsborough patrolled by a detachment of 
 cavalry. 
 
 Walthall and Little Compton stood on the 
 wide steps, and reviewed this imposing array as 
 it passed before them. The tall Confederate, in 
 his uniform of gray, rested his one hand affec 
 tionately on the shoulder of the stout little man 
 in blue, and on the bosom of each was pinned an 
 empty sleeve. Unconsciously, they made an im 
 pressive picture. 
 
 The Commander, grim, gray, and resolute, 
 observed it with sparkling eyes. The spec 
 tacle was so unusual so utterly opposed to 
 the logic of events that he stopped with his 
 staff long enough to hear Little Compton 
 tell his story. He was a grizzled, aggressive 
 man, this Commander, but his face lighted up 
 wonderfully at the recital. 
 
 "Well, you know this sort of thing doesn t 
 end the war, boys," he said, as he shook hands 
 with Walthall and Little Compton; "but I shall 
 sleep better to-night."
 
 Little Compton 97 
 
 Perhaps he did. Perhaps he dreamed that 
 what he had seen and heard was prophetic of 
 the days to come, when peace and fraternity 
 should seize upon the land, and bring unity, 
 happiness, and prosperity to the people. 
 
 VOL. 3
 
 AUNT FOUNTAIN S PRISONER 
 
 IT is curious how the smallest incident, the 
 most unimportant circumstance, will recall old 
 friends and old associations. An old gentle 
 man, who is noted far and near for his pro 
 digious memory of dates and events, once told 
 me that his memory, so astonishing to his friends 
 and acquaintances, consisted not so much in re 
 membering names and dates and facts, as in asso 
 ciating each of these with some special group 
 of facts and events; so that he always had at 
 command a series of associations to which he 
 could refer instantly and confidently. This is 
 an explanation of the system of employing facts, 
 but not of the method by which they are accu 
 mulated and stored away. 
 
 I was reminded of this some years ago by a 
 paragraph in one of the county newspapers that 
 sometimes come under my observation. It was 
 
 98
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 99 
 
 a very commonplace paragraph; indeed, it was 
 in the nature of an advertisement an announce 
 ment of the fact that orders for "gilt-edged 
 butter" from the Jersey farm on the Tomlinson 
 Place should be left at the drugstore in Rock- 
 ville, where the first that came would be the 
 first served. This businesslike notice was signed 
 by Ferris Trunion. The name was not only pe 
 culiar, but new to me; but this was of no impor 
 tance at all. The fact that struck me was the 
 bald and bold announcement that the Tomlin 
 son Place was the site and centre of trading and 
 other commercial transactions in butter. I can 
 only imagine what effect this announcement 
 would have had on my grandmother, who died 
 years ago, and on some other old people I used 
 to know. Certainly they would have been hor 
 rified; and no wonder, for when they were in 
 their prime the Tomlinson Place was the seat 
 of all that was high, and mighty, and grand, in 
 the social world in the neighborhood of Rock- 
 ville. I remember that everybody stood in awe 
 of the Tomlinsons. Just why this was so, I 
 never could make out. They were very rich;
 
 IOO Free Joe 
 
 the Place embraced several thousand acres; but 
 if the impressions made on me when a child are 
 worth anything, they were extremely simple in 
 their ways. Though, no doubt, they could be 
 formal and conventional enough when occasion 
 required. 
 
 I have no distinct recollection of Judge Addi- 
 son Tomlinson, except that he was a very tall 
 old gentleman, much older than his wife, who 
 went about the streets of Rockville carrying a 
 tremendous gold-headed cane carved in a curi 
 ous manner. In those days I knew more of Mrs. 
 Tomlinson than I did of the judge, mainly be 
 cause I heard a great deal more about her. 
 Some of the women called her Mrs. Judge Tom 
 linson; but my grandmother never called her 
 anything else but Harriet Bledsoe, which was 
 her maiden name. It was a name, too, that 
 seemed to suit her, so that when you once heard 
 her called Harriet Bledsoe, you never forgot it 
 afterward. I do not know now, any more than 
 I did when a child, why this particular name 
 should fit her so exactly; but, as I have been 
 told, a lack of knowledge does not alter facts.
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 101 
 
 I think my grandmother used to go to church 
 to see what kind of clothes Harriet Bledsoe 
 wore; for I have often heard her say, after the 
 sermon was over, that Harriet s bonnet, or Har 
 riet s dress, was perfectly charming. Certainly 
 Mrs. Tomlinson was always dressed in the 
 height of fashion, though it was a very simple 
 fashion when compared with the flounces and 
 furbelows of her neighbors. I remember this 
 distinctly, that she seemed to be perfectly cool 
 the hottest Sunday in summer, and comfortably 
 warm the coldest Sunday in winter; and I am 
 convinced that this impression, made on the 
 mind of a child, must bear some definite relation 
 to Mrs. Tomlinson s good taste. 
 
 Certainly my grandmother was never tired 
 of telling me that Harriet Bledsoe was blessed 
 with exceptionally good taste and fine manners; 
 and I remember that she told me often how she 
 wished I was a girl, so that I might one day be 
 in a position to take advantage of the opportuni 
 ties I had had of profiting by Harriet Bledsoe s 
 example. I think there was some sort of at 
 tachment between my grandmother and Mrs.
 
 IO2 Free Joe 
 
 Tomlinson, formed when they were at school 
 together, though my grandmother was much the 
 older of the two. But there was no intimacy. 
 The gulf that money sometimes makes between 
 those who have it and those who lack it lay 
 between them. Though I think my grand 
 mother was more sensitive about crossing this 
 gulf than Mrs. Tomlinson. 
 
 I was never in the Tomlinson house but once 
 when a child. Whether it was because it was 
 two or three miles away from Rockville, or 
 whether it was because I stood in awe of my 
 grandmother s Harriet Bledsoe, I do not know. 
 But I have a very vivid recollection of the only 
 time I went there as a boy. One of my play 
 mates, a rough-and-tumble little fellow, was 
 sent by his mother, a poor sick woman, to ask 
 Mrs. Tomlinson for some preserves. I think 
 this woman and her little boy were in some way 
 related to the Tomlinsons. The richest and 
 most powerful people, I have heard it said, are 
 not so rich and powerful but they are pestered 
 by poor kin, and the Tomlinsons were no excep 
 tion to the rule.
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 103 
 
 I went with this little boy I spoke of, and I 
 was afraid afterward that I was in some way 
 responsible for his boldness. He walked right 
 into the presence of Mrs. Tomlinson, and, with 
 out waiting to return the lady s salutation, he 
 said in a loud voice: 
 
 "Aunt Harriet, ma says send her some of your 
 nicest preserves." 
 
 "Aunt Harriet, indeed!" she exclaimed, and 
 then she gave him a look that was cold enough 
 to freeze him, and hard enough to send him 
 through the floor. 
 
 I think she relented a little, for she went to 
 one of the windows, bigger than any door you 
 see nowadays, and looked out over the blooming 
 orchard ; and then after a while she came back 
 to us, and was very gracious. She patted me on 
 the head; and I must have shrunk from her 
 touch, for she laughed and said she never bit 
 nice little boys. Then she asked me my name; 
 and when I told her, she said my grandmother 
 was the dearest woman in the world. Moreover, 
 she told my companion that it would spoil pre 
 serves to carry them about in a tin bucket; and
 
 IO4 Free Joe 
 
 then she fetched a big basket, and had it filled 
 with preserves, and jelly, and cake. There were 
 some ginger-preserves among the rest, and I re 
 member that I appreciated them very highly; 
 the more so, since my companion had a theory 
 of his own that ginger-preserves and fruit-cake 
 were not good for sick people. 
 
 I remember, too, that Mrs. Tomlinson had a 
 little daughter about my own age. She had long 
 yellow hair and very black eyes. She rode 
 around in the Tomlinson carriage a great deal, 
 and everybody said she was remarkably pretty, 
 with a style and a spirit all her own. The ne 
 groes used to say that she was as affectionate as 
 she was wilful, which was saying a good deal. 
 It was characteristic of Harriet Bledsoe, my 
 grandmother said, that her little girl should be 
 named Lady. 
 
 I heard a great many of the facts I have stated 
 from old Aunt Fountain, one of the Tomlinson 
 negroes, who, for some reason or other, was per 
 mitted to sell ginger-cakes and persimmon-beer 
 under the wide-spreading China trees in Rock- 
 ville on public days and during court week.
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 105 
 
 There was a theory among certain envious peo 
 ple in Rockville there are envious people 
 everywhere that the Tomlinsons, notwithstand 
 ing the extent of their landed estate and the 
 number of their negroes, were sometimes short 
 of ready cash ; and it was hinted that they pock 
 eted the proceeds of Aunt Fountain s persim 
 mon-beer and ginger-cakes. Undoubtedly such 
 stories as these were the outcome of pure envy. 
 When my grandmother heard such gossip as 
 this, she sighed, and said that people who would 
 talk about Harriet Bledsoe in that way would 
 talk about anybody under the sun. My own 
 opinion is, that Aunt Fountain got the money 
 and kept it; otherwise she would not have been 
 so fond of her master and mistress, nor so proud 
 of the family and its position. I spent many an 
 hour near Aunt Fountain s cake and beer stand, 
 for I liked to hear her talk. Besides, she had a 
 very funny name, and I thought there was al 
 ways a probability that she would explain how 
 she got it. But she never did. 
 
 I had forgotten all about the Tomlinsons 
 until the advertisement I have mentioned was
 
 io6 Free Joe 
 
 accidentally brought to my notice, whereupon 
 memory suddenly became wonderfully active. 
 I am keenly alive to the happier results of the 
 war, and I hope I appreciate at their full value 
 the emancipation of both whites and blacks 
 from the deadly effects of negro slavery, and the 
 wonderful development of our material re 
 sources that the war has rendered possible; but 
 I must confess it was with a feeling of regret 
 that I learned that the Tomlinson Place had 
 been turned into a dairy farm. Moreover, the 
 name of Ferris Trunion had a foreign and an 
 unfamiliar sound. His bluntly worded adver 
 tisement appeared to come from the mind of a 
 man who would not hesitate to sweep away both 
 romance and tradition if they happened to 
 stand in the way of a profitable bargain. 
 
 I was therefore much gratified, some time 
 after reading Trunion s advertisement, to re 
 ceive a note from a friend who deals in real 
 estate, telling me that some land near the Tom 
 linson Place had been placed in his hands for 
 sale, and asking me to go to Rockville to see if 
 the land and the situation were all they were de-
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 107 
 
 scribed to be. I lost no time in undertaking this 
 part of the business, for I was anxious to see 
 how the old place looked in the hands of stran 
 gers, and unsympathetic strangers at that. 
 
 It is not far from Atlanta to Rockville a day 
 and a night and the journey is not fatiguing; 
 so that a few hours after receiving my friend s 
 request I was sitting in the veranda of the Rock 
 ville Hotel, observing, with some degree of won 
 der, the vast changes that had taken place the 
 most of them for the better. There were new 
 faces and new enterprises all around me, and 
 there was a bustle about the town that must have 
 caused queer sensations in the minds of the few 
 old citizens who still gathered at the post-office 
 for the purpose of carrying on ancient political 
 controversies with each other. 
 
 Among the few familiar figures that attracted 
 my attention was that of Aunt Fountain. The 
 old China tree in the shade of which she used 
 to sit had been blasted by lightning or fire; but 
 she still had her stand there, and she was keep 
 ing the flies and dust away with the same old 
 turkey-tail fan. I could see no change. If her
 
 io8 Free Joe 
 
 hair was grayer, it was covered and concealed 
 from view by the snow-white handkerchief tied 
 around her head. From my place I could hear 
 her humming a tune the tune I had heard her 
 sing in precisely the same way years ago. I 
 heard her scolding a little boy. The gesture, 
 the voice, the words, were the same she had em 
 ployed in trying to convince me that my room 
 was much better than my company, especially 
 in the neighborhood of her cake-stand. To see 
 and hear her thus gave me a peculiar feeling of 
 homesickness. I approached and saluted her. 
 She bowed with old-fashioned politeness, but 
 without looking up. 
 
 "De biggest uns, dee er ten cent," she said, 
 pointing to her cakes; "en de littlest, dee er fi 
 cent. I make um all myse f, suh. En de beer 
 in dat jug dat beer got body, suh." 
 
 "I have eaten many a one of your cakes, 
 Aunt Fountain," said I, "and drank many a 
 glass of your beer; but you have forgotten 
 
 me." 
 
 "My eye weak, suh, but dee ain weak nuff 
 fer dat." She shaded her eyes with her fan, and
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 109 
 
 looked at me. Then she rose briskly from her 
 chair. "De Lord he p my soul!" she exclaimed 
 enthusiastically. "Wy, I know you w en you 
 little boy. Wat make I ain know you w en you 
 big man? My eye weak, suh, but dee ain weak 
 nuff fer dat. Well, suh, you mus eat some my 
 ginger-cake. De Lord know you has make way 
 wid um w en you wuz little boy." 
 
 The invitation was accepted, but somehow the 
 ginger-cakes had lost their old-time relish; in 
 me the taste and spirit of youth were lacking. 
 
 We talked of old times and old friends, and 
 I told Aunt Fountain that I had come to Rock- 
 ville for the purpose of visiting in the neigh 
 borhood of the Tomlinson Place. 
 
 "Den I gwine wid you, suh," she cried, shak 
 ing her head vigorously. "I gwine wid you." 
 And go she did. 
 
 "I been layin off ter go see my young mistiss 
 dis long time," said Aunt Fountain, the next 
 day, after we had started. "I glad I gwine deer 
 in style. De niggers won know me skacely, 
 ridin in de buggy dis away." 
 
 "Your young mistress?" I inquired.
 
 1 10 Free Joe 
 
 "Yes, suh. You know Miss Lady w en she lit 
 tle gal. She grown oman now." 
 
 "Well, who is this Trunion I have heard of?" 
 "He monst ous nice w ite man, suh. He mar 
 ried my young mistiss. He monst ous nice w ite 
 
 man." 
 
 "But who is he? Where did he come from?" 
 
 Aunt Fountain chuckled convulsively as I 
 asked these questions. 
 
 "We-all des pick im up, suh. Yes, suh; we- 
 all des pick im up. Ain you year talk bout 
 dat, suh? I dunner whar you bin at ef you ain 
 never is year talk bout dat. He de fus w ite 
 man w at I ever pick up, suh. Yes, suh ; de ve y 
 fus one." 
 
 "I don t understand you," said I ; "tell me 
 about it." 
 
 At this Aunt Fountain laughed long and 
 loudly. She evidently enjoyed my ignorance 
 keenly. 
 
 "De Lord know I oughtn be laughin like 
 dis. I ain laugh so hearty sence I wuz little 
 gal mos , en dat wuz de time w en Marse Rowan 
 Tomlinson come long en ax me my name. I
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 1 1 1 
 
 tell im, I did: I m name Flew Ellen, suh. 
 Marse Rowan he deaf ez any dead boss. He 
 low: Hey? I say: I m name Flew Ellen, 
 suh. Marse Rowan say: Fountain! Huh! he 
 quare name. I holler en laugh, en w en de 
 folks ax me w at I hollerin bout, I tell um dat 
 Marse Rowan say I m name Fountain. Well, 
 suh, fum dat day down ter dis, stedder Flew 
 Ellen, I m bin name Fountain. I laugh hearty 
 den en my name got change, en I feared ef I 
 laugh now de hoss ll run away en turn de buggy 
 upperside down right spang on top er me." 
 
 "But about this Mr. Trunion?" said I. 
 
 "Name er de Lord!" exclaimed Aunt Foun 
 tain, ain you never is bin year bout dat? You 
 bin mighty fur ways, suh, kaze we all bin know- 
 in bout it fum de jump." 
 
 "No doubt. Now tell me about it." 
 
 Aunt Fountain shook her head, and her face 
 assumed a serious expression. 
 
 "I dunno bout dat, suh. I year tell dat nig 
 gers ain got no business fer go talkin bout 
 fambly doin s. Yit dar wuz yo gran-mammy. 
 My mistiss sot lots by her, en you been bornded
 
 1 12 Free Joe 
 
 right yer long wid urn. I don t speck it ll be 
 gwine so mighty fur out n de fambly ef I tell 
 you bout it." 
 
 I made no attempt to coax Aunt Fountain to 
 tell me about Trunion, for I knew it would be 
 difficult to bribe her not to talk about him. She 
 waited a while, evidently to tease my curiosity; 
 but as I betrayed none, and even made an effort 
 to talk about something else, she began: 
 
 "Well, suh, you ax me bout Marse Fess 
 Trunion. I know you bleeze ter like dat man. 
 He ain b long ter we-all folks, no furder dan 
 he my young mistiss ole man, but dee ain no 
 finer w ite man dan him. No, suh; dee ain . I 
 tell you dat p intedly. De niggers, dee say he 
 mighty close en pinchin , but deze is mighty 
 pinchin times you know dat yo se f, suh. Ef 
 a man don fa rly fling way he money, dem 
 Tomlinson niggers, dee ll say he mighty pinch- 
 in . I hatter be pinchin myse f, suh, kaze I 
 know time I sell my ginger-cakes dat ef I don t 
 grip onter de money, dee won be none lef fer 
 buy flour en lasses fer make mo . It de Lord s 
 trufe, suh, kaze I done had trouble dat way
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 113 
 
 many s de time. I say dis bout Marse Fess 
 Trunion, ef he ain got de blood, he got de 
 breedin . Ef he ain good ez de Tomlinsons, 
 he lots better dan some folks w at I know." 
 
 I gathered from all this that Trunion was a 
 foreigner of some kind, but I found out my mis 
 take later. 
 
 "I pick dat man up myse f, en I knows im 
 most good ez ef he wuz one er we-all." 
 
 "What do you mean when you say you picked 
 him up ?" I asked, unable to restrain my impa 
 tience. 
 
 "Well, suh, de fus time I see Marse Fess 
 Trunion wuz terreckerly atter de Sherman army 
 come long. Dem wuz hot times, suh, col ez de 
 wedder wuz. Dee wuz in-about er million un 
 um look like ter me, en dee des ravage de face er 
 de yeth. Dee tuck all de hosses, en all de cows, 
 en all de chickens. Yes, suh; dee cert n y did. 
 Man come long, en low: Aunty, you free now, 
 en den he tuck all my ginger-cakes w at I bin 
 bakin g inst Chris mus; en den I say: Ef I 
 wuz free ez you is, suh, I d fling you down en 
 take dem ginger-cakes way fum you. Yes, suh.
 
 1 14 Free Joe 
 
 I tole im dat. It make me mad fer see de way 
 dat man walk off wid my ginger-cakes. 
 
 "I got so mad, suh, dat I foller long atter 
 him little ways; but dat am do no good, kaze 
 he come ter whar dee wuz some yuther men, en 
 dee Vide up dem cakes till de wa n t no cake 
 lef. Den I struck cross de plan ation, en 
 walked bout in de drizzlin rain tell I cool off 
 my madness, suh, kaze de flour dat went in dem 
 cakes cos me mos a hunderd dollars in good 
 Confederick money. Yes, suh; it did dat. En 
 I work for dat money mighty hard. 
 
 "Well, suh, I ain walk fur fo it seem like I 
 year some un talkin . I stop, I did, en lissen, en 
 still I year um. I ain see nobody, suh, but still 
 I year um. I walk fus dis away en den dat 
 away, en den I walk roun en roun , en den it 
 pop in my min bout de big gully. It ain dar 
 now, suh, but in dem days we call it de big 
 gully, kaze it wuz wide en deep. Well, suh, fo 
 I git dar I see hoss-tracks, en dee led right up 
 ter de brink. I look in, I did, en down dar dee 
 wuz a man en a hoss. Yes, suh; dee wuz bofe 
 down dar. De man wuz layin out flat on he
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 11$ 
 
 back, en de boss he wuz layin sorter up en down 
 de gully en right on top er one er de man legs, 
 en eve y time de hoss d scrample en try fer git 
 up de man ud talk at im. I know dat boss 
 mus des nat ally a groun dat man legs in de 
 yeth, sub. Yes, sub. It make my flesh crawl 
 w en I look at um. Yit de man am talk like 
 he mad. No, suh, he ain ; en it make me feel 
 like somebody done gone en hit me on de funny- 
 bone w en I year ? im talkin dat away. Eve y 
 time de boss scuffle, de man he low: Hoi up, 
 ole fel, you er mashin all de shape out n me. 
 Dat w at he say, suh. En den he low: Ef you 
 know how you hurtin , ole fel, I des know you d 
 be still. Yes, suh. Dem he ve y words. 
 
 "All dis time de rain wuz a-siftin down. It 
 fall mighty saft, but twuz monst ous wet, suh. 
 Bimeby I crope up nigher de aidge, en \v en de 
 man see me he holler out: Hoi on, aunty; don t 
 you fall down yer! 
 
 "I ax im, I say: Marster, is you hurted 
 much? Kaze time I look at im I know he ain 
 de villyun w at make off wid my ginger-cakes. 
 Den he low: I speck I hurt purty bad, aunty,
 
 n6 Free Joe 
 
 en de wuss un it is dat my boss keep hurtin 
 
 me mo . 
 
 "Den nex time de boss move it errortate me 
 so, sub, dat I holler at im loud ez I ken: Wo 
 dar, you scan lous villyun! Wo! Well, sub, I 
 speck dat boss mus a-bin use n ter niggers, kaze 
 time I holler at im he lay right still, sub. I 
 slid down dat bank, en I kotch bolter dat bridle 
 I don t look like I m mighty strong, does I, 
 suh?" said Aunt Fountain, pausing suddenly in 
 her narrative to ask the question. 
 
 "Well, no," said I, humoring her as much as 
 possible. "You don t seem to be as strong as 
 some people I ve seen." 
 
 "Dat s it, suh!" she exclaimed. "Dat w at 
 worry me. I slid down dat bank, en I kotch dat 
 boss by de bridle. De man say: Watch out dar, 
 aunty! don t let he foot hit you. Dee one cripple 
 too much now. I am pay no tention, suh. I 
 des grab de bridle, ei I slew dat boss head roun , 
 en I fa rly lif im on he foots. Yes, suh, I des 
 lif im on he foots. Den I led im down de 
 gully en turnt im a-loose, en you ain never see 
 no boss supjued like dat boss wuz, suh. Den I
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 117 
 
 went back whar de man layin , en ax im ef he 
 feel better, en he low dat he feel like he got a 
 big load lif often he min , en den, mos time he 
 say dat, suh, he faint dead away. Yes, suh. He 
 des faint dead away. I ain never is see no man 
 like dat, w at kin be jokin one minnit en o!en 
 de nex be dead, ez you may say. But dat s 
 Marse Fess Trunion, suh. Dat s him up en 
 down. 
 
 "Well, suh, I stan dar, I did, en I ain know 
 w at in de name er de Lord I gwine do. I wuz 
 des ez wringin wet ez if I d a-bin baptize in de 
 water; en de man he wuz mo wetter dan w at I 
 wuz, en goodness knows how long he bin layin 
 dar. I run back ter de big ouse, suh, mighty 
 nigh a mile, en I done my level bes fer fin some 
 er de niggers en git um fer go wid me back dar 
 en git de man. But I ain fin none un um, suh. 
 Dem w at ain gone wid de Sherman army, dee 
 done hide out. Den I went in de big ouse, suh, 
 en tell Mistiss bout de man down dar in de 
 gully, en how he done hurted so bad he ain kin 
 walk. Den Mistiss I speck you done fergit 
 Mistiss, suh Mistiss, she draw herse f up en
 
 n8 Free Joe 
 
 ax w at business dat man er any yuther man got 
 on her plan ation. I say: Yassum, dat so; but 
 he done dar, en ef he stay dar he gwine die dar. 
 Yes, suh; dat w at I say. I des put it at Mistiss 
 right pine-blank. 
 
 "Den my young mistiss dat s Miss Lady, suh 
 she say dat dough she spize um all dez bad 
 az she kin, dat man mus be brung away from 
 dar. Kaze, she say, she don t keer how yuther 
 folks go on, de Tomlinsons is bleeze to do like 
 Christian people. Yes, suh; she say dem ve y 
 words. Den Mistiss, she low dat de man kin 
 be brung up, en put in de corn-crib, but Miss 
 Lady she say no, he mus be brung en put right 
 dar in de big ouse in one er de upsta rs rooms, 
 kaze maybe some er dem State er Georgy boys 
 mought be hurted up dar in de Norf, en want 
 some place fer stay at. Yes, suh ; dat des de way 
 she talk. Den Mistiss, she ain say nothin , yit 
 she hoi her head mighty, high. 
 
 "Well, suh, I went back out in de yard, en 
 den I went cross ter de nigger-quarter, en I ain 
 gone fur tell I year my ole man prayin in dar 
 some r s. I know im by he v ice, suh, en he
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 119 
 
 wuz prayin des like it wuz camp-meetin time. 
 I hunt roun fer im, suh, en bimeby I fin im 
 squattin down behime de do . I grab im, I 
 did, en I shuck im, en I low: Git up fum yer, 
 you nasty, stinkin ole villyun, you! Yes, suh; 
 I wuz mad. I say: Wat you doin squattin 
 down on de flo ? Git up fum dar en come go 
 long wid me! I hatter laugh, suh, kaze w en 
 I shuck my ole man be de shoulder, en holler at 
 im, he put up he two han , suh, en squall out: 
 Oh, pray, marster! don t kill me dis time, en I 
 ain never gwine do it no mo ! 
 
 "Atter he come pacify, suh, den I tell him 
 bout de man down dar in de gully, en yit we 
 ain know w at ter do. My ole man done hide 
 out some er de mules en bosses down in de 
 swamp, en he feard ter go after um, suh, kaze 
 he skeerd de Sherman army would come march- 
 in back en fine um, en he low dat he mos know 
 dee er comin back alter dat man down dar. 
 Yes, suh ; he de skeerdest nigger w at I ever see, 
 if I do say it myse f. Yit, bimeby he put out 
 alter one er de bosses, en he brung im back; en 
 we hitch im up in de spring-waggin, en atter
 
 I2O Free Joe 
 
 dat man we went. Yes, suh; we did dat. En 
 w en we git dar, dat ar man wuz plum ravin 
 deestracted. He wuz laughin en talkin wid 
 hese f, en gwine on, tell it make yo blood run 
 col fer lissen at im. Yes, suh. 
 
 "Me en my ole man, we pick im up des like 
 he wuz baby. I come mighty nigh droppin im, 
 suh, kaze one time, wiles we kyarn im up de 
 bank, I year de bones in he leg rasp up g inst 
 one er n er. Yes, suh. It make me blin sick, 
 suh. We kyard im home en put im upst ars, 
 en dar he stayed fer many s de long day." 
 
 "Where was Judge Tomlinson?" I asked. At 
 this Aunt Fountain grew more serious than ever 
 a seriousness that was expressed by an in 
 creased particularity and emphasis in both 
 speech and manner. 
 
 "You axin bout Marster? Well, suh, he 
 wuz dar. He wuz cert n y dar wid Mistiss en 
 Miss Lady, suh, but look like he ain take no 
 intruss in w at gwine on. Some folks low, suh, 
 dat he ain right in he head, but dee ain know 
 im dee ain t know im, suh, like we-all. En- 
 durin er de war, suh, he wuz strucken wid de
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 121 
 
 polzy, en den w en he git well, he ain take no 
 intruss in w at gwine on. Dey d be long days, 
 suh, w en he ain take no notice er nobody ner 
 nuttin but Miss Lady. He des had dem spells; 
 en den, ag in, he d set out on de peazzer en sing 
 by hese f, en it make me feel so lonesome dat I 
 bleeze ter cry. Yes, suh; it s de Lord s trufe. 
 
 "Well, suh, dat man w at I fin out dar in de 
 gully wuz Marse Fess Trunion. Yes, suh, de 
 ve y same man. Dee ain no tellin w at dat po 
 creetur gone thoo wid. He had fever, he had 
 pneumony, en he had dat broke leg. En all 
 long wid dat dee want skacely no time w en 
 he want laughin en jokin . Our w ite folks, dee 
 des spized im kaze he bin wid Sherman army. 
 Dee say he wuz Yankee; but I tell um, suh, 
 dat ef Yankee look dat away dee wuz cert n y 
 mighty like we-all. Mistiss, she ain never go 
 bout im wiles he sick; en Miss Lady, she keep 
 mighty shy, en she tu n up her nose eve y time 
 she year im laugh. Oh, yes, suh ; dee cert n y 
 spize de Yankees endurin er dem times. Dee 
 hated um rank, suh. I tell um, I say: You-all 
 des wait. Dee ain no nicer man dan w at he is, 
 
 VOL. 3 6
 
 122 Free Joe 
 
 en you-all des wait tell you know im. Shoo! I 
 des might ez well talk ter de win , suh dee 
 hate de Yankees dat rank. 
 
 "By de time dat man git so he kin creep bout 
 on crutches, he look mos good ez he do now. 
 He wuz dat full er life, suh, dat he bleeze ter 
 go downsta rs, en down he went. Well, suh, he 
 wuz mighty lucky dat day. Kaze ef he d a run 
 up wid Mistiss en Miss Lady by hese f, dee d 
 er done sumpn ner fer ter make im feel bad. 
 Dee cert n y would, suh. But dee wuz walkin 
 roun in de yard, en he come out on de peazzer 
 whar Marster wuz sunnin hese f and singin . 
 I wouldn b lieve it, suh, ef I ain see it wid my 
 two eyes; but Marster got up out n he cheer, en 
 straighten hese f, en shuck han s wid Mars Fess, 
 en look like he know all bout it. Dee sot dar, 
 suh, en talk en laugh, en laugh en talk, tell 
 bimeby I gun ter git skeerd on de accounts er 
 bofe un um. Dee talk bout de war, en dee talk 
 bout de Yankees, en dee talk politics right 
 straight long des like Marster done fo he bin 
 strucken wid de polzy. En he talk sense, suh. 
 He cert n y did. Bimeby Mistiss en Miss Lady
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 123 
 
 come back fum dee walk, en dee look like dee 
 gwine drap w en dee see w at gwine on. Dem 
 two mens wuz so busy takin , suh, dat dee ain 
 see de wimmen folks, en dee des keep right on 
 wid dee argafyin . Mistiss en Miss Lady, dee 
 ain know w at ter make er all dis, en dee stan 
 dar lookin fus at Marster en den at one er n er. 
 Bimeby dee went up de steps en start to go by, 
 but Marster he riz up en stop um. Yes, suh. 
 He riz right up en stop um, en right den en dar, 
 suh, he make um interjuced ter one an er. He 
 stan up, en he say: Mr. Trunion, dis my wife; 
 Mr. Trunion, dis my daughter. 
 
