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