 "Well, suh, I wuz stannin back in de big hall, 
 en we n I see Marster gwine on dat away my 
 knees come mighty nigh failin me, suh. Dis de 
 fus time w at he reckermember anybody name, 
 an de fus time he do like he useter, sence he bin 
 sick wid de polzy. Mistiss en Miss Lady, dee 
 come long in after w ile, en dee look like dee 
 skeerd. Well, suh, I des far ly preach at um. 
 Yes, suh; I did dat. I say: You see dat? You 
 see how Marster doin ? Ef de han er de Lord 
 ain in dat, den de han ain bin in nuttin on de
 
 124 Free Joe 
 
 top side er dis yeth. I say: You see how you 
 bin cuttin up roun dat sick w ite man wid yo 
 biggity capers, en yit de Lord retch down en 
 make Marster soun en well time de yuther w ite 
 man tetch im. Well, suh, dey wuz dat worked 
 up dat dey sot down en cried. Yes, suh; dey 
 did dat. Dey cried. En I ain tellin you no lie, 
 suh, I stood dar en cried wid um. Let lone dat, 
 I des far ly boohooed. Yes, suh; dat s me. 
 Wen I git ter cryin sho nuff, I bleeze ter 
 boohoo. 
 
 "Fum dat on, Marster do like hese f, en talk 
 like hese f. It look like he bin sleep long time, 
 suh, en de sleep done im good. All he sense 
 come back; en you know, suh, de Tomlinsons, 
 w en dey at deese f, got much sense ez dee want 
 en some fer give way. Mistiss and Miss Lady, 
 dee wuz mighty proud bout Marster, suh, but 
 dee ain fergit dat de yuther man wuz Yankee, 
 en dee hoi deese f monst ous stiff. He notice 
 dat hese f, en he want ter go way, but Marster, 
 he fuse ter lissen at im right pine-plank, suh. 
 He say de dead Tomlinsons would in-about turn 
 over in dee graves ef dee know he sont a cripple
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 125 
 
 man way from he ouse. Den he want ter pay 
 he board, but Marster ain lissen ter dat, en 
 needer is Mistiss; en dis mighty funny, too, 
 kaze right dat minnit dee wa n t a half er dollar 
 er good money in de whole fambly, ceppin 
 some silver w at I work fer, en w at I hide in 
 er chink er my chimbly. No, suh. Dee want 
 er half er dollar in de whole fambly, suh. En 
 yit dee won t take de greenbacks w at dat man 
 offer um. 
 
 "By dat time, suh, de war wuz done done, en 
 dee wuz tough times. Dee cert n y wuz, suh. 
 De railroads wuz all broke up, en eve ything 
 look like it gwine helter-skelter right straight 
 ter de Ole Boy. Ded wa n t no law, suh, en dey 
 wa n t no nuttin ; en ef it hadn t er bin fer me 
 en my ole man, I speck de Tomlinsons, proud 
 ez dee wuz, would er bin mightily pincht fer 
 fin bread en meat. But dee ain never want fer 
 it yit, suh, kaze w en me en my ole man git whar 
 we can t move no furder, Marse Fess Trunion, 
 he tuck holt er de place en he fetcht it right side 
 up terreckerly. He say ter me dat he gwine pay 
 he board dat away, suh, but he ain say it whar
 
 ia6 Tree Joe 
 
 de Tomlinsons kin year im, kaze den dee d 
 a-bin a fuss, suh. But he kotch holt, en me, en 
 him, en my ole man, we des he t eve ything hot. 
 Mo speshually Marse Fess Trunion, suh. You 
 ain know im, suh, but dat ar w ite man, he got 
 mo ways ter work, en mo short cuts ter de ways, 
 suh, dan any w ite man w at I ever see, en I done 
 see lots un um. It got so, suh, dat me en my ole 
 man ain have ter draw no mo rashuns fum de 
 F eedman Bureau; but dee wuz one spell, suh, 
 w en wuss rashuns dan dem wuz on de Tomlin- 
 son table. 
 
 "Well, suh, dat w ite man, he work en he 
 scuffle; he hire niggers, and he turn um off; he 
 plan, en he projick; en tain so mighty long, 
 suh, fo he got eve ything gwine straight. How 
 he done it, I ll never tell you, suh ; but do it he 
 did. He put he own money in dar, suh, kaze 
 dee wuz two times dat I knows un w en he git 
 money out n de pos -office, en I see im pay it 
 out ter de niggers, suh. En all dat time he look 
 like he de nappies w ite man on top er de 
 groun , suh. Yes, suh. En w en he at de ouse 
 Marster stuck right by im, en ef he bin he own
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 127 
 
 son he couldn t pay him mo tention. Dee wuz 
 times, suh, w en it seem like ter me dat Marse 
 Fess Trunion wuz a-cuttin he eye at Miss Lady, 
 en den I low ter myse f: Shoo, man you 
 mighty nice en all dat, but you Yankee, en you 
 nee nter be a-drappin yo wing roun Miss 
 Lady, kaze she too high-strung fer dat. 
 
 "It look like he see it de same way I do, suh, 
 kaze atter he git eve ything straight he say he 
 gwine home. Marster look like he feel mighty 
 bad, but Mistiss en Miss Lady, dee ain t say 
 nuttin tall. Den, atter w ile, suh, Marse Fess 
 Trunion fix up, en off he put. Yes, suh. He 
 went off whar he come fum, en I speck he folks 
 wuz mighty glad ter see im atter so long, kaze 
 ef dee ever wuz a plum nice man it wuz dat 
 man. He want no great big man, suh, en he 
 ain make much fuss, yit he lef a mighty big 
 hole at de Tomlinson Place, w en he pulled out 
 fum dar. Yes, suh; he did dat. It look like it 
 lonesome all over de plan ation. Marster, he 
 gun ter git droopy, but eve y time de dinner bell 
 ring he go ter de foot er de sta rs en call out: 
 Come on. Trunion! Yes, suh. He holler dat
 
 iz8 Free Joe 
 
 out eve y day, en den, w iles he be talkin , he d 
 stop en look roun en say: Whar Trunion? It 
 ain make no difference who he talkin wid, suh, 
 he d des stop right still en ax: Whar Trunion? 
 Den de niggers, dee got slack, en eve ything 
 gun ter go een -ways. One day I run up on 
 Miss Lady settin down cryin , en I ax her w at 
 de name er goodness de matter, en she say nuff 
 de matter. Den I say she better go ask her 
 pappy whar Trunion, en den she git red in de 
 face, en low I better go ten ter my business ; en 
 den I tell her dat ef somebody ain tell us whar 
 Trunion is, en dat mighty quick, dee won t be no 
 business on dat place fer ten ter. Yes, suh. I 
 tol her dat right p intedly, suh. 
 
 "Well, suh, one day Marse Fess Trunion come 
 a-drivin up in a shiny double buggy, en he look 
 like he des step right out n a ban -box; en ef 
 ever I wuz glad ter see anybody, I wuz glad ter 
 see dat man. Marster wuz glad; en dis time, 
 suh, Miss Lady wuz glad, en she show it right 
 plain; but Mistiss, she still sniff de a r en hoi 
 her head high. T wa n t long, suh, fo we all 
 knowd dat Marse Fess wuz gwine marry Miss
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 129 
 
 Lady. I ain know how dee fix it, kaze Mistiss 
 never is come right out en say she agreeable 
 bout it, but Miss Lady wuz a Bledsoe too, en a 
 Tomlinson ter boot, en I ain never see nobody 
 w at impatient nuff fer ter stan out g inst dat 
 gal. It ain all happen, suh, quick ez I tell it, 
 but it happen; en but fer dat, I dunno w at in 
 de name er goodness would er come er dis 
 place." 
 
 A few hours later, as I sat with Trunion on 
 the veranda of his house, he verified Aunt Foun 
 tain s story, but not until after he was convinced 
 that I was familiar with the history of the fam 
 ily. There was much in that history he could 
 afford to be proud of, modern though he was. 
 A man who believes in the results of blood in 
 cattle is not likely to ignore the possibility of 
 similar results in human beings; and I think he 
 regarded the matter in some such practical light. 
 He was a man, it seemed, who was disposed to 
 look lightly on trouble, once it was over with; 
 and I found he was not so much impressed with 
 his struggle against the positive scorn and con 
 tempt of Mrs. Tomlinson a struggle that was
 
 130 Free Joe 
 
 infinitely more important and protracted than 
 Aunt Fountain had described it to be as he 
 was with his conflict with Bermuda grass. He 
 told me laughingly of some of his troubles with 
 his hot-headed neighbors in the early days after 
 the war, but nothing of this sort seemed to be as 
 important as his difficulties with Bermuda grass. 
 Here the practical and progressive man showed 
 himself; for I have a very vivid recollection of 
 the desperate attempts of the farmers of that 
 region to uproot and destroy this particular 
 variety. 
 
 As for Trunion, he conquered it by cultivating 
 it for the benefit of himself and his neighbors; 
 and I suspect that this is the way he conquered 
 his other opponents. It was a great victory over 
 the grass, at any rate. I walked with him over 
 the place, and the picture of it all is still framed 
 in my mind the wonderful hedges of Cherokee 
 roses, and the fragrant and fertile stretches of 
 green Bermuda through which beautiful fawn- 
 colored cattle were leisurely making their way. 
 He had a theory that this was the only grass in 
 the world fit for the dainty Jersey cow to eat.
 
 Aunt Fountain s Prisoner 131 
 
 There were comforts and conveniences on the 
 Tomlinson Place not dreamed of in the old 
 days, and I think there was substantial happi 
 ness there too. Trunion himself was a whole 
 some man, a man full of honest affection, hearty 
 laughter, and hard work a breezy, compan 
 ionable, energetic man. There was something 
 boyish, unaffected, and winsome in his manners; 
 and I can easily understand why Judge Addison 
 Tomlinson, in his old age, insisted on astonish 
 ing his family and his guests by exclaiming: 
 "Where s Trunion?" Certainly he was a man 
 to think about and inquire after. 
 
 I have rarely seen a lovelier woman than his 
 wife, and I think her happiness helped to make 
 her so. She had inherited a certain degree of 
 cold stateliness from her ancestors; but her ex 
 perience after the war, and Trunion s unaffected 
 ways, had acted as powerful correctives, and 
 there was nothing in the shape of indifference 
 or haughtiness to mar her singular beauty. 
 
 As for Mrs. Tomlinson the habit is still 
 strong in me to call her Harriet Bledsoe I 
 think that in her secret soul she had an in-
 
 132 Free Joe 
 
 eradicable contempt for Trunion s extraordi 
 nary business energy. I think his "push and 
 vim," as the phrase goes, shocked her sense of 
 propriety to a far greater extent than she would 
 have been willing to admit. But she had little 
 time to think of these matters; for she had taken 
 possession of her grandson, Master Addison 
 Tomlinson Trunion, and was absorbed in his 
 wild and boisterous ways, as grandmothers will 
 be. This boy, a brave and manly little fellow, 
 had Trunion s temper, but he had inherited the 
 Tomlinson air. It became him well, too, and I 
 think Trunion was proud of it. 
 
 "I am glad," said I, in parting, "that I have 
 seen Aunt Fountain s Prisoner." 
 
 "Ah!" said he, looking at his wife, who smiled 
 and blushed, "that was during the war. Since 
 then I have been a Prisoner of Peace." 
 
 I do not know what industrial theories Trun 
 ion has impressed on his neighborhood by this 
 time; but he gave me a practical illustration of 
 the fact that one may be a Yankee and a South 
 erner too, simply by being a large-hearted, 
 whole-souled American.
 
 TROUBLE ON LOST MOUNTAIN 
 
 THERE is no doubt that when Miss Babe 
 Hightower stepped out on the porch, just after 
 sunrise one fine morning in the spring of 1876, 
 she had the opportunity of enjoying a scene as 
 beautiful as any that nature offers to the human 
 eye. She was poised, so to speak, on the shoul 
 der of Lost Mountain, a spot made cheerful and 
 hospitable by her father s industry, and by her 
 own inspiring presence. The scene, indeed, was 
 almost portentous in its beauty. Away above 
 her the summit of the mountain was bathed in 
 sunlight, while in the valley below the shadows 
 of dawn were still hovering a slow-moving sea 
 of transparent gray, touched here and there 
 with silvery reflections of light. Across the face 
 of the mountain that lifted itself to the skies, a 
 belated cloud trailed its wet skirts, revealing, as 
 it fled westward, a panorama of exquisite love- 
 
 133
 
 134 Free Joe 
 
 liness. The fresh, tender foliage of the young 
 pines, massed here and there against the moun 
 tain side, moved and swayed in the morning 
 breeze until it seemed to be a part of the atmos 
 phere, a pale-green mist that would presently 
 mount into the upper air and melt away. On a 
 dead pine a quarter of a mile away, a turkey- 
 buzzard sat with wings outspread to catch the 
 warmth of the sun ; while far above him, poised 
 in the illimitable blue, serene, almost motion 
 less, as though swung in the centre of space, his 
 mate overlooked the world. The wild honey 
 suckles clambered from bush to bush, and from 
 tree to tree, mingling their faint, sweet perfume 
 with the delicious odors that seemed to rise from 
 the valley, and float down from the mountain to 
 meet in a little whirlpool of fragrance in the 
 porch where Miss Babe Hightower stood. The 
 flowers and the trees could speak for themselves; 
 the slightest breeze gave them motion: but the 
 majesty of the mountain was voiceless ; its beauty 
 was forever motionless. Its silence seemed more 
 suggestive than the lapse of time, more pro 
 found than a prophet s vision of eternity, more
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 135 
 
 mysterious than any problem of the human 
 mind. 
 
 It is fair to say, however, that Miss Babe 
 Hightower did not survey the panorama that 
 lay spread out below her, around her, and above 
 her, with any peculiar emotions. She was not 
 without sentiment, for she was a young girl just 
 budding into womanhood, but all the scenery 
 that the mountain or the valley could show was 
 as familiar to her as the fox-hounds that lay 
 curled up in the fence-corners, or the fowls that 
 crowed and clucked and cackled in the yard. 
 She had discovered, indeed, that the individu 
 ality of the mountain was impressive, for she 
 was always lonely and melancholy when away 
 from it; but she viewed it, not as a picturesque 
 affair to wonder at, but as a companion with 
 whom she might hold communion. The moun 
 tain was something more than a mountain to her. 
 Hundreds of times, when a little child, she had 
 told it her small troubles, and it had seemed to 
 her that the spirit of comfort dwelt somewhere 
 near the precipitous summit. As she grew older 
 the mountain played a less important part in her
 
 136 Tree Joe 
 
 imagination, but she continued to regard it with 
 a feeling of fellowship which she never troubled 
 herself to explain or define. 
 
 Nevertheless, she did not step out on the porch 
 to worship at the shrine of the mountain, or to 
 enjoy the marvelous picture that nature pre 
 sented to the eye. She went out in obedience to 
 the shrilly uttered command of her mother: 
 
 "Run, Babe, run! That plegged old cat s 
 a-tryin to drink out n the water-bucket. Fling 
 a cheer at er! Sick the dogs on er." 
 
 The cat, understanding the situation, promptly 
 disappeared when it saw Babe, and the latter 
 had nothing to do but make such demonstrations 
 as are natural to youth, if not to beauty. She 
 seized one of the many curious crystal forma 
 tions which she had picked up on the mountain, 
 and employed for various purposes of ornamen 
 tation, and sent it flying after the cat. She 
 threw with great strength and accuracy, but the 
 cat was gone. The crystal went zooning into 
 the fence-corner where one of the hounds lay; 
 and this sensitive creature, taking it for granted 
 that he had been made the special object of
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 137 
 
 attack, set up a series of loud yells by way of 
 protest. This aroused the rest of the dogs, and 
 in a moment that particular part of the moun 
 tain was in an uproar. Just at that instant a 
 stalwart man came around the corner of the 
 house. He was bareheaded, and wore neither 
 coat nor vest. He was tall and well made, 
 though rather too massive to be supple. His 
 beard, which was full and flowing, was plenti 
 fully streaked with gray. His appearance would 
 have been strikingly ferocious but for his eyes, 
 which showed a nature at once simple and 
 humorous and certainly the strongly molded, 
 square-set jaws, and the firm lips needed some 
 such pleasant corrective. 
 
 "Great Jerusalem, Babe!" cried this mild-eyed 
 giant. "What could a possessed you to be 
 a-chunkin ole Blue that away? Ag in bullaces 
 is ripe you ll git your heart sot on possum, an 
 whar is the possum comin from ef ole Blue s 
 laid up? Blame my hide ef you ain t a-cuttin 
 up some mighty quare capers fer a young gal." 
 
 "Why, Pap!" exclaimed Babe, as soon as she 
 could control her laughter, "that rock didn t
 
 138 Free Joe 
 
 tetch ole Blue. He s sech a make-believe, I m 
 a great mind to hit him a clip jest to show you 
 how he can go on." 
 
 "Now, don t do that, honey," said her father. 
 "Ef you want to chunk anybody, chunk me. I 
 kin holler lots purtier n ole Blue. An ef you 
 don t want to chunk me, chunk your mam 
 my fer ole acquaintance sake. She s big an 
 fat." 
 
 u Oh, Lordy!" exclaimed Mrs. Highfower 
 from the inside of the house. "Don t set her 
 atter me, Abe don t, fer mercy s sake. Get her 
 in the notion, an she ll be a-yerkin me aroun 
 thereckly like I wuz a rag-baby. I m a-gittin 
 too ole fer ter be romped aroun by a great big 
 double-j inted gal like Babe. Projick wi er 
 yourself, but make er let me alone." 
 
 Abe turned and went around the house again, 
 leaving his daughter standing on the porch, her 
 cheeks glowing, and her black eyes sparkling 
 with laughter. Babe loitered on the porch a 
 moment, looking into the valley. The gray mists 
 had lifted themselves into the upper air, and the 
 atmosphere was so clear that the road leading to
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 139 
 
 the mountain could be followed by the eye, save 
 where it ran under the masses of foliage; and it 
 seemed to be a most devious and versatile road, 
 turning back on itself at one moment only to 
 plunge boldly forward the next. Nor was it 
 lacking in color. On the levels it was of daz 
 zling whiteness, shining like a pool of water; 
 but at points where it made a visible descent it 
 was alternately red and gray. Something or 
 other on this variegated road attracted Miss 
 Babe s attention, for she shaded her eyes with 
 her hand, and leaned forward. Presently she 
 cried out: 
 
 "Pap! oh, pap! there s a man a-ridin up 
 Peevy s Ridge." 
 
 This information was repeated by Babe s 
 mother; and in a few moments the porch, which 
 was none too commodious, though it was very 
 substantial, was occupied by the entire High- 
 tower family, which included Grandsir High- 
 tower, a white-haired old man, whose serenity 
 seemed to be borrowed from another world. 
 Mrs. Hightower herself was a stout, motherly- 
 looking woman, whose whole appearance beto-
 
 140 Free Joe 
 
 kened contentment, if not happiness. Abe shaded 
 his eyes with his broad hand, and looked toward 
 Peevy s Ridge. 
 
 "I reckon maybe it s Tuck Peevy hisse f," 
 Mrs. Hightower remarked. 
 
 "That s who I lowed hit wiz," said Grand- 
 sir Hightower, in the tone of one who had pre 
 viously made up his mind. 
 
 "Well, I reckon I ought to know Tuck 
 Peevy," exclaimed Babe. 
 
 "That s so," said Grandsir Hightower. "Babe 
 oughter know Tuck. She oughter know him 
 certain an shore; bekaze he s bin a-floppin in 
 an out er this house ever Sunday fer mighty 
 nigh two year . Some sez he likes Babe, an 
 some sez he likes Susan s fried chicken. Now, 
 in my day and time " 
 
 "He s in the dreen now," said Babe, inter 
 rupting her loquacious grandparent, who threat 
 ened to make some embarrassing remark. "He s 
 a-ridin a gray." 
 
 "He s a mighty early bird," said Abe, "less n 
 he s a-headin fer the furder side. Maybe he s a 
 revenue man," he continued. "They say they re
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 141 
 
 a-gwine to heat the hills mighty hot from 
 this on." 
 
 "You hain t got nothing gwine on down on 
 the branch, is you, Abe?" inquired Grandsir 
 Hightower, with pardonable solicitude. 
 
 "Well," said Abe evasively, "I hain t kindled 
 no fires yit, but you better b lieve I m a-gwine 
 to keep my beer from sp ilin . The way I do 
 my countin , one tub of beer is natchally wuth 
 two revenue chaps." 
 
 By this time the horseman who had attracted 
 Babe s attention came into view again. Abe 
 studied him a moment, and remarked: 
 
 "That boss steps right along, an the chap 
 a-straddle of him is got on store-clo es. Fetch 
 me my rifle, Babe. I ll meet that feller half 
 way an make some inquirements about his fam- 
 erly, an maybe I ll fetch a squir l back." 
 
 With this Abe called to his dogs, and started 
 off. 
 
 "Better keep your eye open, Pap," cried Sis. 
 "Maybe it s the sheriff." 
 
 Abe paused a moment, and then pretended to 
 be hunting a stone with which to demolish his
 
 142 Free Joe 
 
 daughter, whereupon Babe ran laughing into 
 the house. The allusion to the sheriff was a 
 stock joke in the Hightower household, though 
 none of them made such free use of it as Babe, 
 who was something more than a privileged char 
 acter, so far as her father was concerned. On 
 one occasion shortly after the war, Abe had 
 gone to the little county town on business, and 
 had been vexed into laying rough hands on one 
 of the prominent citizens who was a trifle under 
 the influence of liquor. A warrant was issued, 
 and Dave McLendon, the sheriff of the county, 
 a stumpy little man, whose boldness and pru 
 dence made him the terror of criminals, was 
 sent to serve it. Abe, who was on the lookout 
 for some such visitation, saw him coming, and 
 prepared himself. He stood in the doorway, 
 with his rifle flung carelessly across his left arm. 
 
 "Hold on thar, Dave!" he cried, as the latter 
 came up. The sheriff, knowing his man, halted. 
 
 "I hate to fling away my manners, Dave," he 
 went on, "but folks is gittin to be mighty funny 
 these days. A man s obleeged to s arch his best 
 frien s fore he kin find out the r which aways.
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 143 
 
 Dave, what sort of a dockyment is you got 
 ag in me?" 
 
 "I got a warrant, Abe," said the sheriff, pleas 
 antly. 
 
 "Well, Dave, hit won t fetch me," said Abe. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said the sheriff. "Yes, it will, 
 Abe. I bin a-usin these kind er warrants a 
 mighty long time, an they fetches a feller every 
 whack." 
 
 "Now, I ll tell you what, Dave," said Abe, 
 patting his rifle, "I got a dockyment here that ll 
 fetch you a blame sight quicker n your docky- 
 ment ll fetch me; an I tell you right now, plain 
 an flat, I hain t a-gwine to be drug aroun an 
 slapped in jail." 
 
 The sheriff leaned carelessly against the rail 
 fence in the attitude of a man who is willing to 
 argue an interesting question. 
 
 "Well, I tell you how I feel about it, Abe," 
 said the sheriff, speaking very slowly. "You kin 
 shoot me, but you can t shoot the law. Bang 
 away at me, an thar s another warrant atter you. 
 This yer one what I m already got don t amount 
 to shucks, so you better fling on your coat saddle
 
 144 Free Joe 
 
 your horse, an go right along wi me thes es 
 neighborly ez you please." 
 
 "Dave," said Abe, "if you come in at that gate 
 you er a goner." 
 
 "Well, Abe," the sheriff replied, "I lowed 
 you d kick; I know what human natur on these 
 hills is, an so I thes axed some er the boys to 
 come along. They er right down thar in the 
 holler. They ain t got no mo idea what I come 
 fer n the man in the moon ; yit they d make a 
 mighty peart posse. Tooby shore, a great big 
 man like you ain t afeard fer ter face a little 
 bit er law." 
 
 Abe Hightower hesitated a moment, and then 
 went into the house. In a few minutes he issued 
 forth and went out to the gate where the sheriff 
 was. The faces of the two men were a study. 
 Neither betrayed any emotion nor alluded to 
 the warrant. The sheriff asked after the "crap" ; 
 and Abe told him it was "middlin peart," and 
 asked him to go into the house and make him 
 self at home until the horse could be saddled. 
 After a while the two rode away. Once during 
 the ride Abe said:
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 145 
 
 "I m mighty glad it wa n t that feller what 
 run ag in you last fall, Dave." 
 
 "Why?" asked the sheriff. 
 
 "Bekaze I d a plugged him, certain an 
 shore," said Abe. 
 
 "Well," said the sheriff, laughing, "I wuz 
 a-wishin mighty hard thes about that time that 
 the t other feller had got lected." 
 
 The warrant amounted to nothing, and Abe 
 was soon at home with his family; but it suited 
 his high-spirited daughter to twit him occa 
 sionally because of his tame surrender to the 
 sheriff, and it suited Dave to treat the matter 
 good-humoredly. 
 
 Abe Hightower took his way down the moun 
 tain ; and about two miles from his house, as the 
 road ran, he met the stranger who had attracted 
 Babe s attention. He was a handsome young 
 fellow, and he was riding a handsome horse 
 a gray, that was evidently used to sleeping 
 in a stable where there was plenty of feed in the 
 trough. 
 
 The rider also had a well-fed appearance. 
 He sat his horse somewhat jauntily, and 
 VOL. 3 7
 
 146 Free Joe 
 
 there was a jocund expression in his features 
 very pleasing to behold. He drew rein as he 
 saw Abe, and gave a military salute in a care 
 less, offhand way that was in strict keeping with 
 his appearance. 
 
 "Good morning, sir," he said. 
 
 "Howdy?" said Abe. 
 
 "Fine day this." 
 
 "Well, what little I ve saw of it is purty 
 tollerbul." 
 
 The young fellow laughed, and his laughter 
 was worth hearing. It had the ring of youth 
 in it. 
 
 "Do you chance to know a Mr. Hightower?" 
 he asked, throwing a leg over the pommel of the 
 saddle. 
 
 "Do he live anywheres aroun in these parts?" 
 Abe inquired. 
 
 "So I m told." 
 
 "Well, the reason I ast," said Abe, leaning his 
 rifle against a tree, "is bekaze they mought be 
 more n one Hightower runnin loose." 
 
 "You don t know him, then?" 
 
 "I know one on em. Any business wi him?
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 147 
 
 "Well, yes a little. I was told he lived on 
 this road. How far is his house?" 
 
 "Well, I ll tell you" Abe took off his hat 
 and scratched his head "some folks mought 
 take a notion hit wuz a long ways off, an then, 
 ag in, yuther folks mought take a notion that hit 
 wuz lots nigher. Hit s accordin to the way you 
 look at it." 
 
 "Is Mr. Hightower at home?" inquired the 
 stranger, regarding Abe with some curiosity. 
 
 "Well," said Abe cautiously, "I don t reckon 
 he s right slam bang at home, but I lay he ain t 
 fur off." 
 
 "If you happen to see him, pray tell him 
 there s a gentleman at his house who would like 
 very much to see him." 
 
 "Well, I tell you what, mister," said Abe, 
 speaking very slowly. "You re a mighty nice 
 young feller anybody kin shet the r eyes and 
 see that but folks roun here is mighty kuse; 
 they is that away. Ef I was you, I d thes turn 
 right roun in my tracks n let that ar Mister 
 Hightower alone. I wouldn t pester wi im. 
 He hain t no fitten company fer you."
 
 148 Free Joe 
 
 "Oh, but I must see him," said the stranger. 
 "I have business with him. Why, they told me 
 down in the valley that Hightower, in many re 
 spects, is the best man in the county." 
 
 Abe smiled for the first time. It was the 
 ghost of a smile. 
 
 "Shoo!" he exclaimed. "They don t know 
 him down thar nigh as good as he s know d up 
 here. An that hain t all. Thish yer Mister 
 Hightower you er talkin about is got a mighty 
 bad case of measles at his house. You d be 
 ableedze to ketch em ef you went thar." 
 
 "I ve had the measles," said the stranger. 
 
 "But these here measles," persisted Abe, half 
 shutting his eyes and gazing at the young man 
 steadily, "kin be cotched twicet. Thayer wuss 
 n the smallpox lots wuss." 
 
 "My dear sir, what do you mean?" the young 
 man inquired, observing the significant em 
 phasis of the mountaineer s language. 
 
 "Hit s thes like I tell you," said Abe. "Looks 
 like folks has mighty bad luck when they go 
 a-rippitin hether an yan on the mounting. It 
 hain t been sech a monst us long time sense one
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 149 
 
 er them revenue fellers come a-paradin up thish 
 yer same road, a-makin inquirements fer High- 
 tower. He cotch the measles ; bless you, he took 
 an cotch em by the time he got in hailin dis 
 tance of Hightower s, an he had to be toted 
 down. I disremember his name, but he wuz 
 a mighty nice-lookin young feller, peart an 
 soople, an thes about your size an weight." 
 
 "It was no doubt a great pity about the rev 
 enue chap," said the young man sarcastically. 
 
 "Lor , yes!" exclaimed Abe seriously; "lots 
 er nice folks must a cried about that man!" 
 
 "Well," said the other, smiling, "I must see 
 Hightower. I guess he s a nicer man than his 
 neighbors think he is." 
 
 "Shoo!" said Abe, "he hain t a bit nicer n 
 what I am, an I lay he hain t no purtier. What 
 mought be your name, mister?" 
 
 "My name is Chichester, and I m buying land 
 for some Boston people. I want to buy some 
 land right on this mountain if I can get it cheap 
 enough." 
 
 "Jesso," said Abe, "but wharbouts in thar do 
 Hightower come in?"
 
 150 Free Joe 
 
 "Oh, he knows all about the mountain, and I 
 want to ask his advice and get his opinions," said 
 Chichester. 
 
 Something about Mr. Chichester seemed to 
 attract Abe Hightower. Perhaps it was the 
 young fellow s fresh, handsome appearance; 
 perhaps it was his free-and-easy attitude, sug 
 gestive of the commercial tourist, that met the 
 approbation of the mountaineer. At any rate, 
 Abe smiled upon the young man in a fatherly 
 way and said: " Twixt you an me an yon pine, 
 you hain t got no furder to go fer to strike up 
 wi Hightower. I m the man you er atter." 
 
 Chichester regarded him with some degree of 
 amazement. 
 
 "My dear sir," he exclaimed, "why should 
 you desire to play the sphinx?" 
 
 "Spinks?" said Abe, with something like a 
 grimace; "the Spinks famerly lived furder up 
 the mounting, but they er done bin weeded out 
 by the revenue men too long ago to talk about. 
 The ole man s in jail in Atlanty er some rs else, 
 the boys is done run d off, an the gal s a trollop. 
 No Spinks in mine, cap , ef you please!"
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 151 
 
 Chichester laughed at the other s earnestness. 
 He mistook it for drollery. 
 
 "I let you know, cap , Abe went on, "you 
 can t be boss er your own doin s an give ever 
 passin man your name." 
 
 "Well, I m very glad to meet you," said Chi 
 chester heartily; "I ll have a good deal of busi 
 ness in this neighborhood first and last, and I m 
 told there isn t anything worth knowing about 
 the mountain that you don t know." 
 
 "That kind er talk," Abe replied, "kin be run 
 in the groun , yit I hain t a-denyin but what 
 I ve got a kind er speakin acquaintance wi the 
 neighborhood whar I m a-livin at. Ef you er 
 huntin my house, thes drive right on. I ll be 
 thar ag in you git mar." 
 
 Chichester found a very cordial welcome 
 awaiting him when he arrived at Hightower s 
 house. Even the dogs were friendly, and the 
 big cat came out from its hiding-place to rub 
 against his legs as he sat on the little porch. 
 
 "By the time you rest your face an ban s," 
 said Abe, "I reckon breakfast ll be ready." 
 
 Chichester, who was anxious to give no
 
 152 Free Joe 
 
 trouble, explained that he had had a cup of 
 coffee at Peevy s before starting up the moun 
 tain. He said, moreover, that the mountain 
 was so bracing that he felt as if he could fast 
 a week and still fatten. 
 
 "Well, sir," Abe remarked, "hit s mighty lit 
 tle we er got to offer, an that little s mighty 
 common, but, sech as tis, you er more n wel 
 come. Hit s diffunt wi me when the mornin 
 air blows at me. Hit makes me wanter nibble 
 at somepin . I dunner whar you come from, an 
 I ain t makin no inquirements, but down in these 
 parts you can t spat a man harder betwixt the eyes 
 than to set back an not break bread wi im." 
 
 Mr. Chichester had been warned not to 
 wound the hospitality of the simple people 
 among whom he was going, and he was quick 
 to perceive that his refusal to "break bread" 
 with the Hightowers would be taken too seri 
 ously. Whereupon, he made a most substantial 
 apology an apology that took the shape of a 
 ravenous appetite, and did more than justice to 
 Mrs. Hightower s fried chicken, crisp biscuits, 
 and genuine coffee. Mr. Chichester also made
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 153 
 
 himself as agreeable as he knew how, and he 
 was so pleased with the impression he made 
 that he, on his side, admitted to himself that 
 the Hightowers were charmingly quaint, espe 
 cially the shy girl of whom he caught a brief 
 glimpse now and then as she handed her mother 
 fresh supplies of chicken and biscuits. 
 
 There was nothing mysterious connected with 
 the visit of Mr. Chichester to Lost Mountain. 
 He was the agent of a company of Boston capi 
 talists who were anxious to invest money in 
 Georgia marble quarries, and Chichester was 
 on Lost Mountain for the purpose of discover 
 ing the marble beds that had been said by some 
 to exist there. He had the versatility of a mod 
 ern young man, being something of a civil engi 
 neer and something of a geologist; in fine, he 
 was one of the many "general utility" men that 
 improved methods enable the high schools and 
 colleges to turn out. He was in the habit of 
 making himself agreeable wherever he went, 
 but behind his levity and general good-humor 
 there was a good deal of seriousness and firm 
 ness of purpose.
 
 154 Free Joe 
 
 He talked with great freedom to the High- 
 towers, giving a sort of commercial coloring, so 
 to speak, to the plans of his company with re 
 spect to land investments on Lost Mountain; 
 but he said nothing about his quest for marble. 
 
 "The Lord send they won t be atter fetchin 
 the railroad kyars among us," said Grandsir 
 Hightower fervently. 
 
 "Well, sir," said Chichester, "there isn t much 
 danger." 
 
 "Now, I dunno bout that," said the old man 
 querulously, "I dunno bout that. They re git- 
 tin so these days they ll whirl in an do e ena- 
 most anything what you don t want em to do. 
 I kin stan out thar in the boss-lot any cle r day 
 an see the smoke er their ingines, an sometimes 
 hit looks like I kin hear em snort an cough. 
 They er plenty nigh enough. The Lord send 
 they won t fetch em no nigher. Fum Giner l 
 Jackson s time plump tell now, they ere bin 
 a-fetchin destruction to the country. You ll 
 see it. I mayn t see it myself, but you ll see it. 
 Fust hit was Giner l Jackson an the bank, an 
 now hit s the railroad kyars. You ll see it!"
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 155 
 
 "And yet," said Chichester, turning toward 
 the old man, as Hope might beam benignantly 
 on the Past, "everybody and everything seems 
 to be getting along very well. I think the only 
 thing necessary now is to invent something or 
 other to keep the cinders out of a man s eyes 
 when he rides on the railroads." 
 
 "Don t let em fool you," said the old man 
 earnestly. "Ever thing s in a tangle, an ther 
 hain t no Whig party for to entangle it. Giner l 
 Jackson an the cussid bank is what done it." 
 
 Just then Miss Babe came out on the little 
 porch, and seated herself on the bench that ran 
 across one end. "Cap ," said Abe, with some 
 show of embarrassment, as if not knowing how 
 to get through a necessary ceremony, "this is my 
 gal, Babe. She s the oldest and the youngest. 
 I m name Abe an she s name Babe, sort er 
 rimin like." 
 
 The unaffected shyness of the young girl was 
 pleasant to behold, and if it did not heighten 
 her beauty, it certainly did not detract from it. 
 It was a shyness in which there was not an awk 
 ward element, for Babe had the grace of youth
 
 156 Free Joe 
 
 and beauty, and conscious independence ani 
 mated all her movements. 
 
 " Ceppin me an the ole oman," said Abe, 
 "Babe is the best-lookin one er the famerly." 
 
 The girl reddened a little, and laughed 
 lightly with the air of one who is accustomed 
 to give and take jokes, but said nothing. 
 
 "I heard of Miss Babe last night," said Chi- 
 chester, "and I ve got a message for her." 
 
 "Wait !" exclaimed Abe triumphantly ; "I ll bet 
 a hoss I kin call the name thout movin out n my 
 cheer. Hold on !" he continued. I ll bet another 
 hoss I kin relate the message word for word." 
 
 Babe blushed violently, but laughed good- 
 humoredly. Chichester adjusted himself at 
 once to this unexpected informality, and allowed 
 himself to become involved in it. 
 
 "Come, now!" he cried, "I ll take the bet." 
 
 "I declare!" said Mrs. Hightower, laughing, 
 "you all oughtn to pester Babe that away." 
 
 "Wait!" said Abe. "The name er the man 
 what sont the word is Tuck Peevy, an when 
 he know d you was a-comin here, he sort er 
 sidled up an ast you for to please be so good as to
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 157 
 
 tell Miss Babe he d drap in nex Sunday, an see 
 what her mammy is a-gwine ter have for dinner." 
 
 "Well, I have won the bet," said Chichester. 
 "Mr. Peevy simply asked me to tell Miss Babe 
 that there would be a singing at Philadelphia 
 camp-ground Sunday. I hardly know what to 
 do with two horses." 
 
 "Maybe you ll feel better," said Abe, "when 
 somebody tells you that my hoss is a mule. 
 Well, well, well!" he went on. "Tuck didn t 
 say he was comin , but I be boun he comes, an 
 more n that, I be boun a whole passel er gals 
 an boys ll foller Babe home." 
 
 "In giner lly," said Grandsir Hightower, "I 
 hate for to make remarks bout folks when they 
 hain t settin whar they kin hear me, but that ar 
 Tuck Peevy is got a mighty bad eye. I hearn 
 im a-quollin wi one er them Simmons boys 
 las Sunday gone wuz a week, an I tell you 
 he s got the Ole Boy in im. An his appetite s 
 wuss n his eye." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Hightower, "nobody roun 
 here don t begrudge him his vittles, I reckon." 
 
 "Oh, by no means by no manner er means,"
 
 158 Free Joe 
 
 said the old man, suddenly remembering the 
 presence of Chichester. "Yit they oughter be 
 reason in all things; that s what I say reason 
 in all things, espeshually when hit comes to 
 gormandizin ." 
 
 The evident seriousness of the old man was 
 very comical. He seemed to be possessed by 
 the unreasonable economy that not infrequently 
 seizes on old age. 
 
 "They hain t no begrudgin roun here," he 
 went on. "Lord! ef I d a bin a-begrudgin I d 
 a thes natchally bin e t up wi begrudges. What 
 wer the word the poor creetur sent to Babe?" 
 
 Chichester repeated the brief and apparently 
 uninteresting message, and Grandsir Hightower 
 groaned dismally. 
 
 "I dunner what sot him so ag in Tuck Peevy," 
 said Abe, laughing. "Tuck s e en about the 
 peartest chap in the settlement, an a mighty 
 handy man, put him whar you will." 
 
 "Why, Aberham!" exclaimed the old man, 
 "you go on like a man what s done gone an 
 took leave of his sev m senses. You dunner 
 what sot me ag in the poor creetur? Why,
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 159 
 
 time an time ag in I ve tol you it s his ongodly 
 hankerin after the flesh-pots. The Bible s ag in 
 it, an I m ag in it. Wharbouts is it put down 
 that a man is ever foun grace in the cubberd?" 
 
 "Well, I lay a man that works is boun ter 
 eat," said Abe. 
 
 "Oh, 7 hain t no count / can t work," said 
 the old man, his wrath, which had been wrought 
 to a high pitch, suddenly taking the shape of 
 plaintive humility. "Yit tain t for long. / // 
 soon be out n the way, Aberham." 
 
 "Shoo!" said Abe, placing his hand affec 
 tionately on the old man s shoulder. "You er 
 mighty nigh as spry as a kitten. Babe, honey, 
 fill your grandsir s pipe. He s a-missin his 
 mornin smoke." 
 
 Soothed by his pipe, the old man seemed to 
 forget the existence of Tuck Peevy, and his 
 name came up for discussion no more. 
 
 But Chichester, being a man of quick percep 
 tions, gathered from the animosity of the old 
 man, and the rather uneasy attitude of Miss 
 Babe, that the discussion of Peevy s appetite 
 had its origin in the lover-like attentions which
 
 160 Free Joe 
 
 he had been paying to the girl. Certainly 
 Peevy was excusable, and if his attentions had 
 been favorably received, he was to be congratu 
 lated, Chichester thought; for in all that region 
 it would have been difficult to find a lovelier 
 specimen of budding womanhood than the 
 young girl who had striven so unsuccessfully 
 to hide her embarrassment as her grandfather 
 proceeded, with the merciless recklessness of 
 age, to criticize Peevy s strength and weakness 
 as a trencherman. 
 
 As Chichester had occasion to discover after 
 ward, Peevy had his peculiarities; but he did 
 not seem to be greatly different from other 
 young men to be found in that region. One 
 of his peculiarities was that he never argued 
 about anything. He had opinions on a great 
 many subjects, but his reasons for holding his 
 opinions he kept to himself. The arguments 
 of those who held contrary views he would listen 
 to with great patience, even with interest; but 
 his only reply would be a slow, irritating smile 
 and a shake of the head. Peevy was homely, 
 but there was nothing repulsive about his home-
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 161 
 
 liness. He was tall and somewhat angular; he 
 was sallow; he had high cheek-bones, and small 
 eyes that seemed to be as alert and as watchful 
 as those of a ferret; and he was slow and delib 
 erate in all his movements, taking time to digest 
 and consider his thoughts before replying to the 
 simplest question, and even then his reply was 
 apt to be evasive. But he was good-humored 
 and obliging, and, consequently, was well 
 thought of by his neighbors and acquaintances. 
 
 There was one subject in regard to which he 
 made no concealment, and that was his admira 
 tion for Miss Babe Hightower. So far as Peevy 
 was concerned, she was the one woman in the 
 world. His love for her was a passion at once 
 patient, hopeful, and innocent. He displayed 
 his devotion less in words than in his attitude; 
 and so successful had he been that it was gener 
 ally understood that by camp-meeting time Miss 
 Babe Hightower would be Mrs. Tuck Peevy. 
 That is to say, it was understood by all except 
 Grandsir Hightower, who was apt to chuckle 
 sarcastically when the subject was broached. 
 
 "They hain t arry livin man," he would say,
 
 1 62 Free Joe 
 
 "what s ever seed anybody wi them kind er eyes 
 settled down an married. No, sirs! Hit s the 
 vittles Tuck Peevy s after. Why, bless your soul 
 an body! he thes natchally dribbles at the mouth 
 when he gits a whirl from the dinner-pot." 
 
 Certainly no one would have supposed that 
 Tuck Peevy ever had a sentimental emotion or 
 a romantic notion, but Grandsir Hightower did 
 him great injustice. Behind his careless serenity 
 he was exceedingly sensitive. It is true he was 
 a man difficult to arouse; but he was what his 
 friends called "a mighty tetchy man" on some 
 subjects, and one of these subjects was Babe. 
 Another was the revenue men. It was generally 
 supposed by Peevy s acquaintances on Lost Moun 
 tain that he had a moonshine apparatus over on 
 Sweetwater; but this supposition was the result, 
 doubtless, of his well-known prejudice against 
 the deputies sent out to enforce the revenue laws. 
 
 It had been the intention of Chichester to re 
 main only a few days in that neighborhood; but 
 the Hightowers were so hospitably inclined, 
 and the outcroppings of minerals so interesting, 
 that his stay was somewhat prolonged. Natu-
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 163 
 
 rally, he saw a good deal of Peevy, who knew 
 all about the mountain, and who was frequently 
 able to go with him on his little excursions when 
 Abe Hightower was otherwise engaged. Natu 
 rally enough, too, Chichester saw a great deal of 
 Babe. He was interested in her because she was 
 young and beautiful, and because of her quaint 
 individuality. She was not only unconventional, 
 but charmingly so. Her crudeness and her igno 
 rance seemed to be merely phases of originality. 
 Chichester s interest in Babe was that of a 
 studiously courteous and deferent observer, but 
 it was jealously noted and resented by Tuck 
 Peevy. The result of this was not at first appar 
 ent. For a time Peevy kept his jealous sugges 
 tions to himself, but he found it impossible to 
 conceal their effect. Gradually, he held himself 
 aloof, and finally made it a point to avoid Chi 
 chester altogether. For a time Babe made the 
 most of her lover s jealousy. After the manner 
 of her sex, she was secretly delighted to discover 
 that he was furious at the thought that she might 
 inadvertently have cast a little bit of a smile at 
 Mr. Chichester; and on several occasions she
 
 164 Free Joe 
 
 heartily enjoyed Peevy s angry suspicions. But 
 after a while she grew tired of such inconsistent 
 and foolish manifestations. They made her un 
 happy, and she was too vigorous and too practi 
 cal to submit to unhappiness with that degree 
 of humility which her more cultivated sisters 
 sometimes exhibit. One Sunday afternoon, 
 knowing Chichester to be away, Tuck Peevy 
 sauntered carelessly into Hightower s yard, and 
 seated himself on the steps of the little porch. 
 It was his first visit for several days, and Babe 
 received him with an air of subdued coolness and 
 indifference that did credit to her sex. 
 
 "Wharbouts is your fine gent this mornin ?" 
 inquired Peevy, after a while. 
 
 "Wharbouts is who?" 
 
 "Your fine gent wi the sto -clo es on." 
 
 "I reckon you mean Cap n Chichester, don t 
 you?" inquired Babe innocently. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Peevy; "he s the chap 
 I m a-making my inquirements atter." 
 
 "He s over on Sweetwater, I reckon. Least 
 ways thar s whar he started to go." 
 
 "On Sweetwater. Oh, yes!" Peevy paused
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 165 
 
 and ran his long slim fingers through his thin 
 straight hair. "I m mighty much afeard," he 
 went on after a pause, "that that fine gent o 
 yourn is a-gwine ter turn out for to be a snake. 
 That s what I m afeard un." 
 
 "Well," said Babe, with irritating coolness, 
 a he don t do any of his sneakin aroun here. Ef 
 he sneaks, he goes some ers else to sneak. He 
 don t hang aroun an watch his chance to drap 
 in an pay his calls. I reckon he d walk right in 
 at the gate thar ef he know d the Gov ner er the 
 State wuz a-settin here. I m mighty glad I 
 hain t saw none er his sneakin ." 
 
 Peevy writhed under this comment on his 
 own actions, but said nothing in reply. 
 
 "You don t come to see folks like you useter," 
 said Babe, softening a little. "I reckon you er 
 mighty busy down thar wi your craps." 
 
 Peevy smiled until he showed his yellow teeth. 
 It was not intended to be a pleasant smile. 
 
 "I reckon I come lots more n I m wanted," 
 he replied. "I hain t got much sense," he went 
 on, "but I got a leetle bit, an I know when my 
 room s wuth more n my comp ny."
 
 1 66 Free Jot 
 
 "Your hints has got more wings n stings," 
 said Babe. "But ef I had in my min what you 
 er got in yourn " 
 
 "Don t say the word, Babe!" exclaimed Peevy, 
 for the first time fixing his restless eyes on her 
 face. "Don t!" 
 
 "Yes, I ll say it," said Babe solemnly. "I 
 oughter a said it a long time ago when you 
 wuz a-cuttin up your capers bekaze Phli Varna- 
 doe wuz a-comin here to see Pap. I oughter a 
 said it then, but I ll say it now, right pine-blank. 
 Ef I had in my min what you er got in yourn, 
 I wouldn t never darken this door no more." 
 
 Peevy rose, and walked up and down the 
 porch. He was deeply moved, but his face 
 showed his emotion only by a slight increase of 
 sallowness. Finally he paused, looking at Babe. 
 
 "I lay you d be mighty glad ef I didn t come 
 no more," he said, with a half smile. "I reckon 
 it kinder rankles you for to see old Tuck Peevy 
 a-hangin roun when the t other feller s in 
 sight." Babe s only reply was a scornful toss of 
 the head. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" Peevy went on, "hit rankles you
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 167 
 
 might ly; yit I lay it won t rankle you so much 
 atter your daddy is took an jerked off to Atlanty. 
 I tell you, Babe, that ar man is one er the rev 
 enues they hain t no two ways about that." 
 
 Babe regarded her angry lover seriously. 
 
 "Hit ain t no wonder you make up your min 
 ag in him when you er done made it up ag in 
 me. I know in reason they must be somep n 
 nother wrong when a great big grown man kin 
 work hisself up to holdin spite. Goodness 
 knows, I wish you wuz like you useter be when 
 I fust know d you/ 
 
 Peevy s sallow face flushed a little at the re 
 membrance of those pleasant, peaceful days; but, 
 somehow, the memory of them had the effect of 
 intensifying his jealous mood. 
 
 " Tain t me that s changed aroun ," he 
 exclaimed passionately, "an tain t the days 
 nuther. Hit s you you! An that fine gent 
 that s a hanging roun here is the casion of it. 
 Ever whar I go, hit s the talk. Babe, you know 
 you er lovin that man!" 
 
 Peevy was wide of the mark, but the accusa 
 tion was so suddenly and so bluntly made that
 
 1 68 Free Joe 
 
 it brought the blood to Babe s face a tremu 
 lous flush that made her fairly radiant for a mo 
 ment. Undoubtedly Mr. Chichester had played 
 a very pleasing part in her youthful imagina 
 tion, but never for an instant had he superseded 
 the homely figure of Tuck Peevy. The knowl 
 edge that she was blushing gave Babe an excuse 
 for indignation that women are quick to take 
 advantage of. She was so angry, indeed, that 
 she made another mistake. 
 
 "Why, Tuck Peevy!" she cried, "you shorely 
 must be crazy. He wouldn t wipe his feet on 
 sech as me!" 
 
 "No," said Peevy, "I lowed he wouldn t, an 
 I lowed as how you wouldn t wipe your feet on 
 me." He paused a moment, still smiling his 
 peculiar smile. "Hit s a long ways down to 
 Peevy, ain t it?" 
 
 "You er doin all the belittlin ," said Babe. 
 
 "Oh, no, Babe! Ever thing s changed. Why, 
 even them dogs barks atter me. Ever thing s 
 turned wrong-sud-outerds. An you er changed 
 wuss n all." 
 
 "Well, you don t reckon I m a-gwine ter run
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 169 
 
 out n the gate thar an fling myself at you, do 
 you?" exclaimed Babe. 
 
 "No, I don t. I ve thes come to-day for to 
 git a cle r understan in ." He hesitated a mo 
 ment and then went on: "Babe, will you marry 
 me to-morrow?" He asked the question with 
 more eagerness than he had yet displayed. 
 
 "No, I won t!" exclaimed Babe, "ner the nex 
 day nuther. The man I marry ll have a lots bet 
 ter opinion of me than what you er got." 
 
 Babe was very indignant, but she paused to 
 see what effect her words would have. Peevy 
 rubbed his hands nervously together, but he 
 made no response. His serenity was more puz 
 zling than that of the mountain. He still smiled 
 vaguely, but it was not a pleasing smile. He 
 looked hard at Babe for a moment, and then 
 down at his clumsy feet. His agitation was 
 manifest, but it did not take the shape of words. 
 In the trees overhead two jays were quarreling 
 with a catbird, and in the upper air a bee- 
 martin was fiercely pursuing a sparrow-hawk. 
 
 "Well," he said, after a while, "I reckon I 
 
 better be gwine." 
 VOL. 3 8
 
 170 Free Joe 
 
 "Wait till your hurry s over," said Babe, in a 
 gentler tone. 
 
 Peevy made no reply, but passed out into 
 the road and disappeared down the mountain. 
 Babe followed him to the gate, and stood look 
 ing after him; but he turned his head neither to 
 the right nor to the left, and in a little while she 
 went into the house with her head bent upon her 
 bosom. She was weeping. Grandsir Hightower, 
 who had shuffled out on the porch to sun him 
 self, stared at the girl with amazement. 
 
 "Why, honey!" he exclaimed, "what upon the 
 top side er the yeth ails you?" 
 
 "Tuck has gone home mad, an he won t never 
 come back no more," she cried. 
 "What s the matter wi im?" 
 "Oh, he s thes mad along er me." 
 "Well, well, well !" exclaimed the old man, fum 
 bling feebly in his pockets for his red bandanna 
 handkerchief, "what kind of a come-off is this? 
 Did you ast him to stay to dinner, honey?" 
 "No no; he didn t gimme a chance." 
 "I lowed you didn t," exclaimed Grandsir 
 Hightower triumphantly. "I thes natchally
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 171 
 
 lowed you didn t. That s what riled im. An 
 now he ll go off an vilify you. Well, well, well! 
 he s missed his dinner! The fust time in many s 
 the long day. Watch im, Babe! Watch im, 
 honey! The Ole Boy s in im. I know im; 
 I ve kep my two eyes on im. For a mess er 
 turnip-greens an dumperlin s that man u d do 
 murder." The old man paused and looked all 
 around, as if by that means to dissipate a sus 
 picion that he was dreaming. "An so Tuck 
 missed his dinner! Tooby shore tooby shore!" 
 
 "Oh, hit ain t that," cried Babe; "he s jealous 
 of Cap n Chichester." 
 
 "Why, the good Lord, honey! what makes 
 you run on that way?" 
 
 "He tol me so," said Babe. 
 
 "Jealous!" exclaimed Grandsir Hightower, 
 "jealous er that young feller! Merciful powers, 
 honey! he s a-begrudgin im the vittles what he 
 eats. I know d it the minnit I seed im come 
 a-sa nterin in the yard. Lord, Lord! I wish in 
 my soul the poor creetur could git a chance at 
 one er them ar big Whig barbecues what they 
 useter have."
 
 172 Free Joe 
 
 But there was small consolation in all this for 
 Babe; and she went into the house, where her 
 forlorn appearance attracted the attention of her 
 mother. "Why, Babe! what in the worl !" 
 exclaimed this practical woman, dropping her 
 work in amazement. "What in the name er 
 sense ails you?" Babe had no hesitation in tell 
 ing her mother the facts. 
 
 "Well, my goodness!" was Mrs. Hightower s 
 comment, "I wouldn t go aroun whinin about 
 it, ef I wuz you that I wouldn t. Nobody 
 never ketched me whinin roun atter your 
 pappy fore we wuz married, an he wuz lots 
 purtier than what Tuck Peevy is. When your 
 pappy got tetchy, I thes says to myself, s l : Ef 
 I m wuth havin , I m wuth scramblin atter; an 
 ef your pappy hadn t a scrambled an scuffled 
 roun he wouldn t a got me nuther, ef I do up 
 an say it myself. I d a heap druther see you 
 fillin them slays an a-fixin up for to weave 
 your pappy some shirts, than to see you a-whin- 
 in roun atter any chap on the top side er the 
 yeth, let lone Tuck Peevy." 
 
 There was little consolation even in this, but
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 173 
 
 Babe went about her simple duties with some 
 show of spirit; and when her father and Chi- 
 chester returned from their trip on Sweetwater, 
 it would have required a sharp eye to discover 
 that Babe regarded herself as "wearing the 
 green willow." For a few days she avoided 
 Chichester, as if to prove her loyalty to Peevy; 
 but as Peevy was not present to approve her con 
 duct or to take advantage of it, she soon grew 
 tired of playing an unnecessary part. Peevy 
 persisted in staying away; and the result was 
 that Babe s anger a healthy quality in a young 
 girl got the better of her grief. Then wonder 
 took the place of anger; but behind it all was 
 the hope that before many days Peevy would 
 saunter into the house, armed with his inscrut 
 able smile, and inquire, as he had done a hun 
 dred times before, how long before dinner would 
 be ready. This theory was held by Grandsir 
 Hightower, but, as it was a very plausible one, 
 Babe adopted it as her own. 
 
 Meanwhile, it is not to be supposed that two 
 lovers, one sulking and the other sighing, had 
 any influence on the season. The spring had
 
 174 Free Joe 
 
 made some delay in the valley before taking 
 complete possession of the mountain, but this 
 delay was not significant. Even on the moun 
 tain, the days began to suggest the ardor of sum 
 mer. The air was alternately warm and hazy, 
 and crisp and clear. One day Kenesaw would 
 cast aside its atmospheric trappings, and appear 
 to lie within speaking distance of Hightower s 
 door; the next, it would withdraw behind its 
 blue veil, and seem far enough away to belong 
 to another world. On Hightower s farm the 
 corn was high enough to whet its green sabres 
 against the wind. One eveningChichester, High- 
 tower, and Babe sat on the little porch with their 
 faces turned toward Kenesaw. They had been 
 watching a line of blue smoke on the mountain 
 in the distance; and, as the twilight deepened 
 into dusk, they saw that the summit of Kenesaw 
 was crowned by a thin fringe of fire. As the 
 darkness gathered, the bright belt of flame pro 
 jected against the vast expanse of night seemed 
 to belong to the vision of St. John. 
 
 "It looks like a picture out of the Bible," 
 suggested Chichester somewhat vaguely.
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 175 
 
 "It s wuss n that, I reckon," said Abe. "Some 
 un s a-losin a mighty sight of fencin ; an tim 
 ber s timber these days, lemme tell you." 
 
 "Maybe someun s a-burnin bresh," said Babe. 
 
 "Bless you! they don t pile bresh in a streak a 
 mile long," said Abe. 
 
 The thin line of fire crept along slowly, and 
 the people on the little porch sat and watched it. 
 Occasionally it would crawl to the top of a dead 
 pine, and leave a fiery signal flaming in the air. 
 
 "What is the matter with Peevy?" asked Chi- 
 chester. "I met him on the mountain the other 
 day, and he seemed not to know me." 
 
 "He don t know anybody aroun here," said 
 Babe with a sigh. 
 
 "Hit s thes some er his an Babe s capers," 
 Hightower remarked with a laugh. "They 
 er bin a-cuttin up this away now gwine on 
 two year . I reckon ag in camp-meetin time 
 Tuck ll drap in an make hisself know d. Gals 
 and boys is mighty funny wi the r gwines-on." 
 
 After a little, Abe went into the house, and 
 left the young people to watch the fiery proces 
 sion on Kenesaw.
 
 176 Free Joe 
 
 "The next time I see Peevy," said Chichester 
 gallantly, "I ll take him by the sleeve, and show 
 him the road to Beauty s bower." 
 
 "Well, you nee nter pester wi im on account 
 of me," said Babe. Chichester laughed. The 
 fact that so handsome a girl as Babe should de 
 liberately fall in love with so lank and ungainly 
 a person as Tuck Peevy seemed to him to be one 
 of the problems that philosophers ought to con 
 cern themselves with; but, from his point of 
 view, the fact that Babe had not gradually faded 
 away, according to the approved rules of ro 
 mance, was entirely creditable to human nature 
 on the mountain. A candle, burning in the room 
 that Chichester occupied, shone through the win 
 dow faintly, and fell on Babe, while Chichester 
 sat in the shadow. As they were talking, a mock 
 ing-bird in the apple trees awoke, and poured 
 into the ear of night a flood of delicious melody. 
 Hearing this, Babe seized Chichester s hat, and 
 placed it on her head. 
 
 "There must be some omen in that," said Chi 
 chester. 
 
 "They say," said Babe, laughing merrily,
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 177 
 
 "that ef a gal puts on a man s hat when she 
 hears a mocker sing at night, she ll get married 
 that year an do well." 
 
 "Well, I m sorry I haven t got a bonnet to put 
 on," exclaimed Chichester. 
 
 "Oh, it don t work that away!" cried Babe. 
 
 The mocking-bird continued to sing, and 
 finally brought its concert to a close by giving 
 a most marvelous imitation of the liquid, sil 
 very chimes of the wood-thrush. 
 
 There was a silence for one brief moment. 
 Then there was a red flash under the apple 
 trees followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. 
 There was another brief moment of silence, and 
 then the young girl sighed softly, leaned for 
 ward, and fell from her chair. 
 
 "What s this?" cried Abe, coming to the 
 door. 
 
 "The Lord only knows!" exclaimed Chiches 
 ter. "Look at your daughter!" 
 
 Abe stepped forward, and touched the girl on 
 the shoulder. Then he shook her gently, as he had 
 a thousand times when rousing her from sleep. 
 
 "Babe! git up! Git up, honey, an go in the
 
 178 Free Joe 
 
 house. You ought to a been abed long ago. 
 Git up honey." Chichester stood like one para 
 lyzed. For the moment he was incapable of 
 either speech or action. 
 
 "I know what sh e atter," said Abe tenderly. 
 "You wouldn t believe it skacely, but this yer 
 great big chunk of a gal wants her ole pappy 
 to pick her up an tote her thes like he useter 
 when she was er little bit of a scrap." 
 
 "I think she has been shot," said Chichester. 
 To his own ears his voice seemed to be the voice 
 of some other man. 
 
 "Shot!" exclaimed Abe. "Why, who s 
 a-gwine to shoot Babe? Lord, Cap n! you 
 dunner nothin tall bout Babe ef you talk that 
 away. Come on, honey." With that Abe lifted 
 his child in his arms, and carried her into the 
 house. Chichester followed. All his faculties 
 were benumbed, and he seemed to be walking 
 in a dream. It seemed that no such horrible 
 confusion as that by which he was surrounded 
 could have the remotest relation to reality. 
 
 Nevertheless, it did not add to his surprise 
 and consternation to find, when Abe had placed
 
 Trouble on Lost -Mountain 179 
 
 the girl on her bed, that she was dead. A little 
 red spot on her forehead, half-hidden by the 
 glossy curling hair, showed that whoever held 
 the rifle aimed it well. 
 
 "Why, honey," said Abe, wiping away the 
 slight blood-stain that showed itself, "you struck 
 your head a in a nail. Git up! you oughtn t to 
 be a-gwine on this away before comp ny." 
 
 "I tell you she is dead!" cried Chichester. 
 "She has been murdered!" The girl s mother 
 had already realized this fact, and her tearless 
 grief was something pitiful to behold. The 
 gray-haired grandfather had also realized it. 
 
 "I d druther see her a-lyin thar dead," he ex 
 claimed, raising his weak and trembling hands 
 heavenward, than to see her Tuck Peevy s wife." 
 
 "Why, gentermen!" exclaimed Abe, "how kin 
 she be dead? I oughter know my own gal, I 
 reckon. Many s an many s the time she s wor 
 ried me, a-playin possum, an many s an many s 
 the time has I sot by her waitin tell she let on to 
 wake up. Don t you all pester wi her. She ll 
 wake up therreckly." 
 
 At this juncture Tuck Peevy walked into the
 
 i8o Free Joe 
 
 room. There was a strange glitter in his eyes, 
 a new energy in his movements. Chichester 
 sprang at him, seized him by the throat, and 
 dragged him to the bedside. 
 
 "You cowardly, skulking murderer!" he ex 
 claimed, "see what you have done!" 
 
 Peevy s sallow face grew ashen. He seemed 
 to shrink and collapse under Chichester s hand. 
 His breath came thick and short. His long, 
 bony fingers clutched nervously at his clothes. 
 
 "I aimed at the hat!" he exclaimed huskily. 
 
 He would have leaned over the girl, but Chi 
 chester flung him away from the bedside, and 
 he sank down in a corner, moaning and shaking. 
 Abe took no notice of Peevy s entrance, and paid 
 no attention to the crouching figure mumbling 
 in the corner, except, perhaps, so far as he 
 seemed to recognize in Chichester s attack on 
 Peevy a somewhat vigorous protest against his 
 own theory; for, when there was comparative 
 quiet in the room, Hightower raised himself, 
 and exclaimed, in a tone that showed both impa 
 tience and excitement: 
 
 "Why, great God A mighty, gentermen, don t
 
 Trouble on Lost Mountain 181 
 
 go on that way! They hain t no harm done. 
 Thes let us alone. Me an Babe s all right. 
 She s bin a-playin this away ev ry sence she wuz 
 a little bit of a gal. Don t less make her mad, 
 gentermen, bekaze ef we do she ll take plum tell 
 day atter to-morrer for to come roun right." 
 
 Looking closely at Hightower, Chichester 
 could see that his face was colorless. His eyes 
 were sunken, but shone with a peculiar bril 
 liancy, and great beads of perspiration stood on 
 his forehead. His whole appearance was that 
 of a man distraught. Here was another tragedy! 
 
 Seeking a momentary escape from the confu 
 sion and perplexity into which he had been 
 plunged by the horrible events of the night, 
 Chichester passed out into the yard, and stood 
 bareheaded in the cool wind that was faintly 
 stirring among the trees. The stars shone re 
 mote and tranquil, and the serenity of the moun 
 tain, the awful silence that seemed to be, not the 
 absence of sound, but the presence of some spirit 
 ual entity, gave assurance of peace. Out there, 
 in the cold air, or in the wide skies, or in the vast 
 gulf of night, there was nothing to suggest either
 
 1 82 Free Joe 
 
 pity or compassion only the mysterious tran 
 quillity of nature. 
 
 This was the end, so far as Chichester knew. 
 He never entered the Hightower house again. 
 Something prompted him to saddle his horse 
 and ride down the mountain. The tragedy and 
 its attendant troubles were never reported in the 
 newspapers. The peace of the mountain re 
 mained undisturbed, its silence unbroken. 
 
 But should Chichester, who at last accounts 
 was surveying a line of railway in Mexico, ever 
 return to Lost Mountain, he would find Tuck 
 Peevy a gaunt and shrunken creature, working 
 on the Hightower farm, and managing such of 
 its small affairs as call for management. Some 
 times, when the day s work is over, and Peevy 
 sits at the fireside saying nothing, Abe High- 
 tower will raise a paralytic hand, and cry out 
 as loud as he can that it s almost time for Babe 
 to quit playing possum. At such times we may 
 be sure that, so far as Peevy is concerned, there 
 is still trouble on Lost Mountain.
 
 AZALIA 
 
 Miss HELEN OSBORNE EUSTIS of Boston was 
 very much astonished one day in the early fall 
 of 1873 to receive a professional visit from Dr. 
 Ephraim Buxton, who for many years had been 
 her father s family physician. The astonish 
 ment was mutual; for Dr. Buxton had expected 
 to find Miss Eustis in bed, or at least in the 
 attitude of a patient, whereas she was seated in 
 an easy chair, before a glowing grate which 
 the peculiarities of the Boston climate sometimes 
 render necessary, even in the early fall and ap 
 peared to be about as comfortable as a human 
 being could well be. Perhaps the appearance 
 of comfort was heightened by the general air of 
 subdued luxury that pervaded the apartment 
 into which Dr. Buxton had been ushered. The 
 draperies, the arrangement of the little affairs 
 
 183
 
 184 Free Joe 
 
 that answer to the name of bric-a-brac, the 
 adjustment of the furniture everything con 
 veyed the impression of peace and repose; and 
 the chief element of this perfect harmony was 
 Miss Eustis herself, who rose to greet the doc 
 tor as he entered. She regarded the physician 
 with eyes that somehow seemed to be wise and 
 kind, and with a smile that was at once sincere 
 and humorous. 
 
 "Why, how is this, Helen?" Dr. Buxton ex 
 claimed, taking off his spectacles, and staring 
 at the young lady. "I fully expected to find 
 you in bed. I hope you are not imprudent." 
 
 "Why should I be ill, Dr. Buxton? You 
 know what Mr. Tom Appleton says: In Bos 
 ton, those who are sick do injustice to the air 
 they breathe and to their cooks. I think that is 
 a patriotic sentiment, and I try to live up to it. 
 My health is no worse than usual, and usually it 
 is very good," said Miss Eustis. 
 
 "You certainly seem to be well," said Dr. 
 Buxton, regarding the young lady with a pro 
 fessional frown; "but appearances are some 
 times deceitful. I met Harriet yesterday "
 
 Azalia 185 
 
 "Ah, my aunt!" exclaimed Helen, in a tone cal 
 culated to imply that this explained everything. 
 
 "I met Harriet yesterday, and she insisted on 
 my coming to see you at once, certainly not later 
 than to-day." 
 
 Miss Eustis shrugged her shoulders, and 
 laughed, but her face showed that she appre 
 ciated this manifestation of solicitude. 
 
 "Let me see," she said reflectively; "what was 
 my complaint yesterday? We must do justice 
 to Aunt Harriet s discrimination. She would 
 never forgive you if you went away without 
 leaving a prescription. My health is so good 
 that I think you may leave me a mild one." 
 
 Unconsciously the young lady made a charm 
 ing picture as she sat with her head drooping a 
 little to one side in a half-serious, half-smiling 
 effort to recall to mind some of the symptoms 
 that had excited her aunt s alarm. Dr. Buxton, 
 prescription book in hand, gazed at her quizzi 
 cally over his old-fashioned spectacles; seeing 
 which, Helen laughed heartily. At that mo 
 ment her aunt entered the room a pleasant- 
 faced but rather prim old lady, of whom it had
 
 1 86 Free Joe 
 
 been said by some one competent to judge, that 
 her inquisitiveness was so overwhelming and so 
 important that it took the shape of pity in one di 
 rection, patriotism in another, and benevolence 
 in another, giving to her life not the semblance 
 but the very essence of usefulness and activity. 
 
 "Do you hear that, Dr. Buxton?" cried the 
 pleasant-faced old lady somewhat sharply. "Do 
 you hear her wheeze when she laughs? Do you 
 remember that she was threatened with pneu 
 monia last winter? and now she is wheezing be 
 fore the winter begins!" 
 
 "This is the trouble I was trying to think of," 
 exclaimed Helen, sinking back in her chair with 
 a gesture of mock despair. 
 
 "Don t make yourself ridiculous, dear," said 
 the aunt, giving the little clusters of gray curls 
 that hung about her ears an emphatic shake. 
 "Serious matters should be taken seriously." 
 Whereat Helen pressed her cheek gently against 
 the thin white hand that had been laid caress 
 ingly on her shoulder. 
 
 "Aunt Harriet has probably heard me say that 
 there is still some hope for the country, even
 
 Azalla 187 
 
 though it is governed entirely by men," said 
 Helen, with an air of apology. "The men can 
 not deprive us of the winter climate of Boston, 
 and I enjoy that above all things." 
 
 Aunt Harriet smiled reproachfully at her 
 niece, and pulled her ear gently. 
 
 "But indeed, Dr. Buxton," Helen went on more 
 seriously, "the winter climate of Boston, fine as 
 it is, is beginning to pinch us harder than it used 
 to do. The air is thinner, and the cold is keener. 
 When I was younger very much younger 
 than I am now, I remember that I used to run 
 in and out, and fall and roll in the snow with 
 perfect impunity. But now I try to profit by 
 Aunt Harriet s example. When I go out, I go 
 bundled up to the point of suffocation; and if 
 the wind is from the east, as it usually is, I wear 
 wraps and shawls indoors." 
 
 Helen smiled brightly at her aunt and 
 at Dr. Buxton; but her aunt seemed to be 
 distressed, and the physician shook his head 
 dubiously. 
 
 "You will have to take great care of your 
 self," said Dr. Buxton. "You must be prudent.
 
 1 88 Free Joe 
 
 The slightest change in the temperature may 
 send you to bed for the rest of the winter." 
 
 "Dr. Buxton is complimenting you, Aunt 
 Harriet," said Helen. "You should drop him 
 a courtesy." 
 
 Whereupon the amiable physician, seeing that 
 there was no remedy for the humorous view 
 which Miss Eustis took of her condition, went fur 
 ther, and informed her that there was every reason 
 why she should be serious. He told her, with 
 some degree of bluntness, that her symptoms, 
 while not alarming, were not at all reassuring. 
 
 "It is always the way, Dr. Buxton," said 
 Helen, smiling tenderly at her aunt; "I believe 
 you would confess to serious symptoms yourself 
 if Aunt Harriet insisted on it. What an extraor 
 dinary politician she would make! My sym 
 pathy with the woman-suffrage movement is in 
 the nature of an investment. When we women 
 succeed to the control of affairs, I count on 
 achieving distinction as Aunt Harriet s niece." 
 
 Laughing, she seized her aunt s hand. Dr. 
 Buxton, watching her, laughed too, and then 
 proceeded to write out a prescription. He
 
 Azalia 1 89 
 
 seemed to hesitate a little over this; seeing 
 which, Helen remonstrated: 
 
 "Pray, Dr. Buxton, don t humor Aunt Har 
 riet too much in this. Save your physic for 
 those who are strong in body and mind. A 
 dozen of your pellets ought to be a year s sup 
 ply." The physician wrote out his prescription, 
 and took his leave, laughing heartily at the ami 
 able confusion in which Helen s drollery had 
 left her aunt. 
 
 It is not to be supposed, however, that Miss 
 Eustis was simply droll. She was unconven 
 tional at all times, and sometimes wilful- 
 inheriting that native strength of mind and 
 mother wit which are generally admitted to be 
 a part of the equipment of the typical American 
 woman. If she was not the ideal young woman, 
 at least she possessed some of the attractive quali 
 ties that one tries sometimes unsuccessfully 
 to discover in one s dearest friends. From her 
 infancy, until near the close of the war, she had 
 had the advantage of her father s companion 
 ship, so that her ideas were womanly rather 
 than merely feminine. She had never been per-
 
 190 Free Joe 
 
 mitted to regard the world from the dormer- 
 windows of a young ladies seminary, in conse 
 quence of which her views of life in general, 
 and of mankind in particular, were orderly and 
 rational. Such indulgence as her father had 
 given her had served to strengthen her individu 
 ality rather than to confirm her temper; and, 
 though she had a strong and stubborn will of 
 her own, her tact was such that her wilfulness 
 appeared to be the most natural as well as the 
 most charming thing in the world. Moreover, 
 she possessed in a remarkable degree that buoy 
 ancy of mind that is more engaging than mere 
 geniality. 
 
 Her father was no less a person than Charles 
 Osborne Eustis, the noted philanthropist and 
 abolitionist, whose death in 1867 was the occa 
 sion of quite a controversy in New England a 
 controversy based on the fact that he had op 
 posed some of the most virulent schemes of his 
 coworkers at a time when abolitionism had not 
 yet gathered its full strength. Mr. Eustis, in his 
 day, was in the habit of boasting that his daugh 
 ter had a great deal of genuine American spirit
 
 Azalia 191 
 
 the spirit that one set of circumstances drives 
 to provinciality, another to patriotism, and an 
 other to originality. 
 
 Helen had spent two long winters in Europe 
 without parting with the fine flavor of her orig 
 inality. She was exceedingly modest in her de 
 signs, too, for she went neither as a missionary 
 nor as a repentant. She found no foreign social 
 shrines that she thought worthy of worshiping 
 at. She admired what was genuine, and toler 
 ated such shams as obtruded themselves on her 
 attention. Her father s connections had enabled 
 her to see something of the real home-life of 
 England; and she was delighted, but not greatly 
 surprised, to find that at its best it was not greatly 
 different from the home life to which she had 
 been accustomed. 
 
 The discovery delighted her because it con 
 firmed her own broad views; but she no more 
 thought it necessary to set about aping the social 
 peculiarities to be found in London drawing- 
 rooms than she thought of denying her name or 
 her nativity. She made many interesting studies 
 and comparisons, but she was not disposed to be
 
 192 Free Joe 
 
 critical. She admired many things in Europe 
 which she would not have considered admirable 
 in America, and whatever she found displeasing 
 she tolerated as the natural outcome of social 
 or climatic conditions. Certainly the idea never 
 occurred to her that her own country was a bar 
 ren waste because time had not set the seal of 
 antiquity on its institutions. On the other hand, 
 this admirable young woman was quick to per 
 ceive that much information as well as satis 
 faction was to be obtained by regarding various 
 European peculiarities from a strictly European 
 point of view. 
 
 But Miss Eustis s reminiscences of the Old 
 World were sad as well as pleasant. Her jour 
 ney thither had been undertaken in the hope of 
 restoring her father s failing health, and her stay 
 there had been prolonged for the same purpose. 
 For a time he grew stronger and better, but the 
 improvement was only temporary. He came 
 home to die, and to Helen this result seemed to 
 be the end of all things. She had devoted her 
 self to looking after his comfort with a zeal and 
 an intelligence that left nothing undone. This
 
 Azalia 1 93 
 
 had been her mission in life. Her mother had 
 died when Helen was a little child, leaving her 
 self and her brother, who was some years older, 
 to the care of the father. Helen remembered 
 her mother only as a pale, beautiful lady in a 
 trailing robe, who fell asleep one day, and was 
 mysteriously carried away the lady of a dream. 
 The boy the brother rode forth to the war 
 in 1862, and never rode back any more. To the 
 father and sister waiting at home, it seemed as if 
 he had been seized and swept from the earth on 
 the bosom of the storm that broke over the coun 
 try in that period of dire confusion. Even Ru 
 mor, with her thousand tongues, had little to 
 say of the fate of this poor youth. It was known 
 that he led a squad of troopers detailed for spe 
 cial service, and that his command, with small 
 knowledge of the country, fell into an ambush 
 from which not more than two or three extri 
 cated themselves. Beyond this all was mystery, 
 for those who survived that desperate skirmish 
 could say nothing of the fate of their compan 
 ions. The loss of his son gave Mr. Eustis addi 
 tional interest in his daughter, if that were pos- 
 
 VOL. 3 9
 
 194 Free Joe 
 
 sible; and the common sorrow of the two 
 so strengthened and sweetened their lives that 
 their affection for each other was in the nature 
 of a perpetual memorial of the pale lady who 
 had passed away, and of the boy who had per 
 ished in Virginia. 
 
 When Helen s father died, in 1867, her 
 mother s sister, Miss Harriet Tewksbury, a spin 
 ster of fifty or thereabouts, who, for the lack of 
 something substantial to interest her, had been 
 halting between woman s rights and Spiritual 
 ism, suddenly discovered that Helen s cause was 
 the real woman s cause; whereupon she went to 
 the lonely and grief-stricken girl, and with that 
 fine efficiency which the New England woman 
 acquires from the air, and inherits from history, 
 proceeded to minister to her comfort. Miss 
 Tewksbury was not at all vexed to find her niece 
 capable of taking care of herself. She did not 
 allow that fact to prevent her from assuming 
 a motherly control that was most gracious in 
 its manifestations, and peculiarly gratifying to 
 Helen, who found great consolation in the all 
 but masculine energy of her aunt.
 
 Azalia 195 
 
 A day or two after Dr. Buxton s visit, the re 
 sult of which has already been chronicled, Miss 
 Tewksbury s keen eye detected an increase of the 
 symptoms that had given her anxiety, and their 
 development was of such a character that Helen 
 made no objection when her aunt proposed to 
 call in the physician again. Dr. Buxton came, 
 and agreed with Miss Tewksbury as to the 
 gravity of the symptoms; but his prescription 
 was oral. 
 
 "You must keep Helen indoors until she is a 
 little stronger," he said to Miss Tewksbury, "and 
 then take her to a milder climate." 
 
 "Oh, not to Florida!" exclaimed Helen 
 promptly. 
 
 "Not necessarily," said the doctor. 
 
 "Please don t twist your language, Dr. Bux 
 ton. You should say necessarily not." 
 
 "And why not to Florida, young lady?" the 
 doctor inquired. 
 
 "Ah, I have seen people that came from 
 there," said Helen: "they were too tired to talk 
 much about the country, but something in their 
 attitude and appearance seemed to suggest that
 
 196 Free Joe 
 
 they had seen the sea-serpent. Dear doctor, I 
 have no desire to see the sea-serpent." 
 
 "Well, then, my dear child," said Dr. Bux- 
 ton soothingly, "not to Florida, but to nature s 
 own sanitarium, the pine woods of Georgia. 
 Yes," the doctor went on, smiling as he rubbed 
 the glasses of his spectacles with his silk hand 
 kerchief, "nature s own sanitarium. I tested the 
 piny woods of Georgia thoroughly years ago. I 
 drifted there in my young days. I lived there, 
 and taught school there. I grew strong there, 
 and I have always wanted to go back there." 
 
 "And now," said Helen, with a charmingly 
 demure glance at the enthusiastic physician, 
 "you want to send Aunt Harriet and poor Me 
 forward as a skirmish-line. There is no anti 
 dote in your books for the Ku-Klux." 
 
 "You will see new scenes and new people," 
 said Dr. Buxton, laughing. "You will get new 
 ideas; above all, you will breathe the fresh air 
 of heaven spiced with the odor of pines. It will 
 be the making of you, my dear child." 
 
 Helen made various protests, some of them 
 serious and some droll, but the matter was prac-
 
 Azalia 197 
 
 tically settled when it became evident that Dr. 
 Buxton was not only earnestly but enthusiasti 
 cally in favor of the journey; and Helen s aunt 
 at once began to make preparations. To some 
 of their friends it seemed a serious undertaking 
 indeed. The newspapers of that day were full 
 of accounts of Ku-Klux outrages, and of equally 
 terrible reports of the social disorganization of 
 the South. It seemed at that time as though the 
 politicians and the editors, both great and small, 
 and of every shade of belief, had determined to 
 fight the war over again instituting a conflict 
 which, though bloodless enough so far as the 
 disputants were concerned, was not without its 
 unhappy results. 
 
 Moreover, Helen s father had been noted 
 among those who had early engaged in the cru 
 sade against slavery; and it was freely predicted 
 by her friends that the lawlessness which was sup 
 posed to exist in every part of the collapsed Con 
 federacy would be prompt to select the represen 
 tatives of Charles Osborne Eustis as its victims. 
 
 Miss Tewksbury affected to smile at the ap 
 prehensions of her friends, but her preparations
 
 198 Free Joe 
 
 were not undertaken without a secret dread of 
 the responsibilities she was assuming. Helen, 
 however, was disposed to treat the matter humor 
 ously. "Dr. Buxton is a lifelong Democrat," she 
 said; "consequently he must know all about it. 
 Father used to tell him he liked his medicine 
 better than his politics, bitter as some of it was; 
 but in a case of this kind, Dr. Buxton s politics 
 have a distinct value. He will give us the grips, 
 the signs, and the pass-words, dear aunt, and I 
 dare say we shall get along comfortably." 
 
 II 
 
 THEY did get along comfortably. Peace 
 seemed to spread her meshes before them. They 
 journeyed by easy stages, stopping a while in 
 Philadelphia, in Baltimore, and in Washington. 
 They stayed a week in Richmond. From Rich 
 mond they were to go to Atlanta, and from At 
 lanta to Azalia, the little piny woods village 
 which Dr. Buxton had recommended as a sani 
 tarium. At a point south of Richmond, where 
 they stopped for breakfast, Miss Eustis and her
 
 Azalia 199 
 
 aunt witnessed a little scene that seemed to them 
 to be very interesting. A gentleman wrapped 
 in a long linen traveling-coat was pacing rest 
 lessly up and down the platform of the little 
 station. He was tall, and his bearing was dis 
 tinctly military. The neighborhood people who 
 were lounging around the station watched him 
 with interest. After a while a negro boy came 
 running up with a valise which he had evidently 
 brought some distance. He placed it in front of 
 the tall gentleman, crying out in a loud voice: 
 "Here she is, Marse Peyton," then stepped to 
 one side, and began to fan himself vigorously 
 with the fragment of a wool hat. He grinned 
 broadly in response to something the tall gentle 
 man said; but, before he could make a suitable 
 reply, a negro woman, fat and motherly-looking, 
 made her appearance, puffing and blowing and 
 talking. 
 
 "I declar ter gracious, Marse Peyton! seem 
 like I wa n t never gwine ter git yer. I belt up 
 my head, I did, fer ter keep my eye on de kyars, 
 en it look like I run inter all de gullies en on top 
 er all de stumps twix dis en Marse Tip s. I
 
 2OO Free Joe 
 
 des tuk n drapt everything, I did, en tole um 
 dey d hatter keep one eye on de dinner-pot, kaze 
 I blige ter run en see Marse Peyton off." 
 
 The gentleman laughed as the motherly-look 
 ing old negro wiped her face with her apron. 
 Her sleeves were rolled up, and her fat arms 
 glistened in the sun. 
 
 "I boun you some er deze yer folks 11 go off en 
 say I m stracted," she cried, "but I can t he p dat ; 
 I bleeze ter run down yer ter tell Marse Pey 
 ton good-by. Tell um all howdy fer me, Marse 
 Peyton," she cried, "all un um. No diffunce ef 
 I ain t know um all tain t gwine ter do no 
 harm fer ter tell um dat ole Jincy say howdy. 
 Hit make me feel right foolish in de head w en 
 it comes cross me dat I use ter tote Miss Hallie 
 roun w en she wuz a little bit er baby, en now 
 she way down dar out n de worl mos . I wish 
 ter de Lord I uz gwine long wid you, Marse 
 Peyton! Yit I speck, time I got dar, I d whirl 
 in en wish myse f back home." 
 
 The negro boy carried the gentleman s valise 
 into the sleeping-coach, and placed it opposite 
 the seats occupied by Helen and her aunt.
 
 Azalla 20 1 
 
 Across the end was stenciled in white the name 
 "Peyton Garwood." When the train was ready 
 to start, the gentleman shook hands with the 
 negro woman and with the boy. The woman 
 seemed to be very much affected. 
 
 "God A mighty bless you, Marse Peyton, 
 honey!" she exclaimed as the train moved off; 
 and as long as Helen could see her, she was wav 
 ing her hands in farewell. Both Helen and her 
 aunt had watched this scene with considerable 
 interest, and now, when the gentleman had been 
 escorted to his seat by the obsequious porter, 
 they regarded him with some curiosity. He ap 
 peared to be about thirty-five years old. His 
 face would have been called exceedingly hand 
 some but for a scar on his right cheek; and yet, 
 on closer inspection, the scar seemed somehow 
 to fit the firm outlines of his features. His 
 brown beard emphasized the strength of his 
 chin. His nose was slightly aquiline, his eye 
 brows were a trifle rugged, and his hair was 
 brushed straight back from a high forehead. His 
 face was that of a man who had seen rough service 
 and enjoyed it keenly a face full of fire and reso-
 
 2O2 Free Joe 
 
 lution with some subtle suggestion of tenderness. 
 
 "She called him Master, Helen," said Miss 
 Tewksbury after a while, referring to the scene 
 at the station ; "did you hear her?" Miss Tewks- 
 bury s tone implied wrathfulness that was too 
 sure of its own justification to assert itself noisily. 
 
 "I heard her," Helen replied. "She called 
 him Master, and he called her Mammy. It was 
 a very pleasing exchange of compliments." 
 
 Such further comment as the ladies may have 
 felt called on to make for it was a matter in 
 which both were very much interested was 
 postponed for the time being. A passenger oc 
 cupying a seat in the farther end of the coach 
 had recognized the gentleman whose valise was 
 labeled "Peyton Garwood," and now pressed 
 forward to greet him. This passenger was a 
 very aggressive-looking person. He was short 
 and stout, but there was no suggestion of jollity 
 or even of good-humor in his rotundity. No 
 one would have made the mistake of alluding 
 to him as a fat man. He would have been 
 characterized as the pudgy man; and even his 
 pudginess was aggressive. He had evidently
 
 Azalia 203 
 
 determined to be dignified at any cost, but his 
 seriousness seemed to be perfectly gratuitous. 
 
 "Gener l Garwood?" he said in an impressive 
 tone, as he leaned over the tall gentleman s seat. 
 
 "Ah! Goolsby!" exclaimed the other, extend 
 ing his hand. " Why, how do you do? Sit down." 
 
 Goolsby s pudginess became more apparent 
 and apparently more aggressive than ever when 
 he seated himself near General Garwood. 
 
 "Well, sir, I can t say my health s any too 
 good. You look mighty well yourse f, gener l. 
 How are things?" said Goolsby, pushing his trav 
 eling-cap over his eyes, and frowning as if in pain. 
 
 "Oh, affairs seem to be improving," General 
 Garwood replied. 
 
 "Well, now, I ain t so up and down certain 
 about that, gener l," said Goolsby, settling him 
 self back, and frowning until his little eyes dis 
 appeared. "Looks like to me that things git 
 wuss and wuss. I ain t no big man, and I m ruth- 
 er disj inted when it comes right down to politics ; 
 but blame me if it don t look to me mighty like 
 the whole of creation is driftin round loose." 
 
 "Ah, well," said the general soothingly, "a
 
 204 Free Joe 
 
 great many things are uncomfortable; there is a 
 good deal of unnecessary irritation growing out 
 of new and unexpected conditions. But we are 
 getting along better than we are willing to ad 
 mit. We are all fond of grumbling." 
 
 "That s so," said Goolsby, with the air of 
 a man who is willing to make any sacrifice for 
 the sake of a discussion; "that s so. But I tell 
 you we re havin mighty tough times, gener l 
 mighty tough times. Yonder s the Yankees 
 on one side, and here s the blamed niggers on 
 t other, and betwixt and betweenst em a white 
 man s got mighty little chance. And then, right 
 on top of the whole caboodle, here comes the 
 panic in the banks, and the epizooty mongst the 
 cattle. I tell you, gener l, it s tough times, and 
 it s in-about as much as an honest man can do to 
 pay hotel bills and have a ticket ready to show 
 up when the conductor comes along." 
 
 General Garwood smiled sympathetically, and 
 Goolsby went on: "Here I ve been runnin up 
 and down the country tryin to sell a book, and I 
 ain t sold a hunderd copies sence I started no, 
 sir, not a hunderd copies. Maybe you d like to
 
 Azalia 205 
 
 look at it, gener l," continued Goolsby, stiffening 
 up a little. "If I do say it myself, it s in-about 
 the best book that a man ll git a chance to thumb 
 in many a long day." 
 
 "What book is it, Goolsby?" the general in 
 quired. 
 
 Goolsby sprang up, waddled rapidly to where 
 he had left his satchel, and returned, bringing a 
 large and substantial-looking volume. 
 
 "It s a book that speaks for itself any day in 
 the week," he said, running the pages rapidly 
 between his fingers; "it s a history of our own 
 great conflict The Rise and Fall of the Rebel 
 lion, by Schuyler Paddleford. I don t know 
 what the blamed publishers wanted to put it 
 Rebellion for. I told em, says I : Gentlemen, 
 it ll be up-hill work with this in the Sunny 
 South. Call it "The Conflict," says I. But 
 they wouldn t listen, and now I have to work 
 like a blind nigger splittin rails. But she s a 
 daisy, gener l, as shore as you re born. She jess 
 reads right straight along from cover to cover 
 without a bobble. Why, sir, I never know d 
 what war was till I meandered through the
 
 206 Free Joe 
 
 sample pages of this book. And they ve got 
 your picture in here, gener l, jest as natural as 
 life all for five dollars in cloth, eight in liberry 
 style, and ten in morocker." 
 
 General Garwood glanced over the specimen 
 pages with some degree of interest, while Gools- 
 by continued to talk. 
 
 "Now, betwixt you and me, gener l," he went 
 on confidentially, "I don t nigh like the style of 
 that book, particular where it rattles up our 
 side. I wa n t in the war myself, but blame me 
 if it don t rile me when I hear outsiders a-cussin 
 them that was. I come mighty nigh not takin 
 holt of it on that account; but twouldn t have 
 done no good, not a bit. If sech a book is got to 
 be circulated around here, it better be circulated 
 by some good Southron a man that s a kind of 
 antidote to the pizen, as it were. If I don t sell 
 it, some blamed Yankee ll jump in and gallop 
 around with it. And I tell you what, gener l, 
 betwixt you and me and the gate-post, it s done 
 come to that pass where a man can t afford to 
 be too plegged particular; if he stops for to 
 scratch his head and consider whether he s a gen-
 
 Azalla 207 
 
 tleman, some other feller ll jump in and snatch 
 the rations right out of his mouth. That s why 
 I m a-paradin around tryin to sell this book." 
 
 "Well," said General Garwood in an encour 
 aging tone, "I have no doubt it is a very interest 
 ing book. I have heard of it before. Fetch me 
 a copy when you come to Azalia again." 
 
 Goolsby smiled an unctuous and knowing 
 smile. "Maybe you think I ain t a-comin ," he ex 
 claimed, with the air of a man who has invented 
 a joke that he relishes. "Well, sir, you re get 
 ting the wrong measure. I was down in Zalia 
 Monday was a week, and I m a-goin down week 
 after next. Fact is," continued Goolsby, rather 
 sheepishly, " Zalia is a mighty nice place. 
 Gener l, do you happen to know Miss Louisa 
 Hornsby? Of course you do! Well, sir, you 
 might go a week s journey in the wildwood, as 
 the poet says, and not find a handsomer gal then 
 that. She s got style from away back." 
 
 "Why, yes!" exclaimed the general in a tone 
 of hearty congratulation, "of course I know Miss 
 Lou. She is a most excellent young lady. And 
 so the wind sits in that quarter? Your blushes,
 
 208 Free Joe 
 
 Goolsby, are a happy confirmation of many sweet 
 and piquant rumors." 
 
 Goolsby appeared to be very much embar 
 rassed. He moved about uneasily in his seat, 
 searched in all his pockets for something or 
 other that wasn t there, and made a vain effort to 
 protest. He grew violently red in the face, and the 
 color gleamed through his closely cropped hair. 
 
 "Oh, come now, gener l !" he exclaimed. "Oh, 
 pshaw! Why oh, go way!" 
 
 His embarrassment was so great, and seemed 
 to border so closely on epilepsy, that the general 
 was induced to offer him a cigar and invite him 
 into the smoking apartment. As General Gar- 
 wood and Goolsby passed out, Helen Eustis 
 drew a long breath. 
 
 "It is worth the trouble of a long journey to 
 behold such a spectacle," she declared. Her 
 aunt regarded her curiously. "Who would have 
 thought it?" she went on "a Southern seces 
 sionist charged with affability, and a book-agent 
 radiant with embarrassment!" 
 
 "He is a coarse, ridiculous creature," said 
 Miss Tewksbury sharply.
 
 Azalla 209 
 
 "The affable general, Aunt Harriet?" 
 
 "No, child; the other." 
 
 "Dear aunt, we are in the enemy s country, 
 and we must ground our prejudices. The book- 
 agent is pert and crude, but he is not coarse. A 
 coarse man may be in love, but he would never 
 blush over it. And as for the affable general 
 you saw the negro woman cry over him." 
 
 "Poor thing!" said Miss Tewksbury, with a 
 sigh. "She sadly needs Instruction." 
 
 "Ah, yes! that is a theory we should stand to, 
 but how shall we instruct her to run and cry 
 after us?" 
 
 "My dear child, we want no such disgusting 
 exhibitions. It is enough if we do our duty by 
 these unfortunates." 
 
 "But I do want just such an exhibition, Aunt 
 Harriet," said Helen seriously. "I should be 
 glad to have some fortunate or unfortunate crea 
 ture run and cry after me." 
 
 "Well," said Miss Tewksbury placidly, "we 
 are about to ignore the most impressive fact, 
 after all." 
 
 "What is that, Aunt Harriet?"
 
 2io Free Joe 
 
 "Why, child, these people are from Azalia, 
 and for us Azalia is the centre of the universe." 
 
 "Ah, don t pretend that you are not charmed, 
 dear aunt. We shall have the pleasure of meet 
 ing the handsome Miss Hornsby, and probably 
 Mr. Goolsby himself and certainly the distin 
 guished general." 
 
 "I only hope Ephraim Buxton has a clear con 
 science to-day," remarked Miss Tewksbury with 
 unction. 
 
 "Did you observe the attitude of the general 
 toward Mr. Goolsby, and that of Mr. Goolsby 
 toward the general?" asked Helen, ignoring the 
 allusion to Dr. Buxton. "The line that the gen 
 eral drew was visible to the naked eye. But Mr. 
 Goolsby drew no line. He is friendly and famil 
 iar on principle. I was reminded of the Brook- 
 line Reporter, which alluded the other day to 
 the London Times as its esteemed contem 
 porary. The affable general is Mr. Goolsby s 
 esteemed contemporary." 
 
 "My dear child," said Miss Tewksbury, some 
 what anxiously, "I hope your queer conceits are 
 not the result of your illness."
 
 Azalia 211 
 
 "No, they are the result of my surround 
 ings. I have been trying to pretend to myself, 
 ever since we left Washington, that we are trav 
 eling through a strange country; but it is a mere 
 pretense. I have been trying to verify some 
 previous impressions of barbarism and shift- 
 lessness." 
 
 "Well, upon my word, my dear," exclaimed 
 Miss Tewksbury, "I should think you had had 
 ample opportunity." 
 
 "I have been trying to take the newspaper 
 view," Helen went on with some degree of ear 
 nestness, "but it is impossible. We must correct 
 the newspapers, Aunt Harriet, and make our 
 selves famous. Everything I have seen that is 
 not to be traced to the result of the war belongs 
 to a state of arrested development." 
 
 Miss Tewksbury was uncertain whether her 
 niece was giving a new turn to her drollery, so 
 she merely stared at her; but the young lady 
 seemed to be serious enough. 
 
 "Don t interrupt me, Aunt Harriet. Give me 
 the opportunity you would give to Dr. Barlow 
 Blade, the trance medium. Everything I see in
 
 212 Free Joe 
 
 this country belongs to a state of arrested de 
 velopment, and it has been arrested at a most 
 interesting point. It is picturesque. It is 
 colonial. I am amazed that this fact has not 
 been dwelt on by people who write about the 
 South." 
 
 "The conservatism that prevents progress, or 
 stands in the way of it, is a crime," said Miss 
 Tewksbury, pressing her thin lips together 
 firmly. She had once been on the platform in 
 some of the little country towns of New Eng 
 land, and had made quite a reputation for pith 
 and fluency. 
 
 "Ah, dear aunt, that sounds like an extract 
 from a lecture. We can have progress in some 
 things, but not in others. We have progressed 
 in the matter of conveniences, comforts, and lux 
 uries, but in what other directions? Are we any 
 better than the people who lived in the days of 
 Washington, Jefferson, and Madison? Is the 
 standard of morality any higher now than it was 
 in the days of the apostles?" 
 
 "Don t talk nonsense, Helen," said Miss 
 Tewksbury. "We have a higher civilization
 
 Azalia 213 
 
 than the apostles witnessed. Morality is pro 
 gressive." 
 
 "Well," said Helen, with a sigh, "it is a pity 
 these people have discarded shoe-buckles and 
 knee-breeches." 
 
 "Your queer notions make me thirsty, child," 
 said Miss Tewksbury, producing a silver cup 
 from her satchel. "I must get a drink of 
 water." 
 
 "Permit me, madam," said a sonorous voice 
 behind them; and a tall gentleman seized the 
 cup, and bore it away. 
 
 "It is the distinguished general!" exclaimed 
 Helen in a tragic whisper, "and he must have 
 heard our speeches." 
 
 "I hope he took them down," said Miss 
 Tewksbury snappishly. "He will esteem you 
 as a sympathizer." 
 
 "Did I say anything ridiculous, Aunt Har 
 riet?" 
 
 "Dear me! you must ask your distinguished 
 general," replied Miss Tewksbury triumphantly. 
 
 General Garwood returned with the water, 
 and insisted on fetching more. Helen observed
 
 214 Free Joe 
 
 that he held his hat in his hand, and that his 
 attitude was one of unstudied deference. 
 
 "The conductor tells me, madam," he said, 
 addressing himself to Miss Tewksbury, "that 
 you have tickets for Azalia. I am going in that 
 direction myself, and I should be glad to be of 
 any service to you. Azalia is a poor little place, 
 but I like it well enough to live there. I sup 
 pose that is the reason the conductor told me of 
 your tickets. He knew the information would 
 be interesting." 
 
 "Thank you," said Miss Tewksbury with 
 dignity. 
 
 "You are very kind," said Miss Eustis with a 
 smile. 
 
 General Garwood made himself exceedingly 
 agreeable. He pointed out the interesting places 
 along the road, gave the ladies little bits of local 
 history that were at least entertaining. In At 
 lanta, where there was a delay of a few hours, 
 he drove them over the battle-fields, and by his 
 graphic descriptions gave them a new idea of 
 the heat and fury of war. In short, he made 
 himself so agreeable in every way that Miss
 
 Azalia 215 
 
 Tewksbury felt at libery to challenge his opin 
 ions on various subjects. They had numberless 
 little controversies about the rights and wrongs 
 of the war, and the perplexing problems that 
 grew out of its results. So far as Miss Tewks 
 bury was concerned, she found General Gar- 
 wood s large tolerance somewhat irritating, for 
 it left her no excuse for the employment of her 
 most effective arguments. 
 
 "Did you surrender your prejudices at Ap- 
 pomattox?" Miss Tewksbury asked him on one 
 occasion. 
 
 "Oh, by no means; you remember we were 
 allowed to retain our side-arms and our saddle- 
 horses," he replied, laughing. "I still have my 
 prejudices, but I trust they are more important 
 than those I entertained in my youth. Certainly 
 they are less uncomfortable." 
 
 "Well," said Miss Tewksbury, "you are still 
 unrepentant, and that is more serious than any 
 number of prejudices." 
 
 "There is nothing to repent of," said the gen 
 eral, smiling, a little sadly as Helen thought. 
 "It has all passed away utterly. The best we
 
 216 Free Joe 
 
 can do is that which seems right and just and 
 necessary. My duty was as plain to me in 1861, 
 when I was a boy of twenty, as it is to-day. It 
 seemed to be my duty then to serve my State and 
 section; my duty now seems to be to help good 
 people everywhere to restore the Union, and to 
 heal the wounds of the war." 
 
 "I m very glad to hear you say so," exclaimed 
 Miss Tewksbury in a tone that made Helen 
 shiver. "I was afraid it was quite otherwise. 
 It seems to me, that, if I lived here, I should 
 either hate the people who conquered me, or 
 else the sin of slavery would weigh heavily on 
 my conscience. 
 
 "I can appreciate that feeling, I think," said 
 General Garwood, "but the American conscience 
 is a very healthy one not likely to succumb to 
 influences that are mainly malarial in their na 
 ture; and even from your point of view some 
 good can be found in American slavery." 
 
 "I have never found it," said Miss Tewks 
 bury. 
 
 "You must admit that but for slavery the ne 
 groes who are here would be savages in Africa.
 
 Azalia 217 
 
 As it is, they have had the benefit of more than 
 two hundred years contact with the white race. 
 If they are at all fitted for citizenship, the result 
 is due to the civilizing influence of slavery. It 
 seems to me that they are vastly better off as 
 American citizens, even though they have en 
 dured the discipline of slavery, than they would 
 be as savages in Africa." 
 
 Miss Tewksbury s eyes snapped. "Did this 
 make slavery right?" she asked. 
 
 "Not at all," said the general, smiling at the 
 lady s earnestness. "But, at least, it is something 
 of an excuse for American slavery. It seems to 
 be an evidence that Providence had a hand in 
 the whole unfortunate business." 
 
 But in spite of these discussions and contro 
 versies, the general made himself so thoroughly 
 agreeable in every way, and was so thoughtful in 
 his attentions, that by the time Helen and her 
 aunt arrived at Azalia they were disposed to 
 believe that he had placed them under many ob 
 ligations, and they said so; but the general in 
 sisted that it was he who had been placed under 
 obligations, and he declared it to be his intention 
 
 VOL. 3 10
 
 2i 8 Free Joe 
 
 to discharge a few of them as soon as the ladies 
 found themselves comfortably settled in the little 
 town to which Dr. Buxton had banished them. 
 
 Ill 
 
 AZALIA was a small town, but it was a com 
 paratively comfortable one. For years and years 
 before the war it had been noted as the meeting- 
 place of the wagon-trains by means of which the 
 planters transported their produce to market. It 
 was on the highway that led from the cotton- 
 plantations of Middle Georgia to the city of 
 Augusta. It was also a stopping-place for the 
 stage-coaches that carried the mails. Azalia was 
 not a large town, even before the war, when, ac 
 cording to the testimony of the entire commu 
 nity, it was at its best; and it certainly had not 
 improved any since the war. There was room 
 for improvement, but no room for progress, be 
 cause there was no necessity for progress. The 
 people were contented. They were satisfied with 
 things as they existed, though they had an hon 
 est, provincial faith in the good old times that
 
 Azalia 219 
 
 were gone. They had but one regret that the 
 railroad station, four miles away, had been 
 named Azalia. It is true, the station consisted 
 of a water-tank and a little pigeon-house where 
 tickets were sold; but the people of Azalia 
 proper felt that it was in the nature of an out 
 rage to give so fine a name to so poor a place. 
 They derived some satisfaction, however, from 
 the fact that the world at large found it nec 
 essary to make a distinction between the two 
 places. Azalia was called "Big Azalia," and 
 the railroad station was known as "Little Azalia." 
 Away back in the forties, or perhaps even 
 earlier, when there was some excitement in all 
 parts of the country in regard to railroad build 
 ing, one of Georgia s most famous orators had 
 alluded in the legislature to Azalia as "the nat 
 ural gateway of the commerce of the Empire 
 State of the South." This fine phrase stuck in 
 the memories of the people of Azalia and their 
 posterity; and the passing traveler, since that day 
 and time, has heard a good deal of it. There 
 is no doubt that the figure was fairly applicable 
 before the railways were built; for, as has been
 
 22O Free Joe 
 
 explained, Azalia was the meeting-place of the 
 wagon-trains from all parts of the State in going 
 to market. When the cotton-laden wagons met 
 at Azalia, they parted company no more until 
 they had reached August. The natural result 
 of this was that Azalia, in one way and another, 
 saw a good deal of life much that was enter 
 taining, and a good deal that was exciting. An 
 other result was that the people had considerable 
 practise in the art of hospitality; for it frequently 
 happened that the comfortable tavern, which 
 Azalia s commercial importance had made nec 
 essary at a very early period of the town s history, 
 was full to overflowing with planters accompany 
 ing their wagons, and lawyers traveling from 
 court to court. At such times the worthy towns 
 people would come to the rescue, and offer the 
 shelter of their homes to the belated wayfarer. 
 
 There was another feature of Azalia worthy 
 of attention. It was in a measure the site and 
 centre of a mission the headquarters, so to 
 speak, of a very earnest and patient effort to 
 infuse energy and ambition into that indescrib 
 able class of people known in that region as the
 
 Azalia 221 
 
 piny-woods "Tackles." Within a stone s throw 
 of Azalia there was a scattering settlement of 
 these Tackies. They had settled there before 
 the Revolution, and had remained there ever 
 since, unchanged and unchangeable, steeped in 
 poverty of the most desolate description, and 
 living the narrowest lives possible in this great 
 Republic. They had attracted the attention of 
 the Rev. Arthur Hill, an Episcopalian minister, 
 who conceived an idea that the squalid settle 
 ment near Azalia afforded a fine field for mis 
 sionary labor. Mr. Hill established himself in 
 Azalia, built and furnished a little church in the 
 settlement, and entered on a career of the most 
 earnest and persevering charity. To all appear 
 ances his labor was thrown away; but he was 
 possessed by both faith and hope, and never al 
 lowed himself to be disheartened. All his time, 
 as well as the modest fortune left him by his wife 
 who was dead, was devoted to the work of im 
 proving and elevating the Tackies; and he never 
 permitted himself to doubt for an instant that 
 reasonable success was crowning his efforts. He 
 was gentle, patient, and somewhat finical.
 
 222 Free Joe 
 
 This was the neighborhood toward which 
 Miss Eustis and her aunt had journeyed. For 
 tunately for these ladies, Major Haley, the ge 
 nial tavern-keeper, had a habit of sending a hack 
 to meet every train that stopped at Little Azalia. 
 It was not a profitable habit in the long run; 
 but Major Haley thought little of the profits, so 
 long as he was conscious that the casual trav 
 eler had abundant reason to be grateful to him. 
 Major Haley himself was a native of Kentucky; 
 but his wife was a Georgian, inheriting her thrift 
 and her economy from a generation that knew 
 more about the hand-loom, the spinning-wheel, 
 and the cotton-cards, than it did about the piano. 
 She admired her husband, who was a large, fine- 
 looking man, with jocular tendencies; but she 
 disposed of his opinions without ceremony when 
 they came in conflict with her own. Under these 
 circumstances it was natural that she should have 
 charge of the tavern and all that appertained 
 thereto. 
 
 General Garwood, riding by from Little Aza 
 lia, whither his saddle-horse had been sent to 
 meet him, had informed the major that two
 
 Azalia 223 
 
 ladies from the North were coming in the hack, 
 and begged him to make them as comfortable as 
 possible. This information Major Haley duti 
 fully carried to his wife. 
 
 "Good Lord!" exclaimed Mrs. Haley, "what 
 do you reckon they want here?" 
 
 "I ve been a-studyin ," said her husband 
 thoughtfully. "The gener l says they re corn- 
 in fer their health." 
 
 "Well, it s a mighty fur cry for health," said 
 Mrs. Haley emphatically. "I ve seen some mon- 
 st ous sick people around here; and if anybody ll 
 look at them Tackies out on the Ridge yonder, 
 and then tell me there s any health in this neigh 
 borhood, then I ll give up. I don t know how 
 in the wide world we ll fix up for em. That 
 everlastin nigger went and made too much fire 
 in the stove, and tee-totally ruint my light-bread ; 
 I could a cried, I was so mad; and then on top 
 er that the whole dinin -room is tore up from top 
 to bottom." 
 
 "Well," said the major, "we ll try and make 
 em comfortable, and if they ain t comfortable 
 it won t be our fault. Jest you whirl in, and
 
 224 Free Joe 
 
 put on some of your Greene County style, Maria. 
 That ll fetch em." 
 
 "It may fetch em, but it won t feed em," said 
 the practical Maria. 
 
 The result was, that when Helen Eustis and 
 her aunt became the guests of this poor little 
 country tavern, they were not only agreeably 
 disappointed as to their surroundings, but they 
 were better pleased than they would have been 
 at one of the most pretentious caravansaries. 
 Hotel luxury is comfortable enough to those who 
 make it a point to appreciate what thay pay for; 
 but the appointments of luxury can neither im 
 part, nor compensate for the lack of, the atmos 
 phere that mysteriously conveys some impression 
 or reminiscence of home. In the case of Helen 
 and her aunt, this impression was conveyed and 
 confirmed by a quilt of curious pattern on one 
 of the beds in their rooms. 
 
 "My dear," said Miss Tewksbury, after mak 
 ing a critical examination, "your grandmother 
 had just such a quilt as this. Yes, she had two. 
 I remember the first one was quite a bone of 
 contention between your mother and me, and so
 
 Azalia 22$ 
 
 your grandmother made two. I declare," Miss 
 Tewksbury continued, with a sigh, "it quite car 
 ries me back to old times." 
 
 "It is well made," said Helen, giving the 
 stitches a critical examination, "and the colors 
 are perfectly matched. Really, this is something 
 to think about, for it fits none of our theories. 
 Perhaps, Aunt Harriet, we have accidentally 
 discovered some of our long-lost relatives. It 
 would be nice and original to substitute a 
 beautiful quilt for the ordinary strawberry- 
 mark." 
 
 "Well, the sight of it is comforting, anyhow," 
 said Miss Tewksbury, responding to the half- 
 serious humor of her niece by pressing her thin 
 lips together, and tossing her gray ringlets. 
 
 As she spoke, a negro boy, apparently about 
 ten years old, stalked unceremoniously into the 
 room, balancing a large stone pitcher on his 
 head. His hands were tucked beneath his white 
 apron, and the pitcher seemed to be in imminent 
 danger of falling; but he smiled and showed his 
 white teeth. 
 
 "I come fer ter fetch dish yer pitcher er water,
 
 226 Free Joe 
 
 ma m. Miss Ria say she speck you lak fer have 
 im right fresh from de well." 
 
 "Aren t you afraid you ll drop it?" said Miss 
 Eustis. 
 
 "Lor , no m!" exclaimed the boy, emphasizing 
 his words by increasing his grin. "I been ca um 
 dis away sence I ain t no bigger dan my li l 
 buddy. Miss Ria, she say dat w at make I so 
 bow-legged." 
 
 "What is your name?" inquired Miss Tewks- 
 bury, with some degree of solemnity, as the boy 
 deposited the pitcher on the wash-stand. 
 
 "Mammy she say I un name Willum, but 
 Mars Maje en de turrer folks dey des calls me 
 Bill. I run d off en sot in de school- ouse all 
 day one day, but dat mus a been a mighty bad 
 day, kaze I ain t never year um say wherrer I 
 wuz name Willum, er wherrer I wuz des name 
 Bill. Miss Ria, she say dat taint make no dif- 
 funce w at folks name is, long ez dey come w en 
 dey year turred folks holl in at um." 
 
 "Don t you go to school, child?" Miss Tewks- 
 bury inquired, with dignified sympathy. 
 
 "I start in once," said William, laughing, "but
 
 227 
 
 mos time I git dar de nigger man w at do de 
 teachin tuck n snatch de book out n my ban en 
 say I got im upper-side down. I tole im dat de 
 onliest way w at I kin git my lesson, en den dat 
 nigger man tuck n lam me side de head. Den 
 atter school bin turn out, I is hide myse f side de 
 road, en w en dat nigger man come long, I up 
 wid a rock en I fetched im a clip dat mighty 
 nigh double im up. You ain t never is year no 
 nigger man holler lak dat nigger man. He 
 run t en tole Mars Peyt dat de Kukluckers wuz 
 atter im. Mars Peyt he try ter quiet em, but 
 dat nigger man done gone!" 
 
 "Don t you think you did wrong to hit him?" 
 Miss Tewksbury asked. 
 
 "Dat w at Miss Ria say. She say I oughter 
 be shame er myse f by good rights; but w at dat 
 nigger man wanter come hurtin my feelin fer 
 w en I settin dar studyin my lesson des hard 
 ez I kin, right spank out n de book? en spozen 
 she wuz upper-side down, wa n t de lesson in 
 dar all de time, kaze how she gwine spill 
 out?" 
 
 William was very serious indeed, he was in-
 
 228 Free Joe 
 
 dignant when he closed his argument. He 
 turned to go out, but paused at the door, and 
 said: 
 
 "Miss Ria say supper be ready mos fo you 
 kin turn roun , but she say ef you too tired out 
 she ll have it sont up." William paused, rolled 
 his eyes toward the ceiling, smacked his mouth, 
 and added: "I gwine fetch in de batter-cakes 
 myse f." 
 
 Miss Tewksbury felt in her soul that she ought 
 to be horrified at this recital ; but she was grate 
 ful that she was not amused. 
 
 "Aunt Harriet," cried Helen, when William 
 had disappeared, "this is better than the sea 
 shore. I am stronger already. My only regret 
 is that Henry P. Bassett, the novelist, is not here. 
 The last time I saw him, he was moping and 
 complaining that his occupation was almost 
 gone, because he had exhausted all the types 
 that s what he calls them. He declared he would 
 be compelled to take his old characters, and give 
 them a new outfit of emotions. Oh, if he were 
 only here!" 
 
 "I hope you feel that you are, in some
 
 Azalia 229 
 
 sense, responsible for all this, Helen," said Miss 
 Tewksbury solemnly. 
 
 "Do you mean the journey, Aunt Harriet, or 
 the little negro?" 
 
 "My dear child, don t pretend to misunder 
 stand me. I can not help feeling that if we had 
 done and were doing our whole duty, this this 
 poor negro Ah, well! it is useless to speak of 
 it. We are on missionary ground, but our hands 
 are tied. Oh, I wish Elizabeth Mappis were 
 here! She would teach us our duty." 
 
 "She wouldn t teach me mine, Aunt Harriet," 
 said Helen seriously. "I wouldn t give one grain 
 of your common sense for all that Elizabeth 
 Mappis has written and spoken. What have 
 her wild theories to do with these people? She 
 acts like a man in disguise. When I see her 
 striding about, delivering her harangues, I al 
 ways imagine she is wearing a pair of cowhide 
 boots as a sort of stimulus to her masculinity. 
 Ugh! I m glad she isn t here." 
 
 Ordinarily, Miss Tewksbury would have de 
 fended Mrs. Elizabeth Mappis; but she remem 
 bered that a defense of that remarkable woman
 
 230 Free Joe 
 
 as remarkable for her intellect as for -er cour 
 age was unnecessary at all times, and, in this 
 instance, absolutely uncalled for. Moreover, 
 the clangor of the supper-bell, which rang out 
 at that moment, would have effectually drowned 
 out whatever Miss Tewksbury might have 
 chosen to say in behalf of Mrs. Mappis. 
 
 The bellringer was William, the genial little 
 negro whose acquaintance the ladies had made, 
 and he performed his duty with an unction that 
 left nothing to be desired. The bell was so large 
 that William was compelled to use both hands 
 in swinging it. He bore it from the dining-room 
 to the hall, and thence from one veranda to the 
 other, making fuss enough to convince every 
 body that those who ate at the tavern were on 
 the point of enjoying another of the famous 
 meals prepared under the supervision of Mrs. 
 Haley. 
 
 There was nothing in the dining-room to in 
 vite the criticism of Helen and her aunt, even 
 though they had been disposed to be critical; 
 there was no evidence of slatternly management. 
 Everything was plain, but neat. The ceiling was
 
 Azalia 23 r 
 
 high and wide; and the walls were of dainty 
 whiteness, relieved here and there by bracket- 
 shelves containing shiny crockery and glassware. 
 The oil-lamps gave a mellow light through the 
 simple but unique paper shades with which they 
 had been fitted. Above the table, which ex 
 tended the length of the room, was suspended 
 a series of large fans. These fans were con 
 nected by a cord, so that when it became neces 
 sary to cool the room, or to drive away the flies, 
 one small negro, by pulling a string, could set 
 them all in motion. 
 
 Over this dining-room Mrs. Haley presided. 
 She sat at the head of the table, serene, cheerful, 
 and watchful, anticipating the wants of each and 
 every one who ate at the board. She invited 
 Helen and her aunt to seats near her own, and 
 somehow managed to convince them, veteran 
 travelers though they were, that hospitality such 
 as hers was richly worth paying for. 
 
 "I do hope you ll make out to be comfortable 
 in this poor little neighborhood," she said as the 
 ladies lingered over their tea, after the other 
 boarders the clerks and the shopkeepers had
 
 232 Free Joe 
 
 bolted their food and fare. "I have my hopes, 
 and I have my doubts. Gener l Garwood says 
 you re come to mend your health," she con 
 tinued, regarding the ladies with the critical eye 
 of one who has had something to do with herbs 
 and simples; "and I ve been tryin my best to 
 pick out which is the sick one, but it s a mighty 
 hard matter. Yet I won t go by looks, because 
 if folks looked bad every time they felt bad, 
 they d be some mighty peaked people in this 
 world off and on William, run and fetch in 
 some hot batter-cakes." 
 
 "I am the alleged invalid," said Helen. "I 
 am the victim of a conspiracy between my aunt 
 here and our family physician, Aunt Harriet, 
 what do you suppose Dr. Buxton would say if 
 he knew how comfortable we are at this mo 
 ment? I dare say he would write a letter, and 
 order us off to some other point." 
 
 "My niece," said Miss Tewksbury, by way of 
 explanation, "has weak lungs, but she has never 
 permitted herself to acknowledge the fact." 
 
 "Well, my goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Haley, 
 "if that s all, we ll have her sound and well in
 
 Azalia 233 
 
 a little or no time. Why, when I was her age 
 I had a hackin cough and a rackin pain in my 
 breast night and day, and I fell off till my own 
 blood kin didn t know me. Everybody give me 
 up; but old Miss Polly Flanders in Hancock, 
 right j inin county from Greene, she sent me 
 word to make me some mullein tea, and drink 
 sweet milk right fresh from the cow; and from 
 that day to this I ve never know d what weak 
 lungs was. I reckon you ll be mighty lonesome 
 here," said Mrs. Haley after William had re 
 turned with a fresh supply of batter-cakes, "but 
 you ll find folks mighty neighborly, once you 
 come to know em. And, bless goodness, here s 
 one of em now! Howdy, Emma Jane?" 
 
 A tall, ungainly-looking woman stood in the 
 door of the dining-room leading to the kitchen. 
 Her appearance showed the most abject poverty. 
 Her dirty sunbonnet had fallen back from her 
 head, and hung on her shoulders. Her hair was 
 of a reddish-gray color, and its frazzled and tan 
 gled condition suggested that the woman had 
 recently passed through a period of extreme ex 
 citement; but this suggestion was promptly cor-
 
 234 Free Joe 
 
 rected by the wonderful serenity of her face 
 a pale, unhealthy-looking face, with sunken eyes, 
 high cheek-bones, and thin lips that seemed 
 never to have troubled themselves to smile: a 
 burnt-out face that had apparently surrendered 
 to the past, and had no hope for the future. The 
 Puritan simplicity of the woman s dress made 
 her seem taller than she really was, but this was 
 the only illusion about her. Though her ap 
 pearance was uncouth and ungainly, her man 
 ner was unembarrassed. She looked at Helen 
 with some degree of interest; and to the latter 
 it seemed that Misery, hopeless but unabashed, 
 gazed at her with a significance at once pathetic 
 and appalling. In response to Mrs. Haley s 
 salutation, the woman seated herself in the door 
 way, and sighed. 
 
 "You must be tired, Emma Jane, not to say 
 howdy," said Mrs. Haley, with a smile. The 
 woman raised her right hand above her head, 
 and allowed it to drop helplessly into her lap. 
 
 u Ti-ud! Lordy, Lordy! how kin a pore cree- 
 tur like me be ti-ud? Hain t I thes natally 
 made out n i on?"
 
 Azalia 235 
 
 "Well, I won t go so fur as to say that, Emma 
 Jane," said Mrs. Haley, "but you re mighty 
 tough. Now, you know that yourself." 
 
 "Yes n yes n. I m made out n i on. Lordy, 
 Lordy! I thes natally hone fer some un ter 
 come along an tell me what makes me h ist up 
 an walk away over yan ter the railroad track, 
 an set thar tell the ingine shoves by. I wisht 
 some un ud up an tell me what makes me so 
 restless an oneasy, ef it hain t cause I m hongry. 
 I thes wisht they would. JPassin on by, I sez 
 ter myself, s I: Emma Jane Stucky, s I, ef 
 you know what s good fer your wholesome, s I, 
 you ll sneak in on Miss Haley, cause you ll feel 
 better, s I, ef you don t no more n tell er 
 howdy, s I. Lordy, Lordy! I dunner what ud 
 come er me ef I hadn t a bin made out n i on." 
 
 "Emma Jane," said Mrs. Haley, in the tone 
 of one who is humoring a child, "these ladies 
 are from the North." 
 
 "Yes n," said the woman, glancing at Helen 
 and her aunt with the faintest expression of pity; 
 "yes n, I hearn tell you had comp ny. Hit s a 
 mighty long ways fum this, the North, hain t it,
 
 236 Free Joe 
 
 Miss Haley a long ways fuder n Tennissy? 
 Well, the Lord knows I pity um fum the bottom 
 of my heart, that I do a-bein such a long 
 ways fum home." 
 
 "The North is ever so much farther than Ten 
 nessee," said Helen pleasantly, almost uncon 
 sciously assuming the tone employed by Mrs. 
 Haley; "but the weather is so very cold there 
 that we have to run away sometimes." 
 
 "You re right, honey," said Mrs. Stucky, hug 
 ging herself with h^r long arms. "I wisht I 
 could run away fum it myself. Ef I wa n t made 
 out n i on, I dunner how I d stan it. Lordy! 
 when the win sets in from the east, hit in-about 
 runs me plum destracted. Hit kills lots an lots 
 er folks, but they hain t made out n i on like me." 
 
 While Mrs. Stucky was describing the vig 
 orous constitution that had enabled her to sur 
 vive in the face of various difficulties, and in 
 spite of many mishaps, Mrs. Haley was en 
 gaged in making up a little parcel of victuals. 
 This she handed to the woman. 
 
 "Thanky-do! thanky-do, ma am! Me an my 
 son ll set down an wallop this up, an say
 
 AzaVia 237 
 
 thanky-do all the time, an atter we re done 
 we ll wipe our mouves, an say thanky-do." 
 
 "I reckon you ladies ll think we re mighty 
 queer folks down here," said Mrs. Haley, with 
 an air of apology, after Mrs. Stucky had re 
 tired; "but I declare I can t find it in my heart 
 to treat that poor creetur out of the way. I set 
 and look at her sometimes, and I wish I may 
 never budge if I don t come mighty nigh cryin . 
 She ain t hardly fittin to live, and if she s fittin 
 to die, she s lots better off than the common run 
 of folks. But she s mighty worrysome. She 
 pesters me lots mor n I ever let on." 
 
 "The poor creature!" exclaimed Miss Tewks- 
 bury. "I am truly sorry for her truly sorry." 
 
 "Ah! so am I," said Helen. "I propose to 
 see more of her. I am interested in just such 
 people." 
 
 "Well, ma am," said Mrs. Haley dryly, "if 
 you like sech folks it s a thousand pities you ve 
 come here, for you ll git a doste of em. Yes m, 
 that you will; a doste of em that ll last you as 
 long as you live, if you live to be one of the 
 patrioks. And you nee nter be sorry for Emma
 
 238 Free Joe 
 
 Jane Stucky neither. Jest as you see her now, 
 jesso she s been a-goin on fer twenty year, an 
 jest as you see her now, jesso she s been a-look- 
 in ev ry sence anybody around here has been 
 a-knowin her." 
 
 "Her history must be a pathetic one," said 
 Miss Tewksbury with a sigh. 
 
 "Her what, ma am?" asked Mrs. Haley. 
 
 "Her history, the story of her life," responded 
 Miss Tewksbury. "I dare say it is very touch- 
 ing." 
 
 "Well, ma am," said Mrs. Haley, "Emma 
 Jane Stucky is like one of them there dead pines 
 out there in the clearin . If you had a stack of 
 almanacs as high as a boss-rack, you couldn t 
 pick out the year she was young and sappy. She 
 must a started out as a light d knot, an she s 
 been a-gittin tougher year in an year out, till 
 now she s tougher n the toughest. No m," con 
 tinued Mrs. Haley, replying to an imaginary 
 argument, "I ain t predijiced ag in the poor 
 creetur the Lord knows I ain t. If I was, no 
 vittels would she git from me not a scrimp- 
 tion."
 
 Azalla 239 
 
 "I never saw such an expression on a human 
 countenance," said Helen. "Her eyes will haunt 
 me as long as I live." 
 
 "Bless your soul and body, child!" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Haley; "if you re going to let that poor 
 creetur s looks pester you, you ll be worried to 
 death, as certain as the world. There s a hun- 
 derd in this settlement jest like her, and ther 
 must be more n that, old an young, cause the 
 children look to be as old as the r grannies. I 
 reckon maybe you ain t used to seein piny-woods 
 Tackies. Well, ma am, you wait till you come 
 to know em, and if you are in the habits of 
 bein ha nted by looks, you ll be the wuss ha nted 
 mortal in this land, less n it s them that s got the 
 sperrit-rappin s after em." 
 
 IV 
 
 MRS. STUCKY, making her way homeward 
 through the gathering dusk, moved as noise 
 lessly and as swiftly as a ghost. The soft white 
 sand beneath her feet gave forth no sound, and 
 she seemed to be gliding forward, rather than
 
 240 Free Joe 
 
 walking; though there was a certain awkward 
 emphasis and decision in her movements alto 
 gether human in their suggestions. The way 
 was lonely. There was no companionship for 
 her in the whispering sighs of the tall pines that 
 stood by the roadside, no friendliness in the 
 constellations that burned and sparkled over 
 head, no hospitable suggestion in the lights that 
 gleamed faintly here and there from the win 
 dows of the houses in the little settlement. To 
 Mrs. Stucky all was commonplace. There was 
 nothing in her surroundings as she went toward 
 her home, to lend wings even to her superstition, 
 which was eager to assert itself on all occasions. 
 It was not much of a home to which she was 
 making her way a little log-cabin in a pine 
 thicket, surrounded by a little clearing that 
 served to show how aimlessly and how hope 
 lessly the lack of thrift and energy could assert 
 itself. The surroundings were mean enough and 
 squalid enough at their best, but the oppressive 
 shadows of night made them meaner and more 
 squalid than they really were. The sun, which 
 shines so lavishly in that region, appeared to
 
 Azalla 241 
 
 glorify the squalor, showing wild passion-flowers 
 clambering along the broken-down fence of pine 
 poles, and a wistaria vine running helter-skelter 
 across the roof of the little cabin. But the night 
 hid all this completely. 
 
 A dim, vague blaze, springing from a few 
 charred pine-knots, made the darkness visible in 
 the one room of the cabin; and before it, with 
 his elbows on his knees and his chin in his 
 hands, sat what appeared to be a man. He 
 wore neither coat nor shoes, and his hair was 
 long and shaggy. 
 
 "Is that you, Bud?" said Mrs. Stucky. 
 "Why, who d you reckon it wuz, maw?" re 
 plied Bud, looking up with a broad grin that 
 iwas not at all concealed by his thin, sandy beard. 
 "A body d sorter think, ef they uz ter ketch you 
 gwine on that away, that you spected ter find 
 some great somebody er nuther a-roostin in 
 here." 
 
 Mrs. Stucky, by way of responding, stirred 
 the pine-knots until they gave forth a more sat 
 isfactory light, hung her bonnet on the bedpost, 
 and seated herself wearily in a rickety chair, the 
 
 VOL. 3 ii
 
 242 Free Joe 
 
 loose planks of the floor rattling and shaking as 
 she moved about. 
 
 "Now, who in the nation did you reckon 
 it wuz, maw?" persisted Bud, still grinning 
 placidly. 
 
 "Some great somebody," replied Mrs. Stucky, 
 brushing her gray hair out of her eyes and look 
 ing at her son. At this Bud could contain him 
 self no longer. He laughed almost uproari 
 ously. 
 
 "Well, the great Jemimy!" he exclaimed, and 
 then laughed louder than ever. 
 
 "Wher ve you been?" Mrs. Stucky asked, 
 when Bud s mirth had subsided. 
 
 "Away over yander at the depot," said Bud, 
 indicating Little Azalia. "An I fotch you 
 some May-pops too. I did that! I seed em 
 while I wuz a-gwine long, an I sez ter my 
 self, sezee, You jess wait thar tell I come 
 long back, an I ll take an take you ter maw, 
 
 sezee." 
 
 Although this fruit of the passion-flowers was 
 growing in profusion right at the door, Mrs. 
 Stucky gave this grown man, her son, to under-
 
 Azalla 243 
 
 stand that May-pops such as he brought were 
 very desirable indeed. 
 
 "I wonder you didn t fergit em," she said. 
 
 "Who? me!" exclaimed Bud. "I jess like fer 
 ter see anybody ketch me fergittin em. Now 
 I jess would. I never eat a one, nuther not a 
 
 one." 
 
 Mrs. Stucky made no response to this, and 
 none seemed to be necessary. Bud sat and pulled 
 his thin beard, and gazed in the fire. Presently 
 he laughed and said: 
 
 "I jess bet a hoss you couldn t guess who I 
 seed ; now I jess bet that." 
 
 Mrs. Stucky rubbed the side of her face 
 thoughtfully, and seemed to be making a tre 
 mendous effort to imagine whom Bud had 
 seen. 
 
 " .Twer n t no man, en twer n t no Azalia 
 folks. Twuz a gal." 
 
 "A gal!" exclaimed Mrs. Stucky. 
 
 "Yes n, a gal, an ef she wa n t a zooner you 
 may jess take an knock my chunk out." 
 
 Mrs. Stucky looked at her son curiously. Her 
 cold gray eyes glittered in the firelight as she
 
 244 Free Joe 
 
 held them steadily on his face. Bud, conscious 
 of this inspection, moved about in his chair 
 uneasily, shifting his feet from one side to the 
 other. 
 
 " Twer n t no Sal Badger," he said, after 
 a while, laughing sheepishly; " twer n t no 
 Maria Matthews, twer n t no Lou Hornsby, 
 an twer n t no Martha Jane Williams, nuther. 
 She wuz a bran -new gal, an she went ter the 
 tavern, she did." 
 
 "I ve done saw er," said Mrs. Stucky placidly. 
 
 "You done saw er, maw!" exclaimed Bud. 
 "Well, the great Jemimy! What s her name, 
 maw?" 
 
 "They didn t call no names," said Mrs. Stucky. 
 "They jess sot thar, an gormandized on waffles 
 an batter-cakes, an didn t call no names. Hit 
 made me dribble at the mouf, the way they 
 went on." 
 
 "Wuz she purty, maw?" 
 
 "I sot an looked at um," Mrs. Stucky went 
 on, "an 5 I lowed maybe the war moughter come 
 betwixt the old un an her good looks. The 
 t other one looks mighty slick, but, Lordy! She
 
 Azalia 245 
 
 hain t nigh ez slick ez that ar Lou Hornsby; yit 
 she s got lots purtier motions." 
 
 "Well, I seed er, maw," said Bud, gazing 
 into the depths of the fireplace. "Atter the in- 
 gine come a-snortin by, I jumped up behind the 
 hack whar they puts the trunks, an I got a right 
 good glimp un er; an ef she hain t purty, then 
 I dunner what purty is. What d you say her 
 name wuz, maw?" 
 
 "Lordy, jess hark ter the creetur! Hain t I 
 jess this minute hollered, an tole you that they 
 hain t called no names?" 
 
 "I lowed maybe you moughter hearn the 
 name named, an then .drapt it," said Bud, still 
 gazing into the fire. "I tell you what, she made 
 that ole hack look big, she did!" 
 
 "You talk like you er start crazy, Bud!" ex 
 claimed Mrs. Stucky, leaning over, and fixing 
 her glittering eyes on his face. "Lordy! 
 what s she by the side er me? Is she made 
 out n i on?" 
 
 Bud s enthusiasm immediately vanished, and 
 a weak, flickering smile took possession of his 
 face.
 
 246 Free Joe 
 
 "No m no m; that she hain t made out n 
 i on! She s lots littler n you is lots littler. She 
 looks like she s sorry." 
 
 "Sorry! What fer?" 
 
 "Sorry fer we-all." 
 
 Mrs. Stucky looked at her son with amaze 
 ment, not unmixed with indignation. Then she 
 seemed to remember something she had for 
 gotten. 
 
 "Sorry fer we-all, honey, when we er got this 
 great big pile er tavern vittles?" she asked with 
 a smile; an d tKen the two. fell to, and made the 
 most of Mrs. Haley s charity. 
 
 At the tavern Helen and her aunt sat long at 
 their tea, listening to the quaint gossip of Mrs. 
 Haley, which not only toolc a wide and enter 
 taining range, but entered into details that her 
 guests found extremely interesting. Miss Tewks- 
 bury s name reminded Mrs. Haley of a Miss 
 Kingsbury, a Northern lady, who had taught 
 school, in Middle Georgia, and who had "writ 
 a sure-enough book," as the genial landlady ex 
 pressed it. She went to the trouble of hunting 
 up this "sure-enough" book a small school die-
 
 Azalia 247 
 
 tionary and gave many reminiscences of her 
 acquaintance with the author. 
 
 In the small parlor, too, the ladies found Gen 
 eral Garwood awaiting them; and they held 
 quite a little reception, forming the acquaintance, 
 among others, of Miss Lou Hornsby, a fresh- 
 looking young woman, who had an exclamation 
 of surprise or a grimace of wonder for every 
 statement she heard and for every remark that 
 was made. Miss Hornsby also went to the piano, 
 and played and sang "Nelly Gray" and "Lily 
 Dale" with a dramatic fervor that could only 
 have been acquired in a boarding school. The 
 Rev. Arthur Hill was also there, a little gentle 
 man, whose side-whiskers and modest deport 
 ment betokened both refinement and sensibility. . 
 He was very cordial to the two ladies from the 
 North, and strove to demonstrate the liberality 
 of his cloth by a certain gaiety of manner that 
 was by no means displeasing. He seemed to 
 consider himself one of the links of sociability, 
 as well as master of ceremonies; and he had a 
 way of speaking for others that suggested con 
 siderable social tact and versatility. Thus, when
 
 248 Free Joe 
 
 there was a lull in the conversation, he started 
 it again, and imparted to it a vivacity that was 
 certainly remarkable, as Helen thought At 
 precisely the proper moment, he seized Miss 
 Hornsby, and bore her off home, tittering 
 sweetly as only a young girl can; and the 
 others, following the example thus happily 
 set, left Helen and her aunt to themselves, 
 and to the repose that tired travelers are sup 
 posed to be in need of. They were not long 
 in seeking it. 
 
 "I wonder," said Helen, after she and her 
 aunt had gone to bed, "if these people really 
 regard us as enemies?" 
 
 This question caused Miss Tewksbury to sniff 
 the air angrily. 
 
 "Pray, what difference does it make?" she 
 replied. 
 
 "Oh, none at all!" said Helen. "I was just 
 thinking. The little preacher was tremendously 
 gay. His mind seemed to be on skates. He 
 touched on every subject but the war, and that 
 he glided around gracefully. No doubt they 
 have had enough of war down here."
 
 Azalia 249 
 
 "I should hope so," said Miss Tewksbury. 
 "Go to sleep, child : you need rest." 
 
 Helen did not follow this timely advice at 
 once. From her window she could see the con 
 stellations dragging their glittering procession 
 westward; and she knew that the spirit of the 
 night was whispering gently in the tall pines, 
 but her thoughts were in a whirl. The scenes 
 through which she had passed, and the people 
 she had met, were new to her; and she lay awake 
 and thought of them until at last the slow-mov 
 ing stars left her wrapped in sleep a sleep from 
 which she was not aroused until William shook 
 the foundations of the tavern with his melodious 
 bell, informing everybody that the hour for 
 breakfast had arrived. 
 
 Shortly afterward, William made his appear 
 ance in person, bringing an abundance of fresh, 
 clear water. He appeared to be in excellent 
 humor. 
 
 "What did you say your name is?" Helen 
 asked. William chuckled, as if he thought the 
 question was in the nature of a joke. 
 
 "I m name Willum, ma am, en my mammy
 
 250 Tree Joe 
 
 she name 7 Sa er Jane, en de baby she name 
 Phillypeener. Miss Ria she say dat baby is 
 de likelies nigger baby w at she y ever been see 
 sence de war en I speck she is, kaze Miss Ria 
 ain t been talk dat away bout eve y nigger baby 
 w at come long." 
 
 "How old are you?" Miss ?Tewksbury in 
 quired. 
 
 "I dunno m," said William placidly. "Miss 
 Ria she says I m lots older dan w at I looks 
 ter be, en I speck dat s so, kaze mammy sey dey 
 got ter be a runt mongst all folks s famblies." 
 
 Helen laughed, and William went on : 
 
 "Mammy say ole Miss gwine come see you 
 all. Mars Peyt gwine bring er." 
 
 "Who is old Miss?" Helen asked. 
 
 William gazed at her with unfeigned amuse 
 ment. 
 
 "Dunner who ole Miss Is? Lordy! you de 
 fus folks w at ain t know ole Miss. She Mars 
 Peyt s own mammy, dat s who she is, en ef she 
 come lak dey say she comin , hit ll be de fus 
 time she y ever sot foot in dish yer tavern less n 
 twuz indurance er de war. Miss Ria say she
 
 Azalia 251 
 
 wish ter goodness ole Miss ud sen word ef she 
 gwine stay ter dinner so she kin fix up somepin 
 n er nice. I dunno whe er Miss Hallie comin 
 er no, but ole Miss comin , sho, kaze I done been 
 year um sesso." 
 
 "And who is Miss Hallie?" Helen inquired, 
 as William still lingered. 
 
 "Miss Hallie she dunno m, ceppin she des 
 stays dar long wid um. Miss Ria say she 
 mighty quare, but I wish turrer folks wuz quare 
 lak Miss Hallie." 
 
 William stayed until he was called away, and 
 at breakfast Mrs. Haley imparted the informa 
 tion which, in William s lingo, had sounded 
 somewhat scrappy. It was to the effect that 
 General Garwood s mother would call on the 
 ladies during their stay. Mrs. Haley laid great 
 stress on the statement. 
 
 "Such an event seems to be very interesting," 
 Helen said rather dryly. 
 
 "Yes m," said Mrs. Haley, with her peculiar 
 emphasis, "it ruther took me back when I heard 
 the niggers takin about it this mornin . If that 
 old lady has ever darkened my door, I ve done
 
 252 Free Joe 
 
 forgot it. She s mighty nice and neighborly," 
 Mrs. Haley went on, in response to a smile which 
 Helen gave her aunt, "but she don t go out 
 much. Oh, she s nice and proud; Lord, if pride 
 ud kill a body, that old oman would a been 
 dead too long ago to talk about. They re all 
 proud the whole kit and b ilin . She mayn t 
 be too proud to come to this here tavern, but I 
 know she ain t never been here. The preacher 
 used to say that pride drives out grace, but I 
 don t believe it, because that ud strip the 
 Garwoods of all they ve got in this world; 
 and I know they re just as good as they 
 can be." 
 
 "I heard the little negro boy talking of Miss 
 Hallie," said Helen. "Pray, who is she?" 
 
 Mrs. Haley closed her eyes, threw her head 
 back, and laughed softly. 
 
 "The poor child!" she exclaimed. "I declare, 
 I feel like cryin every time I think about her. 
 She s the forlornest poor creetur the Lord ever 
 let live, and one of the best. Sometimes, when 
 I git tore up in my mind, and begin to think that 
 everything s wrong-end foremost, I jess think of
 
 Azalia 253 
 
 Hallie Garwood, and then I don t have no more 
 trouble." 
 
 Both Helen and her aunt appeared to be in 
 terested, and Mrs. Haley went on: 
 
 "The poor child was a Herndon; I reckon 
 you ve heard tell of the Virginia Herndons. At 
 the beginning of the war, she was married to 
 Ethel Garwood; and, bless your life, she hadn t 
 been married more n a week before Ethel was 
 killed. Twa n t in no battle, but jess in a kind 
 of skirmish. They fotch him home, and Hallie 
 come along with him, and right here she s been 
 ev ry sence. She does mighty quare. She don t 
 wear nothin but black, and she don t go no 
 where less n it s somewheres where there s sick 
 ness. It makes my blood run cold to think about 
 that poor creetur. Trouble hits some folks and 
 glances off, and it hits some and thar it sticks. 
 I tell you what, them that it gives the go-by 
 ought to be monst ous proud." 
 
 This was the beginning of many interesting 
 experiences for Helen and her aunt. They 
 managed to find considerable comfort in Mrs. 
 Haley s genial gossip. It amused and instructed
 
 254 
 
 them, and, at the same time, gave them a stand 
 ard, half-serious, half-comical, by which to 
 measure their own experiences in what seemed 
 to them a very quaint neighborhood. They 
 managed, in the course of a very few days, to 
 make themselves thoroughly at home in their 
 new surroundings; and, while they missed much 
 that tradition and literature had told them they 
 would find, they found much to excite their curi 
 osity and attract their interest. 
 
 One morning, an old-fashioned carriage, 
 drawn by a pair of heavy-limbed horses, lum 
 bered up to the tavern door. Helen watched it 
 with some degree of expectancy. The curtains 
 and upholstering were faded and worn, and the 
 panels were dingy with age. The negro driver 
 was old and obsequious. He jumped from his 
 high seat, opened the door, let down a flight of 
 steps, and then stood with his hat off, the No 
 vember sun glistening on his bald head. Two 
 ladies alighted. One was old, and one was 
 young, but both were arrayed in deep mourn 
 ing. The old lady had an abundance of gray 
 hair that was combed straight back from her
 
 Azalia 255 
 
 forehead, and her features gave evidence of 
 great decision of character. The young lady 
 had large, lustrous eyes, and the pallor of her 
 face was in strange contrast with her sombre 
 drapery. These were the ladies from Waverly, 
 as the Garwood place was called; and Helen 
 and her aunt met them a few moments later. 
 
 "I am so pleased to meet you," said the old 
 lady, with a smile that made her face beautiful. 
 "And this is Miss Tewksbury. Really, I have 
 heard my son speak of you so often that I seem 
 to know you. This is my daughter Hallie. She 
 doesn t go out often, but she insisted on coming 
 with me to-day." 
 
 "I m very glad you came," said Helen, sitting 
 by the pale young woman after the greetings 
 were over. 
 
 "I think you are lovely," said Hallie, with the 
 tone of one who is settling a question that had 
 previously been debated. Her clear eyes from 
 which innocence, unconquered and undimmed 
 by trouble, shone forth, fastened themselves on 
 Helen s face. The admiration they expressed 
 was unqualified and unadulterated. It was the
 
 256 Free Joe 
 
 admiration of a child. But the eyes were not 
 those of a child: they were such as Helen had 
 seen in old paintings, and the pathos that seemed 
 part of their beauty belonged definitely to the 
 past. 
 
 "I lovely?" exclaimed Helen in astonishment, 
 blushing a little. "I have never been accused of 
 such a thing before." 
 
 "You have such a beautiful complexion," 
 Hallie went on placidly, her eyes still fixed on 
 Helen s face. "I had heard some one had told 
 me that you were an invalid. I was so sorry." 
 The beautiful eyes drooped, and Hallie sighed 
 gently. 
 
 "My invalidism is a myth," Helen replied, 
 somewhat puzzled to account for the impres 
 sion the pale young woman made on her. "It is 
 the invention of my aunt and our family phys 
 ician. They have a theory that my lungs are 
 affected, and that the air of the pine-woods will 
 do me good." 
 
 "Oh, I hope and trust it will," exclaimed Hal- 
 lie, with an earnestness that Helen could trace 
 to no reasonable basis but affectation. "Oh, I
 
 Azalia 257 
 
 do hope it will! You are so young so full of 
 life." 
 
 "My dear child," said Helen, with mock grav 
 ity, "I am older than you are ever so much 
 older." 
 
 The lustrous eyes closed, and for a moment 
 the long silken lashes rested against the pale 
 cheek. Then the eyes opened, and gazed at 
 Helen appealingly. 
 
 "Oh, impossible! How could that be? I was 
 sixteen in 1862." 
 
 "Then," said Helen, "you are twenty-seven, 
 and I am twenty-five." 
 
 "I knew it I felt it!" exclaimed Hallie, with 
 pensive animation. 
 
 Helen was amused and somewhat interested. 
 She admired the peculiar beauty of Hallie; but 
 the efforts of the latter to repress her feelings, to 
 reach, as it were, the results of self-effacement, 
 were not at all pleasing to the Boston girl. 
 
 Mrs. Garwood and Miss Tewksbury found 
 themselves on good terms at once. A course of 
 novel reading, seasoned with reflection, had led 
 Miss Tewksbury to believe that Southern ladies
 
 258 Free Joe 
 
 of the first families possessed in a large degree 
 the Oriental faculty of laziness. She had pic 
 tured them in her mind as languid creatures, 
 with a retinue of servants to carry their smelling- 
 salts, and to stir the tropical air with palm-leaf 
 fans. Miss Tewksbury was pleased rather than 
 disappointed to find that Mrs. Garwood did not 
 realize her idea of a Southern woman. The 
 large, lumbering carriage was something, and 
 the antiquated driver threatened to lead the 
 mind in a somewhat romantic direction; but 
 both were shabby enough to be regarded as relics 
 and reminders rather than as active possibilities. 
 
 Mrs. Garwood was bright and cordial, and the 
 air of refinement about her was pronounced and 
 unmistakable. Miss Tewksbury told her that 
 Dr. Buxton had recommended Azalia as a sani 
 tarium. 
 
 "Ephraim Buxton!" exclaimed Mrs. Garwood. 
 "Why, you don t tell me that Ephraim Buxton 
 is practising medicine in Boston? And do you 
 really know him? Why, Ephraim Buxton was 
 my first sweetheart!" 
 
 Mrs. Garwood s laugh was pleasant to hear,
 
 Azalia 259 
 
 and her blushes were worth looking at as 
 she referred to Dr. Buxton. Miss Tewksbury 
 laughed sympathetically but primly. 
 
 "Itwas quite romantic," Mrs. Garwood went on, 
 in a half-humorous, half-confidential tone. "Eph- 
 raim was the school teacher here, and I was his 
 eldest scholar. He was young, green, and awk 
 ward, but the best-hearted, most generous mor 
 tal I ever saw. I made quite a hero of him." 
 
 "Well," said Miss Tewksbury, in her matter- 
 of-fact way, "I have never seen anything very 
 heroic about Dr. Buxton. He comes and goes, 
 and prescribes his pills, like all other doctors." 
 
 "Ah, that was forty years ago," said Mrs. Gar- 
 wood, laughing. "A hero can become very com 
 monplace in forty years. Dr. Buxton must be a 
 dear, good man. Is he married?" 
 
 "No," said Miss Tewksbury. "He has been 
 wise in his day and generation." 
 
 "What a pity!" exclaimed the other. "He 
 would have made some woman happy." 
 
 Mrs. Garwood asked many questions concern 
 ing the physician who had once taught school at 
 Azalia; and the conversation of the two ladies
 
 260 Free Joe 
 
 finally took a range that covered all New Eng 
 land, and, finally, the South. Each was surprised 
 at the remarkable ignorance of the other; but 
 their ignorance covered different fields, so that 
 they had merely to exchange facts and informa 
 tion and experiences in order to entertain each 
 other. They touched on the war delicately, 
 though MissTewksbury had never cultivated the 
 art of reserve to any great extent. At the same 
 time there was no lack of frankness on either side. 
 
 "My son has been telling me of the little con 
 troversies he had with you," said Mrs. Garwood. 
 "He says you fairly bristle with arguments." 
 
 "The general never heard half my argu 
 ments," replied Miss Tewksbury. "He never 
 gave me an opportunity to use them." 
 
 "My son is very conservative," said Mrs. Gar- 
 wood, with a smile in which could be detected 
 a mother s fond pride. "After the war he felt the 
 responsibility of his position. A great many peo 
 ple looked up to him. For a long time after the 
 surrender we had no law and no courts, and there 
 was a great deal of confusion. Oh, you can t im 
 agine ! Every man was his own judge and jury."
 
 Azalia 261 
 
 "So I ve beeatold," said Miss Tewksbury. 
 
 "Of course you know something about it, but 
 you can have no conception of the real condi 
 tion of things. It was a tremendous upheaval 
 coming after a terrible struggle, and my son felt 
 that some one should set an example of pru 
 dence. His theory was, and is, that everything 
 was for the best, and that our people should 
 make the best of it. I think he was right," Mrs. 
 Garwood added with a sigh, "but I don t know." 
 
 "Why, unquestionably!" exclaimed Miss 
 Tewksbury. She was going on to say more; 
 she felt that here was an opening for some of her 
 arguments: but her eyes fell on Hallie, whose 
 pale face and sombre garb formed a curious con 
 trast to the fresh-looking young woman who sat 
 beside her. Miss Tewksbury paused. 
 
 "Did you lose any one in the war?" Hallie 
 was asking softly. 
 
 "I lost a darling brother," Helen replied. 
 
 Hallie laid her hand on Helen s arm, a beau 
 tiful white hand. The movement was at once a 
 gesture and a caress. 
 
 "Dear heart!" she said, "you must come and
 
 262 Free Joe 
 
 see me. We will talk together. I love those 
 who are sorrowful." 
 
 MissTewksbury postponed her arguments, and 
 after some conversation they took their leave. 
 
 "Aunt Harriet," said Helen, when they were 
 alone, "what do you make of these people? Did 
 you see that poor girl, and hear her talk? She 
 chilled me and entranced me." 
 
 "Don t talk so, child," said Miss Tewksbury; 
 "they are very good people, much better people 
 than I thought we should find in this wilderness. 
 It is a comfort to talk to them." 
 
 "But that poor girl," said Helen. "She is a mys 
 tery to me. She reminds me of a figure I have 
 seen on the stage, or read of in some old book." 
 
 When Azalia heard that the Northern ladies 
 had been called on by the mistress of Waverly, 
 that portion of its inhabitants which was in the 
 habit of keeping up the forms of sociability made 
 haste to follow her example, so that Helen and 
 her aunt were made to feel at home in spite of 
 themselves. General Garwood was a frequent 
 caller, ostensibly to engage in sectional contro 
 versies with Miss Tewksbury, which he seemed
 
 Azalia 263 
 
 to enjoy keenly; but Mrs. Haley observed that 
 when Helen was not visible the general rarely 
 prolonged his discussions with her aunt. 
 
 The Rev. Arthur Hill also called with some 
 degree of regularity; and it was finally under 
 stood that Helen would, at least temporarily, 
 take the place of Miss Lou Hornsby as organ 
 ist of the little Episcopal church in the Tacky 
 settlement, as soon as Mr. Goolsby, the fat and 
 enterprising book-agent, had led the fair Louisa 
 to the altar. This wedding occurred in due time, 
 and was quite an event in Azalia s social his 
 tory. Goolsby was stout, but gallant; and Miss 
 Hornsby made a tolerably handsome bride, not 
 withstanding a tendency to giggle when her de 
 portment should have been dignified. Helen 
 furnished the music, General Garwood gave the 
 bride away, and the little preacher read the 
 ceremony quite impressively; so that with the 
 flowers and other favors, and the subsequent 
 dinner which Mrs. Haley called an "infair"- 
 the occasion was a very happy and successful one. 
 
 Among those who were present, not as invited 
 guests, but by virtue of their unimportance, were
 
 264 Free Joe 
 
 Mrs. Stucky and her son Bud. They were fol 
 lowed and flanked by quite a number of their 
 neighbors, who gazed on the festal scene with 
 an impressive curiosity that can not be described. 
 Pale-faced, wide-eyed, statuesque, their presence, 
 interpreted by a vivid imagination, might have 
 been regarded as an omen of impending misfor 
 tune. They stood on the outskirts of the wed 
 ding company, gazing on the scene apparently 
 without an emotion of sympathy or interest. 
 They were there, it seemed, to see what new 
 caper the townspeople had concluded to cut, to 
 regard it solemnly, and to regret it with grave 
 faces when the lights were out and the fantastic 
 procession had drifted away to the village. 
 
 The organ in the little church" was a fine in 
 strument, though a small one. It had belonged 
 to the little preacher s wife, and he had given it 
 to the church. To his mind, the fact that she 
 had used it sanctified it, and he had placed it in 
 the church as a part of the sacrifice he felt called 
 on to make in behalf of his religion. Helen 
 played it with uncommon skill a skill born of 
 a passionate appreciation of music in its highest
 
 Azalia 265 
 
 forms. The Rev. Mr. Hill listened like one en 
 tranced, but Helen played unconscious of his ad 
 miration. On the outskirts of the congregation 
 she observed Mrs. Stucky, and by her side a 
 young man with long, sandy hair, evidently un 
 combed, and a thin stubble of beard. Helen 
 saw this young man pull Mrs. Stucky by the 
 sleeve, and direct her attention to the organ. 
 Instead of looking in Helen s direction, Mrs. 
 Stucky fixed her eyes on the face of the young 
 man and held them there ; but he continued to 
 stare at the organist. It was a gaze at once 
 mournful and appealing not different in that 
 respect from the gaze of any of the queer peo 
 ple around him, but it affected Miss Eustis 
 strangely. To her quick imagination, it sug 
 gested loneliness, despair, that was the more 
 tragic because o f its isolation. It seemed to 
 embody the mute, pent-up distress of whole gen 
 erations. Somehow Helen felt herself to be play 
 ing for the benefit of this poor creature. The 
 echoes of the wedding-march sounded grandly 
 in the little church, then came a softly played 
 interlude, and finally a solemn benediction, in 
 
 VOL. 3 12
 
 2 66 
 
 which solicitude seemed to be giving happiness 
 a sweet warning. As the congregation filed out 
 of the church, the organ sent its sonorous echoes 
 after the departing crowd echoes that were 
 taken up by the whispering and sighing pines, 
 and borne far into the night. Mrs. Stucky did 
 not go until after the lights were out; and then 
 she took her son by the hand, and the two went 
 to their lonely cabin not far away. They went 
 in, and soon had a fire kindled on the hearth. 
 No word had passed between them; but after a 
 while, when Mrs. Stucky had taken a seat in the 
 corner, and lit her pipe, she exclaimed: 
 
 "Lordy! what a great big gob of a man! I 
 dunner what on the face er the yeth Lou Hornsby 
 could a been a-dreamin about. From the way 
 she s been a-gigglin aroun I d a thought she d 
 a sot her cap fer the giner l." 
 
 "I say it!" said Bud, laughing loudly. "What- 
 ter you reckon the giner l ud a been a-doin all 
 that time? I see er now, a-gigglin an a-settin 
 er cap fer the giner l. Lordy, yes!" 
 
 "What s the matter betwixt you an Lou?" 
 asked Mrs. Stucky grimly. " Taint been no
 
 Azalia 267 
 
 time senst you wuz a-totin water fer her ma, an 
 a-hangin aroun whilst she played the music in 
 the church thar." Bud continued to laugh. 
 "But, Lordy!" his mother went on, "I reckon 
 you ll be a-totin water an a-runnin er n s fer 
 thish yer Yankee gal what played on the orgin 
 up thar jess now." 
 
 "Well, they hain t no tellin ," said Bud, rub 
 bing his thin beard reflectively. "She s mighty 
 spry long er that orgin, an she s got mighty 
 purty han s an nimble fingers, an ef she uz ter 
 let down her ha r, she d be plum ready ter fly." 
 
 "She walked home wi the giner l," said Mrs. 
 Stucky. 
 
 "I seed er," said Bud. "He sent some yuther 
 gals home in the carriage, an him an the Yankee 
 gal went a-walkin down the road. He humped 
 up his arm this away, an the gal tuck it, an off 
 they put." Bud seemed to enjoy the recollection 
 of the scene; for he repeated, after waiting a 
 while to see what his mother would have to say: 
 "Yes, siree! she tuck it, an off they put." 
 
 Mrs. Stucky looked at this grown man, her 
 son, for a long time without saying anything, and
 
 268 Free Joe 
 
 finally remarked with something very like a 
 sigh: "Well, honey, you neenter begrudge em 
 the r walk. Hit s a long ways through the san ." 
 
 "Lordy, yes n!" exclaimed Bud with some 
 thing like a smile; "it s a mighty long ways, but 
 the giner l had the gal wi im. He jess humped 
 up his arm, an she tuck it, an off they put." 
 
 It was even so. General Garwood and Helen 
 walked home from the little church. The road 
 was a long but a shining one. In the moonlight 
 the sand shone white, save where little drifts and 
 eddies of pine-needles had gathered. But these 
 were no obstruction to the perspective, for the 
 road was an avenue, broad and level, that lost 
 itself in the distance only because the com 
 panionable pines, interlacing their boughs, con 
 trived to present a background both vague and 
 sombre a background that receded on approach, 
 and finally developed into the village of Azalia 
 and its suburbs. Along this level and shining 
 highway Helen and General Garwood went. 
 The carriages that preceded them, and the peo 
 ple who walked with them or followed, gave a 
 sort of processional pomp and movement to the
 
 Azalia 269 
 
 gallant Goolsby s wedding so much so that if 
 he could have witnessed it, his manly bosom 
 would have swelled with genuine pride. 
 
 "The music you gave us was indeed a treat," 
 said the general. 
 
 "It was perhaps more than you bargained 
 for," Helen replied. "I suppose everybody 
 thought I was trying to make a display, but I 
 quite forgot myself. I was watching its effect 
 on one of the poor creatures near the door do 
 you call them Tackies?" 
 
 "Yes, Tackies. Well, we are all obliged to 
 the poor creature man or woman. No doubt 
 the fortunate person was Bud Stucky. I saw him 
 standing near his mother. Bud is famous for his 
 love of music. When the organ is to be played, 
 Bud is always at the church; and sometimes he 
 goes toWaverly, and makes Hallie play the piano 
 for him while he sits on the floor of the veranda 
 near the window. Bud is quite a character." 
 
 "I am so sorry for him," said Helen gently. 
 
 "I doubt if he is to be greatly pitied," said the 
 general. "Indeed, as the music was for him, and 
 not for us, I think he is to be greatly envied."
 
 270 Free Joe 
 
 "I see now," said Helen laughing, "that I 
 should have restrained myself." 
 
 "The suggestion is almost selfish," said the 
 general gallantly. 
 
 "Well, your nights here are finer than music," 
 Helen remarked, fleeing to an impersonal theme. 
 "To walk in the moonlight, without wraps and 
 with no sense of discomfort, in the middle of 
 December, is a wonderful experience to me. 
 Last night I heard a mocking-bird singing; and 
 my aunt has been asking Mrs. Haley if water 
 melons are ripe." 
 
 "The mocking-birds at Waverly," said the 
 general, "have become something of a nuisance 
 under Hallie s management. There is a great 
 flock of them on the place, and in the summer 
 they sing all night. It is not a very pleasant 
 experience to have one whistling at your window 
 the whole night through." 
 
 "Mrs. Haley," remarked Helen, "says that 
 there are more mocking-birds now than there 
 were before the war, and that they sing louder 
 and more frequently." 
 
 "I shouldn t wonder," the general assented.
 
 Azalia 27 r 
 
 "Mrs. Haley is quite an authority on such mat 
 ters. Everybody quotes her opinions." 
 
 "I took the liberty the other day," Helen went 
 on, "of asking her about the Ku Klux." 
 
 "And, pray, what did she say?" the general 
 asked with some degree of curiosity. 
 
 "Why, she said they were like the shower of 
 stars she had heard tell of them, but she had 
 never seen them. But, said I, you have no 
 doubt that the shower really occurred! 
 
 "Her illustration was somewhat unfortunate," 
 the general remarked. 
 
 "Oh, by no means," Helen replied. "She 
 looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes, and said 
 she had heard that it wasn t the stars that fell, 
 after all." 
 
 Talking thus, with long intervals of silence, 
 the two walked along the gleaming road until 
 they reached the tavern, where Miss Eustis 
 found her aunt and Mrs. Haley waiting on the 
 broad veranda. 
 
 "I don t think he is very polite," said Helen, 
 after her escort had bade them good night, and 
 was out of hearing. "He offered me his arm,
 
 272 Free Joe 
 
 and then, after we had walked a little way, sug 
 gested that we could get along more comfortably 
 by marching Indian file." 
 
 Mrs. Haley laughed loudly. "Why, bless 
 your innocent heart, honey! that ain t nothin . 
 The sand s too deep in the road, and the path s 
 too narrer for folks to be a-gwine along yarm-in- 
 arm. Lord! don t talk about perliteness. That 
 man s manners is somethin better n perliteness." 
 
 "Well," said Helen s aunt, "I can t imagine 
 why he should want to make you trudge through 
 the sand in that style." 
 
 "It is probably an output of the climate," said 
 Helen. 
 
 "Well, now, honey," remarked Mrs. Haley, 
 "if he ast you to walk wi im, he had his reasons. 
 I ve got my own idee," she added with a chuckle. 
 "I know one thing I know he s monstrous fond 
 of some of the Northron folks. Ain t you never 
 hearn, how, endurin of the war, they fotch home 
 a Yankee soldier along wi Hallie s husband, an 
 buried em side by side? They tell me that Hal- 
 lie s husband an the Yankee was mighty nigh 
 the same age, an had a sorter favor. If that s
 
 Azalia 273 
 
 so," said Mrs. Hayley, with emphasis, "then 
 two mighty likely chaps was knocked over on 
 account of the everlastin nigger." 
 
 All this was very interesting to Helen and her 
 aunt, and they were anxious to learn all the par 
 ticulars in regard to the young Federal soldier 
 who had found burial at Waverly. 
 
 "What his name was," said Mrs. Haley, "I ll 
 never tell you. Old Prince, the carriage-driver, 
 can tell you lots more n I can. He foun em on 
 the groun , an he fotch em home. Prince use 
 to be a mighty good nigger before freedom come 
 out, but now he ain t much better n the balance 
 of em. You all ill see him when you go over 
 thar, bekaze he s in an out of the house constant. 
 He ll tell you all about it if you re mighty per- 
 lite. Folks is got so they has to be mighty per- 
 lite to niggers sence the war. Yit I ll not deny 
 that it s easy to be perlite to old Uncle Prince, 
 bekaze he s mighty perlite hisself. He s what I 
 call a high-bred nigger." Mrs. Haley said this 
 with an air of pride, as if she were in some meas 
 ure responsible forUncle Prince s good breeding.
 
 274 Free Joe 
 
 IT came to pass that Helen Eustis and her 
 aunt lost the sense of loneliness which they had 
 found so oppressive during the first weeks of 
 their visit. In the people about them they found 
 a never-failing fund of entertainment. They 
 found in the climate, too, a source of health and 
 strength. The resinous odor of the pines was 
 always in their nostrils; the far, faint under 
 tones of music the winds made in the trees were 
 always in their ears. The provinciality of the 
 people, which some of the political correspon 
 dents describe as distressing, was so genuinely 
 American in all its forms and manifestations 
 that these Boston women were enabled to draw 
 from it, now and then, a whiff of New England 
 air. They recognized characteristics that made 
 them feel thoroughly at home. Perhaps, so far 
 as Helen was concerned, there were other rea 
 sons that reconciled her to her surroundings. 
 At any rate, she was reconciled. More than 
 this, she was happy. Her eyes sparkled, and
 
 Azalia 275 
 
 the roses of health bloomed on her cheeks. All 
 her movements were tributes to the buoyancy 
 and energy of her nature. The little rector 
 found out what this energy amounted to, when, 
 on one occasion, he proposed to accompany her 
 on one of her walks. It was a five-mile excur 
 sion; and he returned, as Mrs. Haley expressed 
 it, "a used-up man." 
 
 One morning, just before Christmas, the 
 Waverly carriage, driven in great state by Uncle 
 Prince, drew up in front of the tavern; and in a 
 few moments Helen and her aunt were given to 
 understand that they had been sent for, in fur 
 therance of an invitation they had accepted, to 
 spend the holidays at Waverly. 
 
 "Ole Miss would a come," said Uncle 
 Prince, with a hospitable chuckle, "but she 
 sorter ailin ; en Miss Hallie, she dat busy dat 
 she ain t skacely got time fer ter tu n roun ; 
 so dey tuck n sort atter you, ma am, des like 
 you wuz home folks." 
 
 The preparations of the ladies had already 
 been made, and it was not long before they were 
 swinging along under the green pines in the old-
 
 276 Free Joe 
 
 fashioned vehicle. Nor was it long before they 
 passed from the pine forests, and entered the 
 grove of live-oaks that shaded the walks and 
 drives of Waverly. The house itself was a some 
 what imposing structure, with a double veranda 
 in front, supported by immense pillars, and sur 
 rounded on all sides by magnificent trees. Here, 
 as Helen and her aunt had heard on all sides, a 
 princely establishment had existed in the old 
 time before the war an establishment noted for 
 its lavish hospitality. Here visitors used to 
 come in their carriages from all parts of Geor 
 gia, from South Carolina, and even from Vir 
 ginia some of them remaining for weeks at a 
 time, and giving to the otherwise dull neighbor 
 hood long seasons of riotous festivity, which 
 were at once characteristic and picturesque. 
 tThe old days had gone to come no more, but 
 there was something in the atmosphere that 
 seemed to recall them. The stately yet simple 
 architecture of the house, the trees with their 
 rugged and enormous trunks, the vast extent of 
 the grounds everything, indeed, that came 
 under the eye seemed to suggest the past. A
 
 Azalia 277 
 
 blackened and broken statue lay prone upon the 
 ground hard by the weather-beaten basin of a 
 fountain long since dry. Two tall granite col 
 umns, that once guarded an immense gateway, 
 supported the fragmentary skeletons of two co 
 lossal lamps. There was a suggestion not only 
 of the old days before the war, but of antiquity 
 a suggestion that was intensified by the great 
 hall, the high ceilings, the wide fireplaces, and 
 the high mantels of the house itself. These 
 things somehow gave a weird aspect to Waverly 
 in the eyes of the visitors; but this feeling was 
 largely atoned for by the air of tranquillity that 
 brooded over the place, and it was utterly dis 
 persed by the heartiness with which they were 
 welcomed. 
 
 "Here we is at home, ma am," exclaimed 
 Uncle Prince, opening the carriage-door, and 
 bowing low; "en yon come ole Miss en Misi 
 Hallie." 
 
 The impression which Helen and her aunt 
 received, and one which they never succeeded 
 in shaking off during their visit, was that they 
 were regarded as members of the family who
 
 278 Free Joe 
 
 had been away for a period, but who had now 
 come home to stay. Just how these gentle hosts 
 managed to impart this impression, Helen and 
 Miss Tewksbury would have found it hard to 
 explain; but they discovered that the art of en 
 tertaining was not a lost art even in the piny 
 woods. Every incident, and even accidents, con 
 tributed to the enjoyment of the guests. Even 
 the weather appeared to exert itself to please. 
 Christmas morning was ushered in with a sharp 
 little flurry of snow. The scene was a very 
 pretty one, as the soft white flakes, some of them 
 as large as a canary s wing, fell athwart the 
 green foliage of the live-oaks and the magnolias. 
 
 "This is my hour!" exclaimed Helen enthu 
 siastically. 
 
 "We enjoy it with you," said Hallie simply. 
 
 During the afternoon the clouds melted away, 
 the sun came out, and the purple haze of Indian 
 summer took possession of air and sky. In an 
 hour the weather passed from the crisp and 
 sparkling freshness of winter, to the wistful 
 melancholy beauty of autumn. 
 
 "This," said Hallie gently, "is, my hour." She
 
 Azalia 279 
 
 was standing on the broad veranda with Helen. 
 For reply, the latter placed her arm around the 
 Southern girl; and they stood thus for a long 
 time, their thoughts riming to the plaintive air 
 of a negro melody that found its way across the 
 fields and through the woods. 
 
 Christmas at Waverly, notwithstanding the 
 fact that the negroes were free, was not greatly 
 different from Christmas on the Southern plan 
 tations before the war. Few of the negroes who 
 had been slaves had left the place, and those 
 that remained knew how a Christmas ought 
 to be celebrated. They sang the old-time songs, 
 danced the old-time dances, and played the old- 
 time plays. 
 
 All this was deeply interesting to the gentle 
 women from Boston; but there was one incident 
 that left a lasting impression on both, and prob 
 ably had its effect in changing the future of one 
 of them. It occurred one evening when they 
 were all grouped around the fire in the draw 
 ing-room. The weather had grown somewhat 
 colder than usual, and big hickory logs were 
 piled in the wide fireplace. At the suggestion
 
 280 Free Joe 
 
 of Hallie the lights had been put out, and they 
 sat in the ruddy glow of the firelight. The 
 effect was picturesque indeed. The furniture 
 and the polished wainscoting glinted and shone, 
 and the shadows of the big brass andirons were 
 thrown upon the ceiling, where they performed 
 a witch s dance, the intricacy of which was 
 amazing to behold. 
 
 It was an interesting group, representing the 
 types of much that is best in the civilization of 
 the two regions. Their talk covered a great 
 variety of subjects, but finally drifted into remi 
 niscences of the war reminiscences of its inci 
 dents rather than its passions. 
 
 "I have been told," said Miss Eustis, "that a 
 dead Union soldier was brought here during the 
 war, and buried. Was his name ever known?" 
 
 There was a long pause. General Garwood 
 gazed steadily info the fire. His mother sighed 
 gently. Hallie, who had been resting her head 
 against Helen s shoulder, rose from her chair, 
 and glided from the room as swiftly as a ghost. 
 
 "Perhaps I have made a mistake," said Helen 
 in dismay. "The incident was so strange "
 
 Azalia 281 
 
 "No, Miss Eustis, you have made no mistake," 
 said General Garwood, smiling a little sadly. 
 "One moment " He paused as if listening for 
 something. Presently the faint sound of music 
 was heard. It stole softly from the dark parlor 
 into the warm firelight as if it came from far 
 away. 
 
 "One moment," said General Garwood. "It 
 is Hallie at the piano." 
 
 The music, without increasing in volume, sud 
 denly gathered coherency, and there fell on the 
 ears of the listening group the notes of an air 
 so plaintive that it seemed like the breaking of 
 a heart. It was as soft as an echo, and as tender 
 as the memories of love and youth. 
 
 "We have to be very particular with Hallie, n 
 said the general, by way of explanation. "The 
 Union soldier in our burying-ground is inti 
 mately connected with her bereavement and 
 ours. Hers is the one poor heart that keeps the 
 fires of grief always burning. I think she is 
 willing the story should be told." 
 
 "Yes," said his mother, "else she would never 
 go to the piano."
 
 282 Free Joe 
 
 "I feel like a criminal," said Helen. "How 
 can I apologize?" 
 
 "It is we who ought to apologize and ex 
 plain," replied General Garwood. "You shall 
 hear the story, and then neither explanation nor 
 apology will be necessary." 
 
 VI 
 
 A SUMMONS was sent for Uncle Prince, and 
 the old man soon made his appearance. He 
 stood in a seriously expectant attitude. 
 
 "Prince," said General Garwood, "these 
 ladies are from the North. They have asked 
 me about the dead Union soldier you brought 
 home during the war. I want you to tell the 
 whole story." 
 
 "Tell bout de what, Marse Peyton?" Both 
 astonishment and distress were depicted on the 
 old negro s face as he asked the question. He 
 seemed to be sure that he had not heard 
 aright. 
 
 "About the Union soldier you brought home 
 with your young master from Virginia."
 
 Azalia 283 
 
 "Whar Miss Hallie, Marse Peyton? Dat her 
 in dar wid de peanner?" 
 
 "Yes, she s in there." 
 
 "I lowed she uz some r s, kaze I know tain t 
 gwine never do fer ter git dat chile riled up 
 bout dem ole times; en it ll be a mighty wonder 
 ef she don t ketch col in dar whar she is." 
 
 "No," said General Garwood; "the room is 
 warm. There has been a fire in there all day." 
 
 "Yasser, I know I builted one in dar dis 
 mornin , but I take notice dat de draffs dese 
 times look like dey come bofe ways." 
 
 The old man stood near the tall mantel, fac 
 ing the group. There was nothing servile in his 
 attitude : on the contrary, his manner, when ad 
 dressing the gentleman who had once been his 
 master, suggested easy, not to say affectionate, 
 familiarity. The firelight, shining on his face, 
 revealed a countenance at once rugged and 
 friendly. It was a face in which humor had 
 many a tough struggle with dignity. In looks 
 and tone, in word and gesture, there was unmis 
 takable evidence of that peculiar form of urban 
 ity that can not be dissociated from gentility.
 
 284 Free Joe 
 
 These things were more apparent, perhaps, to 
 Helen and her aunt than to those who, from 
 long association, had become accustomed to 
 Uncle Prince s peculiarities. 
 
 "Dem times ain t never got clean out n my 
 min ," said the old negro, "but it bin so long 
 sence I runn d over um, dat I dunner wharbouts 
 ter begin skacely." 
 
 "You can tell it all in your own way," said 
 General Garwood. 
 
 "Yasser, dat s so, but I fear d it s a mighty po 
 way. Bless yo soul, honey," Uncle Prince went 
 on, "dey was rough times, en it look like ter me 
 dat ef dey wuz ter come roun ag in hit u d 
 take a mighty rank runner fer ter ketch one 
 nigger man w at I m got some quaintance wid. 
 Dey wuz rough times, but dey wa n t rough long 
 at fust. Shoo! no! dey wuz dat slick dat dey 
 ease we-all right down mongs de wuss kind er 
 tribbylation, en we ain t none un us know it twel 
 we er done dar. 
 
 "I know dis," the old man continued, address 
 ing himself exclusively to Miss Eustis and her 
 aunt; "I knows dat we-all wuz a-gittin long
 
 Azalia 285 
 
 mighty well, w en one day Marse Peyton dar, 
 he tuck n jinded wid de army; en den twa n t 
 long fo word come dat my young marster w at 
 gwine ter college in Ferginny, done gone en 
 jinded wid urn. I ax myse f, I say, w at de name 
 er goodness does dey want wid boy like dat? 
 Hit s de Lord s trufe, ma am, dat ar chile wa n t 
 mo dan gwine on sixteen, ef he wuz dat, en I 
 up n ax myse f, I did, w at does de war want 
 wid baby like dat? Min you, ma am, I ain t 
 fin out den w at war wuz I ain t know w at a 
 great big maw she got." 
 
 "My son Ethel," said Mrs. Garwood, the soft 
 tone of her voice chiming with the notes of the 
 piano, "was attending the University of Virginia 
 at Charlottesville. He was just sixteen." 
 
 "Yassum," said Uncle Prince, rubbing his 
 hands together gently, and gazing into the glow 
 ing embers, as if searching there for some clue 
 that would aid him in recalling the past. "Yas 
 sum, my young marster wuz des gone by sixteen 
 year, kaze twa n t so mighty long fo dat, dat 
 we-all sont im a great big box er fixin s en 
 doin s fer ter git dar on he s birfday; en I sot
 
 286 Free Joe 
 
 up mighty nigh twel day tryin ter make some 
 lasses candy fer ter put in dar wid de yuther 
 doin s." 
 
 Here Uncle Prince smiled broadly at the fire. 
 
 "Ef dey wuz sumpin w at dat chile like, hit 
 wuz lasses candy; en I say ter my ole oman, I 
 did: Mandy Jane, I ll make de candy, en den 
 w en she good en done, I ll up en holler fer you, 
 en den you kin pull it. Yassum, I said dem ve y 
 words. So de ole oman, she lay down cross de 
 baid, en I sot up dar en b iled de lasses. De 
 lasses u d blubber en I d nod, en I d nod en de 
 lasses u d blubber, en fus news I know de lasses 
 u d done be scorched. Well, ma am, I tuck V 
 burnt up mighty nigh fo gallons er lasses on de 
 account er my noddin , en bimeby w en de ole 
 oman wake up, she low dey wa n t no excusion 
 fer it; en sho miff dey wa n t, kaze w at make I 
 nod dat away? 
 
 "But dat candy wuz candy, mon, w en she did 
 come, en den de ole oman she tuck n pull it 
 twel it git mos right white ; en my young mar- 
 ster, he tuck n writ back, he did, dat ef dey 
 wuz anythin in dat box w at make im git puny
 
 Azalia 287 
 
 wid de homesickness, hit uz dat ar lasses candy. 
 Yassum, he cert n y did, kaze dey tuck n read 
 it right out n de letter whar he writ it. 
 
 " Twa n t long after dat fo we-all got de 
 word dat my young marster done jinded inter 
 de war wid some yuther boys w at been at de 
 same school ouse wid im. Den, on top er dat, 
 yer come news dat he gwine git married. Bless 
 yo soul, honey, dat sorter rilded me up, en I 
 march inter de big ouse, I did, en I up n tell 
 mistis dat she better lemme go up dar en fetch 
 dat chile home; en den mistis say she gwine sen 
 me on dar fer ter be wid im in de war, en take 
 keer un im. Dis holp me up might ly, kaze I 
 wuz a mighty biggity nigger in dem days. De 
 white folks done raise me up right long wid 
 um, en way down in my min I des laid off fer 
 ter go up dar in Ferginny, en take my young 
 marster by he s collar en fetch im home, des 
 like I done w en he use ter git in de hin ouse en 
 bodder long wid de chickens. 
 
 "Dat wuz way down in my min , des like I 
 tell you, but bless yo soul, chile, hit done drap 
 out mos fo I git ter Gusty, in de Nunited
 
 288 Free Joe 
 
 State er Georgy. Time I struck de railroad I 
 kin see de troops a-troopin , en year de drums 
 a-drummin . De trains wuz des loaded down 
 wid urn. Let lone de passenger kyars, dey wuz 
 in de freight-boxes yit, en dey wuz de sassiest 
 white mens dat yever walk J pon topside de 
 groun . Mon, dey wuz a caution. Dey had nig 
 gers wid urn, en de niggers wuz sassy, en ef I 
 hadn t a-frailed one un um out, I dunner w at 
 would er come un me. 
 
 "Hit cert n y wuz a mighty long ways fum 
 dese parts. I come down yer fum Ferginny in 
 a waggin w en I wuz des bout big nuff fer ter 
 hoi a plow straight in de furrer, but tain t look 
 like ter me dat twuz sech a fur ways. All day 
 en all night long fer mighty nigh a week I year 
 dem kyar-wheels go clickity-clock, elickity- 
 clock, en dem ingines go choo-choo-choo, choo- 
 choo-choo, en it look like we ain t never gwine 
 git dar. Yit, git dar we did, en tain t take me 
 long fer ter fin de place whar my young mars- 
 ter is. I laid off ter fetch im home; well, 
 ma am, w en I look at im he skeer d me. Yas- 
 sum, you may b lieve me er not b lieve me, but he
 
 Azalia 289 
 
 skeer d me. Stiddier de boy w at I wuz a-hunt- 
 in fer, dar he wuz, a great big grow d-up man, 
 en bless yo soul, he wuz a-trompin roun dar 
 wid great big boots on, en, mon, dey had spur- 
 rers on um. 
 
 "Ef I hadn t er year im laugh, I nev d 
 a-know d im in de roun worl . I say ter my- 
 se f, s I, I ll des wait en see ef he know who I 
 is. But shoo! my young marster know me time 
 he lays eyes on me, en no sooner is he see me dan 
 he fetched a whoop en rushed at me. He low : 
 Hello, Daddy! whar de name er goodness you 
 rise fum? He allers call me Daddy sence he 
 been a baby. De minute he say dat, it come 
 over me bout how lonesome de folks wuz at 
 home, en I des grabbed im, en low: Honey, 
 you better come go back wid Daddy. 
 
 "He sorter hug me back, he did, en den he 
 laugh, but I tell you dey wa n t no laugh in me, 
 kaze I done see w iles I gwine long w at kinder 
 sturbance de white folks wuz a-gettin up, en 
 I know d dey wuz a-gwine ter be trouble pile 
 pon trouble. Yit dar he wuz a-laughin en 
 a-projickin , en mongs all dem yuther mens 
 
 VOL. 3 *3
 
 290 Free Joe 
 
 dey wa n t none un um good-lookin like my 
 young marster. I don t keer w at kinder cloze 
 he put on, dey fit im, en I don t keer w at crowd 
 he git in, dey ain t none un um look like im. 
 En tain t on y me say dat; I done year lots er 
 yuther folks say dem ve y words. 
 
 "I ups en sez, s I : Honey, you go long en git 
 yo things, en come go home long wid Daddy. 
 Dey er waitin fer you down dar des so! Den 
 he look at me cute like he us ter w en he wuz a 
 baby, en he low, he did: 
 
 " I m mighty glad you come, Daddy, en I 
 hope you brung yo good cloze, kaze you des 
 come in time fer ter go in ten ance on my wed- 
 din . Den I low: You oughtn be a-talkin dat 
 away, honey. W at in de name er goodness is 
 chilluns like you got ter do wid marryin ? 
 Wid dat, he up n laugh, but twa n t no laugh- 
 in matter wid me. Yit twuz des like he tell 
 me, en twa n t many hours fo we wuz gal- 
 lopin cross de country to ds Marse Randolph 
 Herndon place; en dar whar he married. En 
 you may b lieve me er not, ma am, des ez you 
 please, but dat couple wuz two er de purtiest
 
 Azalia 291 
 
 chilluns you ever laid eyes on, en dar Miss 
 Hallie in dar now fer ter show you I m a-tellin 
 de true word. Mos fo de weddin wuz over, 
 news com dat my young marster en de folks wid 
 im mus go back ter camps, en back we went. 
 
 "Well, ma am, dar we wuz a mighty far 
 ways fum home, Miss Hallie a-cryin , en de war 
 gwine on des same ez ef twuz right out dar in 
 de yard. My young marster low dat I des come 
 in time, kaze he mighty nigh pe sh d fer sumpin 
 n er good ter eat. I whirled in, I did, en I cook 
 im some er de right kinder vittles; but all de 
 time I cookin , I say ter myse f, I did, dat I 
 mought er come too soon, er I mought er come 
 too late, but I be bless ef I come des in time. 
 
 "Hit went on dis away scan lous. We 
 marched en we stopped, en we stopped en we 
 marched, en twuz de Lord s blessin dat we rid 
 bosses, kaze ef my young marster had a bin 
 blige ter tromp thoo de mud like some er dem 
 white mens, I speck I d a had ter tote im, 
 dough he uz mighty spry en tough. Sometimes 
 dem ar bung-shells u d drap right in mongs 
 whar we-all wuz, en dem wuz de times w en I
 
 292 Free Joe 
 
 feel like I better go off some r s en hide, not dat 
 I wuz anyways skeery, kaze I wa n t; but ef one 
 er dem ur bung-shells had er strucken me, I 
 dunner who my young marster would a got 
 ter do he s cookin en he s washin . 
 
 "Hit went on dis away, twel bimeby one night, 
 way in de night, my young marster come whar 
 I wuz layin , en shuck me by de shoulder. I 
 wuz des wide wake ez w at he wuz, yit I ain t 
 make no motion. He shuck me ag in, en low: 
 Daddy! Oh, Daddy! I m gwine on de skir 
 mish line. I speck we gwine ter have some fun 
 out dar. 
 
 "I low, I did: Honey, you make aste back 
 ter break us, kaze I got some sossige meat en 
 some gennywine coffee/ 
 
 "He ain t say nothin , but w en he git little 
 ways off, he tu n roun en come back, he did, en 
 low: Good night, Daddy. I lay dar, en I year 
 un w en dey start off. I year der hosses a-snort- 
 in , en der spurrers a-jinglin . Ef dey yever wuz 
 a restless creetur hit uz me dat night. I des lay 
 dar wid my eyes right wide open, en dey stayed 
 open, kaze, atter w ile, yer come daylight, en
 
 Azalia 293 
 
 den I rousted out, I did, en built me a fire, en 
 twa n t long fo I had break us a-fryin en de 
 coffee a b ilin , kaze I spected my young marster 
 eve y minute; en he uz one er dese yer kinder 
 folks w at want he s coffee hot, en all de yuther 
 vittles on de jump. 
 
 "I wait en I wait, en still he ain t come. Hit 
 cert n y look like a mighty long time w at he 
 stay way; en bimeby I tuck myse f off ter make 
 some inquirements, kaze mighty nigh all he s 
 comp ny done gone wid im. I notice dat de 
 white mens look at me mighty kuse w en I ax 
 um bout my young marster; en bimeby one un 
 um up en low: Ole man, whar yo hat? des dat 
 away. I feel on my haid, en, bless goodness! 
 my hat done gone; but I spon back, I did: 
 * Tain t no time fer no nigger man fer ter be 
 bodder n bout he s hat, des so. Well, ma am, 
 bimeby I struck up wid some er my young mars 
 ter comp ny, en dey up n tell me dat dey had 
 a racket out dar en de skirmish line, en dey hat 
 ter run in, en dey speck my young marster be 
 long terreckerly. Den I year some un say dat 
 day speck de Yankees tuck some pris ners out
 
 294 Free Joe 
 
 dar, en den I know dat ain t gwine do fer me. 
 I des runn d back ter whar we been campin , en 
 I mount de hoss w at my young marster gun me, 
 en I rid right straight out ter whar dey been 
 fightin . My min tol me dey wuz sumpin n er 
 wrong out dar, en I let you know, ma am, I rid 
 mighty fas ; I sholy made dat ole hoss git up 
 fum dar. De white mens dey holler at me w en 
 I pass, but eve y time dey holler I make dat 
 creetur men he s gait. Some un um call me a 
 country-ban , en say I runnin way, en ef de 
 pickets hadn t all been runnin in, I speck dey d 
 a fetched de ole nigger up wid de guns. But 
 dat never cross my min dat day. 
 
 "Well, ma am, I haid my hoss de way de 
 pickets comin fum; en ef dey hadn t er been so 
 much underbresh en so many sassyfac saplin s, 
 I speck I d a run dat creetur ter def : but I got 
 ter whar I hatter go slow, en I des pick my way 
 right straight forrerd de bes I kin. I ain t 
 hatter go so mighty fur, nudder, fo I come 
 cross de place whar dey had de skirmish; en 
 fum dat day ter dis I ain t never see no lone 
 some place like dat. Dey wuz a cap yer, a hat
 
 Azalia 295 
 
 yander, en de groun look like it wuz des 
 strowed wid um. I stop en listen. Den I rid 
 on a little ways, en den I stop en listen. Bimeby 
 I year boss whicker, en den de creetur w at I m 
 a-ridin , he whicker back, en do des like he 
 wanter go whar de t er hoss is. I des gin im 
 de rein ; en de fus news I know, he trot right up 
 ter de big black hoss w at my young marster rid. 
 "I look little furder, I did, en I see folks lyin 
 on de groun . Some wuz double up, en some 
 wuz layin out straight. De win blow de grass 
 back ards en forrerds, but dem sojer-men dey 
 never move; en den I know dey wuz dead. I 
 look closer; en dar pon de groun , mos right 
 at me, wuz my young marster layin right by de 
 side er one er dem Yankee mens. I jumped 
 down, I did, en run ter whar he wuz; but he 
 wuz done gone. My heart jump, my knees 
 shuck, en my han trimble ; but I know I got ter 
 git away fum dar. Hit look like at fus dat him 
 en dat Yankee man been fightin ; but bimeby I 
 see whar my young marster bin crawl thoo de 
 weeds en grass ter whar de Yankee man wuz 
 layin ; en he had one arm un de man haid, en
 
 296 Free Joe 
 
 de ter han wuz gripped on he s canteen. I fix 
 it in my min , ma am, dat my young marster 
 year dat Yankee man holler fer water; en he des 
 make out fer ter crawl whar he is, en dar I 
 foun um bofe. 
 
 u Dey wuz layin close by a little farm road, 
 en not so mighty fur off I year a chicken crow- 
 in . I say ter myse f dat sholy folks must be 
 livin whar dey chickens crowin ; en I tuck n 
 mount my young marster s boss, en right roun 
 de side er de hill I come cross a house. De 
 folks wuz all gone; but dey wuz a two-boss 
 waggin in de lot en some gear in de barn, en 
 I des loped back atter de yuther boss, en mos 
 fo you know it, I had dem creeturs hitch up: 
 en I went en got my young marster en de Yan 
 kee man w at wuz.wid im, en I kyard um back 
 ter de camps. I got um des in time, too, kase 
 I ain t mo n fairly start fo I year big gun, be- 
 bang! en den I know d de Yankees mus be 
 a-comin back. Den de bung-shells gun ter 
 bus ; en I ax myse f w at dey shootin at me fer, 
 en I ain t never fin out w at make dey do it. 
 
 "Well, ma am, w en I git back ter camps, dar
 
 Azalia 297 
 
 wuz Gunnel Tip Herndon, w ich he wuz own 
 br er ter Miss Hallie. Maybe you been year 
 tell er Marse Tip, ma am; he cert ny wuz a 
 mighty fine man. Marse Tip, he uz dar, en 
 twa n t long fo Miss Hallie wuz dar, kaze she 
 ain t live so mighty fur; en Miss Hallie say dat 
 my young marster en de Yankee man mus be 
 brung home terge er. So dey brung urn." 
 
 Uncle Prince paused. His story was at an 
 end. He stooped to stir the fire; and when he 
 rose, his eyes were full of tears. Humble as he 
 was, he could pay this tribute to the memory of 
 the boy soldier whom he had nursed in sickness 
 and in health. It was a stirring recital. Per 
 haps it is not so stirring when transferred to 
 paper. The earnestness, the simplicity, the awk 
 ward fervor, the dramatic gestures, the unique 
 individuality of Uncle Prince, can not be repro 
 duced; but these things had a profound effect 
 on Miss Eustis and her aunt.
 
 298 Free Joe 
 
 VII 
 
 THROUGHOUT the narrative the piano had 
 been going, keeping, as it seemed, a weird ac 
 companiment to a tragic story. This also had 
 its effect; for, so perfectly did the rhythm and 
 sweep of the music accord with the heart-rend 
 ing conclusion, that Helen, if her mind had 
 been less preoccupied with sympathy, would 
 probably have traced the effect of it all to a 
 long series of rehearsals: in fact, such a sugges 
 tion did occur to her, but the thought perished 
 instantly in the presence of the unaffected sim 
 plicity and the childlike earnestness which ani 
 mated the words of the old negro. 
 
 The long silence which ensued for the piano 
 ceased, and Hallie nestled at Helen s side once 
 more was broken by General Garwood. 
 
 "We were never able to identify the Union 
 soldier. He had in his possession a part of a 
 letter, and a photograph of himself. These were 
 in an inner pocket. I judge that he knew he was 
 to be sent on a dangerous mission, and had left
 
 Azalla 299 
 
 his papers and whatever valuables he may have 
 possessed behind him. The little skirmish in 
 which he fell was a surprise to both sides. A 
 scouting party of perhaps a dozen Federal cav 
 alrymen rode suddenly upon as many Confeder 
 ate cavalrymen who had been detailed for special 
 picket duty. There was a short, sharp fight, and 
 then both sides scampered away. The next day 
 the Federal army occupied the ground." 
 
 "It is a pity," said Helen, "that his identity 
 should be so utterly lost." 
 
 "Hallie, my dear," said Mrs. Garwood, 
 "would it trouble you too much to get the 
 photograph of the Union soldier? If it is any 
 trouble, my child 
 
 Hallie went swiftly out of the room, and re 
 turned almost immediately with the photograph, 
 and handed it to Helen, who examined it as well 
 as she could by the dim firelight. 
 
 "The face is an interesting one, as well as 
 I can make out," said Helen, "and it has a 
 strangely familiar look. He was very young." 
 
 She handed the picture to her aunt. Her face 
 was very pale.
 
 300 Free Joe 
 
 "I can t see by this light," said Miss Tewks- 
 bury. But Uncle Prince had already brought a 
 lamp which he had been lighting. "Why, my 
 dear," said Miss Tewksbury, in a tone of voice 
 that suggested both awe and consternation 
 "why, my dear, this is your brother Wendell!" 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Harriet! I thought so I was 
 afraid so but are you sure?" 
 
 "As sure as that I am sitting here." 
 
 Helen burst into tears. "Oh, why didn t I 
 recognize him? How could I fail to know my 
 darling brother?" she cried. 
 
 Hallie rose from her low stool, and stood gaz 
 ing at Helen. Her face was pale as death, but 
 in her eyes gleamed the fire of long-suppressed 
 grief and passion. She seemed like one trans 
 formed. She flung her white arms above her 
 head, and exclaimed : 
 
 "I knew it! I knew it! I knew that some 
 poor heart would find its long-lost treasure here. 
 I have felt it I have dreamed it! Oh, I am so 
 glad you have found your brother!" 
 
 "Oh, but I should have known his picture," 
 said Helen.
 
 Azalia 301 
 
 "But, my dear child," said Miss Tewksbury, 
 in a matter-of-fact way, "there is every reason 
 why you should not have known it. This pic 
 ture was taken in Washington, and he never sent 
 a copy of it home. If he did, your father put 
 it away among his papers. You were not 
 more than twelve years old when Wendell 
 went away." 
 
 "Perhaps if Hallie will get the fragment of 
 letter," said General Garwood to Miss Tewks 
 bury, "it will confirm your impression." 
 
 "Oh, it is no impression," replied Miss Tewks 
 bury. "I could not possibly be mistaken." 
 
 The fragment of letter, when produced, 
 proved to be in the handwriting of Charles 
 Osborne Eustis; and there was one sentence in 
 it that was peculiarly characteristic. "Remem- 
 be, dear Wendell," it said, "that the war is not 
 urged against men; it is against an institution 
 which the whole country, both North and South, 
 will be glad to rid itself of." 
 
 It would be difficult, under all the circum 
 stances, to describe Helen s thoughts. She was 
 gratified she was more than gratified at the
 
 302 Free Joe 
 
 unexpected discovery, and she was grateful to 
 those who had cared for her brother s grave with 
 such scrupulous care. She felt more at home 
 than ever. The last barrier of sectional reserve 
 (if it may be so termed) was broken down, so 
 far as she was concerned; and during the re 
 mainder of her stay, her true character her 
 womanliness, her tenderness, her humor re 
 vealed itself to these watchful and sensitive 
 Southerners. Even Miss Tewksbury, who had 
 the excuse of age and long habit for her preju 
 dices, showed the qualities that made her friends 
 love her. In the language of the little rector, 
 who made a sermon out of the matter, "all 
 things became homogeneous through the me 
 dium of sympathy and the knowledge of mutual 
 suffering." 
 
 In fact, everything was so agreeable during 
 the visit of Helen and her aunt to Waverly a 
 visit that was prolonged many days beyond the 
 limit they had set that Uncle Prince remarked 
 on it one night to his wife. 
 
 "I m a nigger man, Mandy Jane," said he, 
 "but I got two eyes, en dey er good ones. Wat
 
 Azalia 303 
 
 I sees I knows, en I tell you right now, Marse 
 Peyton is done got strucken." 
 
 "Done got strucken bout what?" inquired 
 Mandy Jane. 
 
 " Bout dat young lady w at stayin yer. Oh, 
 you neenter holler," said Uncle Prince in re 
 sponse to a contemptuous laugh from Mandy 
 Jane. "I ain t nothin but a nigger man, but I 
 knows w at I sees." 
 
 "Yes, you is a nigger man," said Mandy Jane 
 triumphantly. "Ef you wuz a nigger oman 
 you d have lots mo sense dan w at you got. W y, 
 dat lady up dar ain t our folks. She mighty nice, 
 I speck, but she ain t our folks. She ain t talk 
 like our folks yit." 
 
 "No matter bout dat," said Uncle Prince. "I 
 ain t seed no nicer oman dan w at she is, en I 
 boun you she kin talk mighty sweet w en she 
 take a notion. W en my two eyes tell me de news 
 I knows it, en Marse Peyton done got strucken 
 long wid dat white oman." 
 
 "En now you gwine tell me," said Mandy 
 Jane with a fine assumption of scorn, "dat Marse 
 Peyton gwine marry wid dat w ite oman en
 
 304 Free Joe 
 
 trapse off dar ter der Norf? Shoo! Nigger 
 man, you go ter bed fo you run yo se f 
 stracted." 
 
 "I dunno whar Marse Peyton gwine, Mandy 
 Jane, but I done see im talkin long wid dat 
 white lady, en lookin at her wid he s eyes. Huh ! 
 don tell me! En dat ain t all, Mandy Jane," 
 Uncle Prince went on: "dat Bud Stucky, he s 
 f rever n etarnally sneakin roun de house up 
 dar. One day he want sumpin ter eat, en nex 
 day he want Miss Hallie fer ter play en de pean- 
 ner, but all de time I see im a-watchin dat ar 
 white lady fum de Norf." 
 
 "Hush!" exclaimed Mandy Jane. 
 
 "Des like I tell you!" said Uncle Prince. 
 
 "Well, de nasty, stinkin , oudacious villyun!" 
 commented Mandy Jane. "I lay ef I go up 
 dar en set de dogs on im, he ll stop sneakin 
 roun dis place." 
 
 "Let im lone, Mandy Jane, let im lone," 
 said Uncle Prince solemnly. "Dat ar Bud 
 Stucky, he got a mammy, en my min tell me 
 dat he s mammy kin run de kyards en trick you. 
 Now you watch out, Mandy Jane. You go on
 
 Azalia 305 
 
 en do de washin , like you bin doin , en den ole 
 Miss Stucky won t git atter you wid de kyards 
 en cunjur you. Dat ole oman got er mighty bad 
 eye, mon." 
 
 VIII 
 
 UNCLE PRINCE, it appears, was a keen ob 
 server, especially where General Garwood was 
 concerned. He had discovered a fact in regard 
 to "Marse Peyton," as he called him, that had 
 only barely suggested itself to that gentleman s 
 own mind the fact that his interest in Miss 
 Eustis had assumed a phase altogether new and 
 unexpected. Its manifestations were pronounced 
 enough to pester Miss Tewksbury, but, strange 
 to say, neither General Garwood nor Miss Eus 
 tis appeared to be troubled by them. As a mat 
 ter of fact, these two were merely new characters 
 in a very old story, the details of which need not 
 be described or dwelt on in this hasty chronicle. 
 It was not by any means a case of love at first 
 sight. It was better than that: it was a case of 
 love based on a firmer foundation than whim, 
 or passion, or sentimentality. At any rate, Helen
 
 306 Free Joe 
 
 and her stalwart lover were as happy, appar 
 ently, as if they had just begun to enjoy life and 
 the delights thereof. There was no love-making, 
 so far as Miss Tewksbury could see; but there 
 was no attempt on the part of either to conceal 
 the fact that they heartily enjoyed each other s 
 companionship. 
 
 Bud Stucky continued his daily visits for sev 
 eral weeks; but one day he failed to make his 
 appearance, and after a while news came that 
 he was ill of a fever. The ladies at Waverly 
 sent his mother a plentiful supply of provisions, 
 together with such delicacies as seemed to them 
 necessary; but Bud Stucky continued to waste 
 away. One day Helen, in spite of the protests 
 of her aunt, set out to visit the sick man, carry 
 ing a small basket in which Hallie had placed 
 some broiled chicken and a small bottle of home 
 made wine. Approaching the Stucky cabin, she 
 was alarmed at the silence that reigned within. 
 She knocked, but there was no response; where 
 upon she pushed the door open and entered. The 
 sight that met her eyes, and the scene that fol 
 lowed, are still fresh in her memory.
 
 Azalla 307 
 
 Poor Bud Stucky, the shadow of his former 
 self, was lying on the bed. His thin hands were 
 crossed on his breast, and the pallor of death was 
 on his emaciated face. His mother sat by the 
 bed with her eyes fixed on his. She made no 
 sign when Helen entered, but continued to gaze 
 on her son. 
 
 The young woman, bent on a mission 
 of mercy, paused on the threshold, and re 
 garded the two unfortunates with a sympathy 
 akin to awe. Bud Stucky moved his head un 
 easily, and essayed to speak, but the sound died 
 away in his throat. He made another effort. 
 His lips moved feebly; his voice had an un 
 earthly, a far-away sound. 
 
 "Miss," he said, regarding her with a piteous 
 expression in his sunken eyes, "I wish you d 
 please, ma am, make maw let me go." He 
 seemed to gather strength as he went on. "I m 
 all ready, an a-waitin ; I wish you d please, 
 ma am, make er let me go." 
 
 "Oh, what can I do?" cried Helen, seized with 
 a new sense of the pathos that is a part of the 
 humblest human life.
 
 308 Free Joe 
 
 "Please, ma am, make er let me go. I been 
 a-layin here ready two whole days an three long 
 nights, but maw keeps on a-watchin of me; she 
 won t let me go. She s got er eyes nailed on me 
 constant." 
 
 Helen looked at the mother. Her form was 
 wasted by long vigils, but she sat bolt upright in 
 her chair, and in her eyes burned the fires of 
 an indomitable will. She kept them fixed on 
 her son. 
 
 "Won t you please, ma am, tell maw to let me 
 go? I m so tired er waitin ." 
 
 The plaintive voice seemed to be an echo 
 from the valley of the shadow of death. Helen, 
 watching narrowly and with agonized curiosity, 
 thought she saw the mother s lips move; but no 
 sound issued therefrom. The dying man made 
 another appeal: 
 
 "Oh, I m so tired! I m all ready, an she 
 won t let me go. A long time ago when I us 
 ter ax er, she d let me do most anything, an 
 now she won t let me go. Oh, Lordy! I m so 
 tired er waitin ! Please, ma am, ax er to let 
 me go."
 
 Azalia 309 
 
 Mrs. Stucky rose from her chair, raised her 
 clasped hands above her head, and turned her 
 face away. As she did so, something like a sigh 
 of relief escaped from her son. He closed his 
 eyes, and over his wan face spread the repose and 
 perfect peace of death. 
 
 Turning again toward the bed, Mrs. Stucky 
 saw Helen weeping gently. She gazed at her 
 a moment. "Whatter you cryin fer now?" 
 she asked with unmistakable bitterness. "You 
 wouldn t a-wiped your feet on im. Ef you wuz 
 gwine ter cry, whyn t you let im see you do it 
 fore he died? What good do it do im now? 
 He wa n t made out n i on like me." 
 
 Helen made no reply. 
 
 She placed her basket on the floor, went out 
 into the sunlight, and made her way swiftly 
 back to Waverly. Her day s experience made 
 a profound impression on her, so much so 
 that when the time came for her to go home, 
 she insisted on going alone to bid Mrs. Stucky 
 good-by. 
 
 She found the lonely old woman sitting on 
 her door-sill. She appeared to be gazing on the
 
 310 Free Joe 
 
 ground, but her sun-bonnet hid her face. Helen 
 approached, and spoke to her. She gave a quick 
 upward glance, and fell to trembling. She was 
 no longer made of iron. Sorrow had dimmed 
 the fire of her eyes. Helen explained her visit, 
 shook hands with her, and was going away, when 
 the old woman, in a broken voice, called her 
 to stop. Near the pine-pole gate was a lit 
 tle contrivance of boards that looked like 
 a bird-trap. Mrs. Stucky went to this, and 
 lifted it. 
 
 "Come yer, honey," she cried, "yer s somepin 
 I wanter show you." Looking closely, Helen 
 saw molded in the soil the semblance of a 
 footprint. "Look at it, honey, look at it," 
 said Mrs. Stucky; "that s his darlin precious 
 track." 
 
 Helen turned, and went away weeping. The 
 sight of that strange memorial, which the poor 
 mother had made her shrine, leavened the girl s 
 whole after-life. 
 
 When Helen and her aunt came to take their 
 leave of Azalia, their going away was not by 
 any means in the nature of a merry-making.
 
 Azalia 3 1 1 
 
 They went away sorrowfully, and left many sor 
 rowful friends behind them. Even William, the 
 bell-ringer and purveyor of hot batter-cakes at 
 Mrs. Haley s hotel, walked to the railroad sta 
 tion to see them safely off. General Garwood 
 accompanied them to Atlanta; and though the 
 passenger depot in that pushing city is perhaps 
 the most unromantic spot to be found in the wide 
 world it is known as the "Car-shed" in At- 
 lantese it was there that he found courage to 
 inform Miss Eustis that he purposed to visit Bos 
 ton during the summer in search not only of 
 health, but of happiness; and Miss Eustis 
 admitted, with a reserve both natural and 
 proper, that she would be very happy to see 
 him. 
 
 It is not the purpose of this chronicle to fol 
 low General Garwood to Boston. The files of 
 the Boston papers will show that he went there, 
 and that, in a quiet way, he was the object of 
 considerable social attention. But it is in the 
 files of the "Brookline Reporter" that the long 
 est and most graphic account of the marriage of 
 Miss Eustis to General Garwood is to be found.
 
 3 1 2 Azalia 
 
 It is an open secret in the literary circles of 
 Boston that the notice in the "Reporter" was 
 from the pen of Henry P. Bassett, the novelist 
 It was headed "Practical Reconstruction"; and 
 it was conceded on all sides that, even if the 
 article had gone no farther than the head-line, 
 it would have been a very happy description of 
 the happiest of events. 
 
 THE END
 
 X.- 
 
 LiBRSRY